Elizabeth almost laughed aloud at his entirely understated assessment of their recent, disastrous efforts to work together. “Incremental” was a remarkably generous term.
Lord Magister Theron’s eyes narrowed as his gaze flicked from Darcy’s scrupulously composed face to Elizabeth’s own,which she hoped betrayed none of her entirely inappropriate amusement at the present situation, nor the inner turmoil and aching sense of inadequacy that still consumed her.
“Incremental, Mr Darcy?” he repeated, his voice a fraction colder than before, “There are reports reaching us from across the realm, from every county, detailing every failing ward, every despairing community. They do not speak ofincremental progress, but ofacceleratingdecay! The agricultural enchantments, upon which so much of this country depends on for sustenance, are failing catastrophically. The harvest forecasts for this year are dire. Wewillface famine.”
A distinct, uncomfortable sensation tightened in Elizabeth’s stomach.
“We are doing all that is within our power, my lord,” said Darcy.
“Are you?” came the hard demand.
Darcy glanced away. It appeared deceit was not one of his abilities.
“We have not,” Elizabeth confessed, “but that is through no fault of Mr Darcy. My magic has proven unresponsive to — ”
He raised a hand. “I have been apprised of your difficulties in this area, Mrs Darcy. That is not the point of my call today.We do not have time. You must, with the greatest of urgency, form the Concordance. The wedding ceremony alone was not sufficient. The texts speak of the absolutely necessity for a true union between the chosen pair, in order for their disparate magics to fully become one. You must become more than the sum of the individual.”
A deeply uncomfortable silence fell in the room. Elizabeth felt heat creep up her neck as she absorbed the Lord Magister’s implication.
A true union.
Darcy’s face became stony. There was a faint flush on his high cheekbones. He was as discomfited by this turn in the conversation as she was.
“The texts also speak of the necessity of shared will,” he said at last, his voice carefully, almost painfully, controlled, “The texts speak of focused, unified intent. Of a mutual understanding of the arcane principles involved. We are concentrating our current efforts on achieving those goals, what I believe to be an essential, foundational alignment.”
“Shared will often follows shared experience, Mr Darcy,” Lord Magister Theron replied severely, his gaze, even its ethereal form, unyielding. “The Concordance is not only a matter of shared arcane understanding. It demands a merging of spirits that often requires…a catalyst.”
Elizabeth, feeling her face burn with a mixture of embarrassment and indignant anger at the Lord Magister’s indelicate words, decided that if he was to breach the bounds of decorum, she would not grant him the comfort of quiet mortification.
“My lord,” she said, her voice revealing nothing of the sudden tightness in her chest, “Please forgive my want of understanding, but does your counsel pertain to matters of arcane theory or do you speak of another matter entirely?”
A strangled note of protest caught in Darcy’s throat, which he quickly, if unconvincingly, turned it into a cough. He opened his mouth as if to interject, but seemed to find no words equal to the occasion.
“Upon my word, madam!” exclaimed the Lord Magister, his eyebrows rising in astonishment, “You speak very decidedly for so young a person.”
Elizabeth summoned her most convincing, if entirely feigned, impression of Lydia’s wide-eyed, artless innocence as she met his gaze. “I merely seek clarity. In an undertaking ofthis magnitude, it is essential, is it not, that there be no room for misinterpretation?”
In truth, a nauseating feeling was coiling in the pit of her stomach. Her outward composure hung by a thread. She was not at all certain how much further she could press this vulgar act. Her innards were already quaking.
Thankfully, before she was forced to either escalate her dangerous gambit or retreat in defeat, Darcy intervened, a note of strained diplomacy in his voice. “Mrs Darcy has a deeper appreciation for the…philosophical underpinnings of the Concordance, my lord. But I can assure you, the broader implications of your directive have not escaped us.”
“In which case, I expect a more encouraging report from Pemberley, and soon,” came the Lord Magister’s uncompromising reply.
With that parting shot, the stern face faded from the waters of the basin, leaving only a wispy, lingering scent of ozone.
“Good God, Elizabeth,” Darcy said, his voice filled with stunned disbelief, edged with an inflection she could only interpret as distaste. “That was the Lord Magister.”
“I am certain you regret extending me an invitation to join this call,” Elizabeth replied unapologetically, though her heart was still racing from the confrontation.
The corner of Darcy’s mouth twitched, a movement so fleeting she almost missed it. He immediately pressed his lips into a thin, hard line, as if fighting back a more severe expression.
In the incredibly uncomfortable silence that followed, the Lord Magister’s words — a true union, a catalyst — seemed to echo in the air between them. Elizabeth felt a hot blush at her ears as her thoughts returned to the indelicate implication. She did not dare to look at Darcy now, but she could feel his tension and his overwhelming presence of heat beside her.
Darcy said, quietly, “We must resume our efforts to master our magic with greater perseverance.”
In truth, it was the very last thing Elizabeth wished to do. And yet, she could not dismiss the Lord Magister’s grave warnings and the undeniable urgency of their situation.
She thought of Longbourn’s great oak, its vibrant song now silenced.
