She thought of all of England, slowly, inexorably, being smothered by this encroaching, magical death.
A fresh, grim resolve began to settle in her spirit, extinguishing the flames of her self-pity. The Blight was a war, and in a war, one did not have the luxury of succumbing to one’s own private ghosts.
They had to keep trying.Shehad to keep trying.
“I agree, Mr Darcy,” she said resignedly. “We need to make progress. We must.”
A dejected sense of inevitability led Elizabeth to accompany Darcy to the lesser library. She took her usual seat, expecting him to set a task. But Darcy offered no instruction, no candle to be lit. Instead he crossed over to the fireplace and rested his arm on the mantel, his back to her. He stared down into the empty grate as if it held the answers to an impossible question.
Elizabeth waited. The air between them was heavy, fraught with the awkward memory of their last argument and now burdened by the Lord Magister’s stark reminder of their duty. She could almost hear the echo of his warning about the dire consequences of their continued failure.
When Darcy finally turned from the hearth, his expression was one of carefully assembled composure.
“Mrs Darcy,” he began, then cleared his throat, his voice losing some of its usual imperious sting, “Before we begin,” and again, he paused, his uncharacteristic stumbling immediately putting Elizabeth on her guard, “I feel I must enquire…is there anything further I should be made aware of? Regarding your…anything that might illuminate upon your — ”
He was referring to her outburst, of course, probing at the wound he had, however unintentionally, inflicted. She felt her spine stiffen, her chin lift, bracing herself.
“Your…current difficulties?” he concluded, awkwardly. All through this, he did not look directly at her, but rather set his gaze on an uninteresting section of the rug.
His unwieldy enquiry took her by surprise. She had expected an interrogation, or perhaps a reprimand, not this. But whatever his method, the destination was the same: a place she would not go. Her own resolve hardened.
She said firmly, “I would like to consider the subject closed.”
He plainly did not like her response, but after only a brief hesitation, acknowledged her request with a nod of his head. “Very well. I had thought to make a return to the fundamentals today. We will again focus on basic energy manipulation of fire.”
They sat in the winged chairs, a new candle between them.
Darcy’s voice was a low murmur as he guided her through the process. She could feel the restless energy stirring within her, yet when she tried to grasp it, to direct it, or even perceive it in the way he described, it eluded her completely. It was as if the magic slipped through her fingers like water, leaving her feeling drained and inadequate.
Those were the better efforts. Other times her magic surged with alarming force that had Darcy wincing and instinctively raising a shimmering shield as flames erupted around them.
The day dragged on, with no success.
And for a week thereafter.
Through this, Darcy maintained a tight grip on his temper and words. But beneath his flawless manners, she felt the sting of his dislike. To him, she knew, she was not a partner but an incompetent burden from the Arcane Office. Her every failure, from the smallest misstep to the most chaotic surge of magic, simply confirmed it, deepening the lines of frustration in his face.
After one particularly trying and unproductive afternoon:
“I cannot fathom how to articulate the fundamental concept of directed magical intent with any greater clarity,” said Darcy, a sharp edge beginning to cut through the patience in his voice.
Clearly the fault could not be withhimandhisteaching, but withherandhercomprehension. The unfairness of his words formed a tight knot in her throat. Yet she did not allow her vexation to show. Instead, a light gleamed in her eyes as she gave a slight tilt of her head, and countered with a smile:
“Perhaps we have reached the limits of what words can articulate. How is a man to explain the feeling of a sonnet, sir, when his library is filled with nothing but treatises on magical theory?”
He merely raised an eyebrow at her words, offering no defence, no argument, merely a silent judgement that spoke volumes of his contempt for her intellect, her temperament, and her utter lack of discipline, magical or otherwise.
They tried other exercises. He attempted to teach her to levitate a small, smooth stone, which she managed only to send skittering across the floor, narrowly missing a rather valuable looking vase.
He instructed her in the creation of a simple shield, which, in her hands, manifested as a brief and entirely ineffectivedistortion in the air, collapsing with a little sigh the moment he directed a testing pulse of his own magic towards it.
And so it went. For another full week, they engaged in this increasingly desperate, but ultimately futile dance.
One afternoon, as Elizabeth was returning from a walk, she heard voices raised in what sounded like a heated discussion coming from the direction of Darcy’s private study, a room she had never entered. Curiosity, and a desperate desire for any distraction from her thoughts, compelled her to draw nearer, her footsteps silent. The door to the study was slightly ajar.
She recognised Darcy’s voice instantly, of course. It was tightly controlled, yet vibrating with that familiar suppressed annoyance. “…unnecessary, Richard. And frankly, insulting. I am perfectly capable of managing my own affairs without the interventions of the Arcane Office. Or indeed, of certain well-intentioned but meddlesome relations.”
And then another voice, lighter, more charming, though Elizabeth could not quite place it. “Now I know you cannot meanmein that category, dear cousin. But to your point, you know the Office is merely concerned. Anxious, even, and for good reason.”
