Elizabeth watched guests approach the bowl, drawing ribbons of various hues—red, green, gold, silver. Jane drew green; Mr. Bingley, with suspicious speed, drew the matching shade. Mrs. Bennet drew red and was paired with Sir William Lucas, who looked alarmed but resigned.
Elizabeth reached into the bowl and withdrew her ribbon.
Deep blue.
She looked up and found Mr. Darcy holding an identical color.
Miss Bingley went pale. Mr. Wickham's expression flickered with something dark.
“Well,” Miss Bingley said, her voice strained. “How... unexpected. Miss Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy, your materials are at the table by the window.”
Elizabeth crossed the room on unsteady legs. Mr. Darcy fell into step beside her, his presence a warmth she felt without touching.
“It appears fate has conspired against Miss Bingley's arrangements,” he said quietly.
“Fate, or a very poorly shuffled bowl.”
“You suspect foul play?”
“I suspect nothing. I merely observe that Miss Bingley's expression suggests she did not intend this outcome.”
“No.” Something that might have been amusement flickered in his eyes. “I do not believe she did.”
They reached their table. The materials were modest—a sprig of holly, lengths of ribbon, a strip of parchment inked with a festive phrase, a small wire frame. Elizabeth studied them, grateful for something to focus on besides the man standing far too close.
“Shall we?” Mr. Darcy asked.
They worked in careful silence, their hands moving around each other with awkward precision. Elizabeth twisted the ribbon around the wire frame. Mr. Darcy positioned the holly with surprising delicacy. Their fingers brushed—once, twice—and each time through her gloves Elizabeth felt the contact like a spark.
Mr. Darcy's jaw tightened. His movements became more controlled, more careful, as though he were trying very hard not to feel too much.
Elizabeth understood entirely.
“You have steady hands,” she said, for something to say.
“Years of practice with estate ledgers.” He did not look at her. “You have an eye for arrangement.”
“The benefit of a limited household budget.”
She had not meant to say that, had not meant to expose even that small vulnerability. But Mr. Darcy merely nodded, as though her admission were perfectly natural.
“Resourcefulness is an admirable quality,” he said. “More valuable than a generous allowance, in my experience.”
Elizabeth looked at him then—really looked—and found no condescension in his expression. Only sincerity.
“That is not what I would have expected you to say.”
“No.” His gaze met hers, dark and warm. “I imagine not.”
The moment stretched. Elizabeth's heart beat too fast. The noise of the room faded to a distant hum.
Miss Bingley's voice shattered the spell.
“Time! Everyone must present their creations!”
Elizabeth blinked, suddenly aware that they had finished their decoration without her noticing. It sat on the table between them—elegant, understated, the holly and ribbon wound together in a simple spiral that was somehow more beautiful than the elaborate confections at other tables.
They had created it together. As though their hands knew what their minds could not admit.
