“I do the same,” I said, remembering the mental battles I hid in my room. “But my papa feared illness all his life, then his health failed. I had reassured him, and I was wrong. Mydenialswere wrong.” That realization had been harrowing.
“Denial failed my mother, also. But we discovered what helped. She had to accept that illness and injury may occur. Accept that illness is a matter of fate and out of her hands. Then her compulsion to ward off illness through rituals became irrelevant. Instead of denial, we practiced reaction. If the worst occurred, she would be prepared. She would act to help.” His eyes considered me. “This may seem a trivial distinction.”
“It… I am not sure.” I was reliving my struggles. My endless fight to protect those around me. To build a fortress of perfection. “It is very different from what I have tried.”
While I thought, my gaze drifted to the north point of our alcove. That statue was the hardest to make out, shadowed by a tough old yew, thick with greenery even in midwinter.
“My mother and I developed exercises to practice the distinction,” Mr. Darcy continued. “I believe this difference, though subtle, is fundamental to breaking the grip of compulsion. If you wish, we can attempt these exercises together. Not this morning, though. They may be intense, and I am… Elizabeth should have returned by now.” The last was a rush.
Mr. Knightley had watched with narrowed eyes. “You avoided Miss Woodhouse’s question. I will ask it plainly. Is marriage required to restore her health?”
“I have only my mother’s example,” Mr. Darcy replied. “But her symptoms eased when she bound, then worsened when her wyvern…” His gaze hunted the garden while he sought words. “When she was no longer bound.”
“Then Miss Woodhousemustmarry,” Mr. Knightley pressed.
“She must marry andbind,” Mr. Darcy corrected. “Not all who marry succeed in binding.”
This had taken an alarming turn. “You both sound like meddlesome grandmothers. I will not marry. And I am perfectly well today.”
Hurried steps thudded, foliage flew aside, and a gray-haired gentleman in his sixties burst into our clearing, panting.
Mr. Darcy jumped to his feet. “Digweed! Have you seen Elizabeth?” Mr.Digweed pulled him aside—I heardLondon—then Mr. Darcy returned looking dazed. “My wyfe has embarked on an unexpected trip. I must… I should…” He bowed and vanished at a run with the other gentleman.
“Good gracious!” Harriet exclaimed.
“Why will you not marry?” Mr. Knightley said as if that drama had not even occurred.
“I cannot imaginewhomI would marry,” I said scathingly.
Harriet had swiveled to watch that. When a deafening silence ensued, she ventured, “How did Georgiana show you a vision?”
“With music,” I said. Harriet’s eyes sparkled like we were reading a wonderful novel together, and I warmed to the topic. “It was like magic. Beautiful, then frightening. The wyvern said, ‘look to the north’…”
My eyes returned to the north point of our alcove. I had thought all the statues were angels, but the north one cradled something winged and scaled, and had nine rays from her head. She was a twin to the statue in the physic garden, but here the alabaster stone was pure, not stained and eroded by the fumes of London.
Beyond her, a trail wound northward into the old woods of Pemberley. It vanished into gloom behind massive, mossy trees thick as carriages.
“It is too cold here!” Harriet said. “Tell me inside.” She took my arm, and I went with her into the house. Mr. Knightley followed, wordless, his hands jammed in his pockets.
39
PURSUIT
MARY
With the captives protected,Lizzy and I hurried into the street. I checked both directions, wondering where a dragon would fit. “Which way?”
“Yuánchi will find us,” Lizzy said, but her voice was more detached than confident. Disassociated.
“Let me see you.” I steadied her chin to examine her eyes. We had discarded the riding hoods and pulled on our heavy fishermen’s leathers and caps. Lizzy’s curly dark hair was tucked away except for stray floating locks. The hairs looked black as coal against her drained complexion.
Pallor. Pupils blown to full dilation in daylight. I rested two fingers at her carotid artery. Pulse racing but weak beneath clammy skin. Illness, not fear.
This had worsened far too quickly. “Had you symptoms last night? Sweats?”
“Mary, I know I am worse. Do not bother.” Her face tilted to the sky. “They both come. It is a close race.” She stared upward, entranced by senses I did not share.
“By the river,” I decided and pulled her along. We cut through a shipping yard, drawing stares for our garb from a set of boys braiding hawsers, then heard their youthful shouts when a dozen small draca scampered behind us. We scrambled over a collapsing chunk of seawall and onto the stony shore. Herethere was room. A stiff, cold breeze snapped, little impeded by the broken ice. Even so, I was hot in the heavy leather.
