And then…then came the other memory. The one she had buried so deep, so carefully, so successfully, for so many long years. Walled off with layers of guilt and shame.
She had been nearly eight. Her mother, after months of hoping, after countless desperate prayers, had once again been expecting.
Mrs Bennet had been absolutely convinced that this time it would be the longed-for, prayed-for son. The heir to Longbourn. The breaker of the entail. The local midwife confirmed it, declaring the child's magical signature to be strong, vibrant, and undoubtedly male.
Elizabeth, caught up in the excitement, and emboldened by some recent small successes in controlling her burgeoning powers, had decided to try something ambitious.
She had read, in one of her father’s older, more obscure, and clearly, dangerously misunderstood, books of lore, of a complex and powerful familial blessing charm. A charm designed, it was said, to strengthen the magical bonds within a household. It was a charm far, far beyond her limited skill, far beyond her understanding.
But she had attempted it.
She remembered the terrifying surge of power that had answered her call. And then the wrenching recoil as it all went wrong. The flash of searing light, the sound of tearing fabric, and the immediate, echoing silence.
Later that day, her mother had lost the child. The promised son. The longed-for heir.
No one had blamed her. Her father, his own face a mask of devastating sorrow, had held her and told her it was not her fault. But she had known. Her magic, her ignorant reach for power she could not control, had brought only death and grief to her family.
That day had extinguished Elizabeth’s once joyful desire to explore her magical powers.
From that day forward, she had not tried to use her magic again. The occasional, involuntary outbursts were a constant, terrifying, and deeply shaming reminder of the destructive potential that lay dormant, like a sleeping dragon, within her.
Until this Concordance had forced her to face it again.
The memory, successfully buried for so long, so brutally resurrected by Darcy’s careless and entirely accurate words, overwhelmed her now.
A sob tore from her throat. There was no escape from it, not then, and not now.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Darcy, Elizabeth later learnt from Mrs Reynolds, had spent the remainder of that day closeted in the lesser library, emerging only briefly for a solitary dinner. She supposed he must have been occupied in either brooding over fresh insults or mending the considerable damage done to his window. Perhaps he had found a way to attend to both tasks at once.
The next two days passed without incident. Darcy made no further attempts at training, whether from a sense of futility or a reluctance to provoke another destructive outburst, Elizabeth could not be certain. He made no demand on her time, and his silent withdrawal granted Elizabeth a space for reflection.
She was his wife, his to command by every law of the land, and bound to him by a magic even more absolute. He could have exercised his authority over her, could have ordered her to present herself in the library each morning to continue. A lesser man might have. Yet he did not.
Gradually, Elizabeth had to own that Darcy did not appear to be the sort of man who would abuse his power; he would scorn, he would lecture, but he would not force. This surprising lackof coercion, however, left the choice entirely in her hands, and Elizabeth was no more certain how she felt about attempting to master her magic again.
Thus she sought what refuge she could from the volatile world of magic in the orderly realm of her new duties. She spent her afternoons bent over the household accounts, the neat figures a welcome contrast to the chaos of her magic. She found a surprising comfort in her discussions with Mrs Reynolds, learning the rhythms of the great house, and wrote long, almost desperate letters to her family, a lifeline to a world that felt increasingly distant. In these mundane tasks, she found a fragile foothold in a life that otherwise felt entirely beyond her command.
It was in this state when Brooks, in staid terms, announced an urgent summons.
“Mrs Darcy,” he said, “We have just received an imperative magical dispatch from the Arcane Office. Lord Magister Theron himself. The master bids you attend with him in the communications room.”
“If you would please show me there,” said Elizabeth, setting aside her correspondence and smoothing her morning dress.
The communications room was a small, windowless chamber. The air within hummed with a restless magical energy. In the centre of the room, a large, shallow, and exquisitely crafted basin, filled with what looked like ordinary water, rested on a carved stone pedestal.
Darcy, who had been staring with bleak intensity at the inert silver basin, spun around with a sharp, almost startled movement as Brooks announced her. He gave a bow, a gesture that spoke more of engrained habit than welcome. “Thank you for attending, Mrs Darcy,” he said formally, “This summons undoubtedly concerns us both. I cannot imagine the Arcane Office is calling with glad tidings.”
No, indeed, Elizabeth thought, with apprehension. The use of scrying, of such direct, magically potent communication, expended significant magical resources. It was a tool reserved only for the most urgent of pronouncements, a prelude, almost invariably, to ill news or even graver demands.
She lifted her chin a fraction, determined to betray nothing of the discomfort that his mere presence, his nearness in this small chamber, still aroused within her. “Fortunately for Pemberley, Mr Darcy,” she replied, “there are no windows in this particular room to shatter should the Office say something not to my liking.”
He looked as if he were about to say something, but before any words, however contemptuous, could be delivered, the surface of the water in the basin began to glow. The still water roiled, then cleared, and the stern, imposing, and undeniably displeased face of Lord Magister Theron coalesced within its shimmering depths.
“Mr Darcy. Mrs Darcy,” his voice resonated from the basin, with only a slight watery distortion, “I trust you are both well. You can be in no doubt as to the reason for my call. We have received your latest letters, Mr Darcy, pithy though they were. You will update us now.”
Darcy inclined his head, his face composed into formal deference. “My lord, as I have written, we have commenced our efforts to understand and integrate our respective magical abilities. Progress, however,” and here he paused, choosing his words with care, “has been incremental. We have needed to overcome several unexpected challenges.”
