A Hundred Thousand Dragons Read Online Free Page B

mother come out of the morning-room and turned. ‘Oh, mother, it’s Jack! He’s got a creepy-crawly problem but we can deal with that, can’t we?’
    Her mother reached out and, regardless of his mumbled protests, put a gentle hand under his arm. ‘We’ll soon have you cleaned up, Jack, and find some decent clothes for you. But that’s not all that’s wrong, is it?’
    He half-stumbled against her. ‘No, Aunt Alice. I wish it were.’
    He’d been given two weeks leave, a long time when leave was usually measured in hours and days. At the end of that time he talked longingly of flying once more and his hand was steady enough to hold his own razor. He even made the occasional joke. But he still had nightmares and once, when a log had cracked on the fire, Isabelle thought he was going to scream.
    She came back to the present to find his black eyes fixed on her. ‘I’m sorry, Jack. It was all so long ago. Surely it can’t still matter?’
    He gave an ironic lift of his eyebrows. ‘It mattered to him. And to me,’ he added in an undertone.
    â€˜But he can’t make trouble for you, can he?’
    â€˜He very well might. He’s not a very forgiving sort of man.’
    â€˜Well, I think he’s horrible,’ said Isabelle robustly. ‘Forget him, Jack. He’s not worth thinking about.’
    He held her tightly once more, but this time in a hug of gratitude. He knew she wanted him to say something ordinary and everyday, to show that they were just two people at a dance amongst friends, enjoying the here and now.
    For some reason a poem, one of Browning’s, came to mind. It was set to the rhythm of a toccata, played while the people of Venice danced. Masked by their brilliant, increasingly artificial fervour, death (the plague?) drew closer and took them one by one. Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earned. The soul, doubtless, is immortal, where a soul can be discerned. Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop. What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?
    He shuddered. That wasn’t everyday, for heaven’s sake, however relevant it might seem. He forced himself to smile and, even though he felt it was a bit of a death’s head grin, Isabelle squeezed his arm, to show she appreciated it. ‘Damn the past. Let’s tie a can to it.’ They danced a few more steps then applauded as the music stopped.
    â€˜Let’s join the others, shall we?’ said Isabelle, taking his arm.
    Arthur was standing by an open window with Marjorie and Phyllis Stuckley. Jack felt a sudden warm affection for all of them. These were his friends. They were ordinary, they were everyday, they were happy and they were all good sorts. Even, he added to himself, if Marjorie did make him feel slightly hunted on occasion.
    â€˜What about our dance, Jack?’ asked Marjorie.
    â€˜Let me have a drink first,’ he pleaded. ‘And I did promise your brother I’d join him on the terrace for a breather. Can we have the first dance after supper?’
    She was disappointed, he could tell, but she smiled at him. ‘Promise?’
    â€˜Promise. Shall I,’ he added, wanting to see a real smile, not an assumed one, ‘behave like all well brought-up Corsican bandits and fling you across my saddle-bow and gallop off into the night?’
    Marjorie giggled delightedly. Phyllis wrinkled her nose. ‘I wouldn’t have thought they had anything but pack-ponies in Corsica. Would they have saddle-bows?’
    â€˜It was a bow at a venture.’
    â€˜That was an awful joke,’ said Phyllis amongst the laughter. She gave a little pirouette. ‘You still haven’t guessed what our costumes are. Go on, Jack, see if you can work it out. There’s a kiss for the winner. Arthur didn’t get it.’
    â€˜That was very tactful of you,