I read the first two books about Miss Percy and her discovery of dragons (through an inheritance of an ancient egg from a great uncle) with pure, unadulterated glee. Quenby Olson's writing is so far above most novels written today! Her vocabulary is extensive, and as she's writing about England's Georgian period, it's full of Bridgerton stuff, but oh, so much better! She's droll and not above impressive alliteration--or calling attention to it!--but more, she really brings her characters to life. I just finished reading a rom-com in which the sex was explicit but rote; what was meant to be an expression of real love was flimsily constructed, as out of cardboard. Not here. Here, the barest intertwining of fingers between two souls who've been together from the first book is so utterly touching--and by the same token its opposite, the villain of the piece, Miss Percy's 18-year old niece, Belinda, uses language to such soul-crushing effect and is so relentless, I wanted to murder her outright. Rarely do I get that involved in my reading. 455 pages flew by in a single day. I am now committed to reading anything Quenby Olson writes, and I won't even miss her dedications:
"To my mother, You’re the one who taught me to read and write, so really, this whole author thing is all your fault." Right?!
Miss Percy, hereafter Mildred, has been on the adventure of several lifetimes since the egg she'd inherited hatched. She names her dragon Fitzwilliam but he's long since become just Fitz. At this point, about a year later, he's the size of a dog and growing fast. He's always been in a pocket of her dress, or lately, in her arms, or wrapped around her shoulders, but he's getting to be an awful lot of weight to carry. And now there's little Morgen, too, a wholly different kind of dragon. He loves being near a warm fire and sneezes puffs of smoke with a snort of fire, but Morgen dives into a fire and eats the charcoal! A tagalong named Owen manages her, as she's quite a bit to manage. Mildred had initially asked the local vicar of Plimpton, Claude Wiggan, for help in researching dragons with her great-uncle's notes; he'd been at her side ever since, through the long months' journey to Wales where her great-uncle had found Fitz's egg, and the long slog since after Belinda abandoned her husband, hooked up with a Welshman, and absconded with one live and petite white dragon--and 15 eggs they must recover before hatching.
At one point, Mildred worries that there will never be a real time for her and Claude because the dragons are EVERYTHING. Now, here's what I mean about genuine tenderness:
"'I am happy with you, Mildred. Whether we are scaling mountains in search of dragons, or lazing about in the afternoons surrounded by books and tea and monotony. All we ever have will always be the only thing I ever want, as long as I am with you.' Mildred told herself she should not cry— Diana [her older sister, a termigant who's forced Mildred to be governess of her two children and ignores all three] had always hated tears (at least when others became drizzly) declaring them an overwrought
surfeit of emotions best reserved for funerals and the occasional wedding — but there were many times when she told herself she would not do a thing (have that third slice of cake, read just one more chapter, sleep past ten in the morning) and yet did it anyway. 'I do not think I can be an ideal wife,' she confessed.'I am nothing like my sister. I do not like to entertain or make banal conversation over lukewarm tea with all the other women in the village. I would probably keep a very untidy house, and I do not care whether it is long or short sleeves that are in fashion. And if y-you—' She stuttered into silence when Mr. Wiggan kissed her lightly on the forehead (pushing her bonnet askew) before he kissed her again, with greater firmness of purpose and resolution, on the corner of her poorly puckered mouth. 'God help me if I should want a wife molded after one such as your sister,' he said. And barked out a laugh before he kissed her again. Of course, reality was left to intrude after..."
I freely admit to being cast in Mildred's mold, myself. Her idiosyncrasies are also mine, right down to that third piece of cake, unconcern for fashion, untidiness, and sleeping late. And how I'd love to have a man as loving as Claude in my life!
They are now accompanied by a Mrs. Merrick, a Welsh witch whose healing powers are often needed, whether for humans or dragon-born, and her bff and probable lover. As they gear up to follow Belinda and recover the eggs, they've become quite a bundle of people, including her sister's children, Nettie and Matthew, and Belinda's alcohol-sodden, abandoned other half, a Mr. Hawthorne. Mildred would like to think the dragons were still a secret, but:
"Somehow, in a tiny corner of her mind where she still believed she would one day be able to fit into her favorite gown without letting out the seams or that she could become fluent in French if only she applied herself to a renewed spate of studies, she had allowed herself to shelter under the conviction that the dragons were still mostly a secret. As though no one beyond their own small circle — and Mr. Gorman and his household, and the villagers around Abergavenny where Fitz had set fire to a chicken coop, and Mr. Matthew Gwilym and his family, and a good portion of Builth, and everyone in and about Nantlle, and anyone Mr. Parry and Belinda might have crossed paths with over the last week, and—"
And I do love when an author sneaks in a few comments about present day reality, as here:
"Before now, she had only ever read about the great doings and happenings and how they had occurred to others. (Most of it involving men with too much power going to war with other men with too much power, with an occasional bout of inventing or a worldwide plague threading through everything.)"
"Was this how the days of all of history’s important individuals went along? Rushing off to a battle in the morning, followed by a touch of prophecy at luncheon and then a coup d’etat in time for afternoon tea?)"
"Journalism, this thing the London newspapers claim to practice, brings to mind the old saying that if one tells a lie for long enough and loud enough, it will eventually become the truth. -from a letter written by Mr. Claude Wiggan, to Mr. Richard Gorman."
Belinda always slashes her victims to bits with her words, and Mildred has always succumbed to the demands of others:
"She had not married nor borne children. She was not rich enough to be of consequence, nor poor enough to be lamented. A tired spinster, lacking in classic beauty, stumbling around at the fringes of an adventure that should never have been hers to begin with. That was, at least, what Belinda wanted her to believe. Even now, Mildred sensed her niece’s will pushing towards her, smothering the keenness of her thoughts into a smooth complacency. The urge to surrender thrummed through her, a feeling that lacked the definition of words. That she would have what she wanted if she would only step aside, if she would only allow Belinda to have her own way. The problem was that Belinda did not know what Mildred wanted. Because her niece saw her as nothing, then it naturally followed that she could not believe her aunt would want anything worth anyone’s notice. The promise of a life hardly better than the one she had already possessed was the most her limited powers of imagination could conjure. But Mildred could not — would not — be so cheaply bought." How could the reader fail to cheer her on to the victory of her choice?
When SHFT (someone texted that to me and I had to Google its meaning), it does so in SPECTACULAR FASHION, even to involving the last heir to Victoria's throne, Prinny himself. I won't spoil that for you. Finally, once again in Wales and living quietly with Claude, Owen, Fitz and Morgen, who are too domesticated to be returned to the wild, one day she receives a letter from Germany. They have discovered a dragon and perhaps, eggs--and would she be agreeable to visit and advise--?
"“Well,” she said, and tucked the letter into her pocket, though she did not release it for several minutes, as though worried it would cease to exist if she could not assure herself of its presence. “I suppose this is when we find out how well a fire-breathing dragon fares on a ship!” * * * THE END Or is it?"
I can't wait!