She forced the images back down and walled them off. She could not let him see. To speak of it would be to give it power, to admit a failure so painful she could not bear to face it herself, let alone have it dissected by his critical gaze.
“You have found me out,” she said, her voice tight as she deflected, “It can only be that my one desire is to be, as you so aptly put it,contrary.”
Darcy settled back into his chair, wearing the quiet satisfaction of a man who has just proven himself correct. “Allow me to share my hope for if we are successful. The Arcane Office has been studying the Blight for some time, though their public pronouncements have been less than candid. Their prevailing theory, which I find credible based on my observations, is that the Blight is a consequence of severe blockages within the primary ley lines.”
Elizabeth inclined her head in understanding. The ley lines were the vital conduits of magical energy across the land. When they became occluded, the flow of power was staunched, leaving the land like a living body deprived of its lifeblood.
Darcy continued, “The Office has attempted numerous rituals to clear the lines. These efforts provide only temporary, localised respite before the Blight reasserts itself, often with renewed vigour. The blockages simply reform, stronger than before.”
“And this Concordance,” she said, testing the word, “is meant to provide a more permanent solution?”
“It is, as I said, my best prevailing theory given our present understanding.”
A theory, a forced marriage and a desperate faith in old texts — this was the Arcane Office’s last, desperate hope. The absurdity of it all was almost too much to bear.
Darcy, seeming to take her silence as assent, pivoted from theory to practice. He retrieved a single, unlit beeswax candle and placed it on the side table between their chairs with a soft click.
“Then let us begin here,” he stated, in a manner that brooked no argument. “Lighting a candle is the most fundamental ofmagical exercises, the very first thing taught to students at the Academy. It is a test of one's will, focus, and precise intention, requiring the conscious, deliberate control of elemental fire.”
There was no dissuading him, it seemed. Elizabeth stared at the innocuous white candle with growing dismay.
It had been a very long time since she had consciously tried to direct her magic in such a way. Her abilities, such as they were, usually manifested spontaneously, unpredictably, in moments of strong emotion – a surge of anger making the air crackle, a moment of joy making flowers bloom unseasonably. Or they manifested as an intuitive, almost unconscious, empathic connection to the natural world, a feeling for the health of the land, the subtle energies of plants and animals.
To hear him speak of it so simply — a mere test of focus and will — was almost comical in its ignorance. He had no conception of the treacherous ground he was asking her to cross. Her every instinct screamed at her to refuse, to flee the library and the memory he was so unwittingly stirring.
And yet...a cold sliver of his logic pierced through her dread. Much as she was loath to admit it, he was right. Her magic, as it stood, was useless, nothing more than a powerful but broken tool. The past could have no place here, not when their mission was paramount. Whatever her private demons, she would conquer them now, because she must.
She closed her eyes and tried to find that elusive inner spark, to harness the chaotic currents that swirled within her. She pictured a flame, small and bright, imagined its warmth, its scent.
Nothing.
She opened her eyes. The candle remained stubbornly, mockingly unlit, its white wick pristine and untouched.
Darcy, she found, was looking not at her, but at the candle. “Did you understand the precise nature of the task? It does not appear that you have begun.”
“I assure you, Mr Darcy, I have indeed attempted to light the candle. It appears my attempt was not crowned with success.”
“You are wishing for the candle to light. That is a common error. It is not desire, but control that is needed. Empty your mind of all else and visualise the flame. Project the image of that flame, through your will, directly onto the wick.”
Elizabeth drew a slow breath, attempting to quell the prickle of resentment that his voice invariably evoked. She closed her eyes, endeavouring to summon that elusive inner energy, to channel it with the meticulous focus he seemed to expect as a matter of course. She pictured a flame, small and steady, a beacon in the gloom of the library.
An acrid, metallic smell, like burnt hair, filled the air. The candle, instead of lighting, wobbled precariously on its polished wooden base, then emitted a pathetic, almost apologetic puff of grey, stinking smoke before toppling over onto its side with a soft thud.
Darcy, who had been observing from his chair, furrowed his brow. The movement was subtle, but in the silence of the library, it felt like an accusation. He did not, however, immediately offer a scathing critique. He merely looked at the candle, then at her.
“There was a manifestation of heat, at the least,” he said eventually, “But it was unfocused. You produced a general warmth, when what is required is a single point of fire. You are releasing the power without giving it a precise destination. This indicates that the will is lacking.”
“Mr Darcy, I do not doubt the truth of what you say. But you speak of abstract concepts to me when you speak of ‘control’ and ‘will.’”
"You wish for a more practical framework,” Darcy conceded after a moment's thought. He rose, walked over to a nearby bookshelf, and ran a long finger along the spines of several heavy tomes, his expression one of deep concentration. After a moment, he turned back to her.
“Consider a simple piece of potter’s clay,” he said. “In unskilled hands, it is a shapeless blob. But that same clay, under the hands of a master artisan, can become a thing of breathtaking beauty and perfect symmetry.”
He turned from the bookshelf to face her, but remained where he was, creating a considerable distance between them. “Magic is much like that unformed clay. And your mind, your focused will…these are the potter’s hands as they shape and refine that clay.”
“That is an interesting analogy,” she conceded, a hint of her intellectual spirit stirring. “However, your analogy overlooks a crucial distinction. Clay is an inert substance. It possesses no will of its own. It does not, I presume, actively resist the shaping process.”
A look of faint surprise broke through his composure. “You make a keen observation,” he said, “Clay is an inanimate medium.”
