The Duchess and the Dragon by Jamie Carie

as she always did when a long-fingered hand reached into her line of sight. Looking up into his eyes, she couldn’t help the answering smile while she put her hand in his elegantly gloved one as he helped her down. He then offered his arm and she took it, though she knew it was wrong, that it would give rise to all sorts of questions from the Friends.

    WHAT WAS THE girl’s father implying? Was he offering him his daughter? He had nothing to give her. The irony stabbed at Drake. It was the first time he could ever remember wishing to shower a woman with everything the earth had to offer, and he had nothing. He’d showered many women with the desires of their hearts, but it had always meant little to him. Just a means to an end, and a happiness from them that would last a moment—a moment he’d known would come and took full advantage of.
    As he and Serena walked toward the door to the church, he breathed in the crisp winter day and imagined Serena in a duchess’s finery. A satin ball gown in green, to match her eyes. Jewels hanging from her ears and around her neck, dipping into the ivory hollow of her throat. White silken gloves that reached just above her elbows where the tender flesh of her upper arm would be bare until the slender lace of a sleeve began. With her hair artfully arranged and just a touch of pink on her lips . . . she would be devastating. And she had no idea, no idea the power she could wield. He pictured her dancing, close in his arms, whirling to the violins in one of the many grand ballrooms of his world.
    Glancing at the top of her head, neatly covered by an unadorned mop cap, he smiled, internally shaking his head at himself. Even had he the riches, she would likely scorn such trappings as sinful. He sighed. Perhaps they were. They hadn’t done him much good.
    The entry to the meetinghouse was barren, leading to a large square room. There were rows of wooden pews on all sides facing the center. Everything was brown, none of the splendid color of the Church of England. None of the stained glass, the holy relics, the statues, the altars with their gleaming gold and silver utensils and velvet cloth. No solemn, rich priest to stand before them like a demigod. Here there were only beams of dusty sunlight streaming from plain rectangular windows. A dull, weathered floor echoed with a hollow sound as they walked, arm in arm, to their place.
    Like their home and work, these Quakers were austere in their worship.
    “Thou wilt sit on the men’s side, with father,” Serena whispered before unclasping his arm and moving away. He watched her graceful, flowing stride as she left him, and felt the warm place where her hand had rested on his forearm growing quickly cold. Josiah Winter clapped him on the shoulder and motioned for him to follow.
    The seats were less than comfortable, but Drake supposed that kept them awake, at any rate. He watched as the congregation filtered in. Like solemn brown sparrows alighting on an equally brown branch, they blended in with their surroundings. Men and boys to one side, women and girls to the other. He waited, while they settled themselves, for the service to begin.
    It finally dawned on him as they closed their eyes, some bowing heads showing tanned necks, that no one was going to speak. Drake closed his eyes. The minutes ticked by. Tick . . tick . . . tick . . . He could almost hear a clock in his mind. He forced himself to relax, took a long, silent breath as his shoulders gradually loosened. His breathing lengthened, his heart slowed, and he suddenly realized that it was peaceful here. It was like a thickness had settled in the air and then rested on him. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with its still calm. His mind cleared of all else. His astonishment was only eclipsed by the inability to feel anything more than this sense of overwhelming peace. The minutes ticked quickly now.
    Into the quiet a voice spoke. So in tune with the serenity was the voice that Drake