He gestured for her to come to his side, indicating the spotted white ball as hers. “Certainly. The principle is the same as our other lessons. It is not about force, but intention. A whisper, not a shout.”
She assessed the position of the balls before focusing, imagining the feeling of a gentle breeze as she released her magic. Her cue ball veered erratically, missing the red entirely. The errant puff of air, however, was strong enough to catch both the red and Darcy’s plain white ball, sending them flying in opposite directions until they came to rest against the far cushions.
The air behind her seemed to warm with his quiet approbation. “I must confess I had expected far worse.”
“Pray tell, what catastrophe did you envision? The table spontaneously combusting? The balls levitating to shatter the windows?” she enquired playfully.
The corner of his mouth twitched, the only answer he offered. Smiling at this small concession, Elizabeth turned to the table, pouring her will into a single point. A controlled puff of air left her hand, and her cue ball cut a straight path towards the red ball, just barely tapping it.
“That was a marked improvement,” Darcy allowed generously.
A competitive light entered her eyes. “Since your expectations are so admirably low, you will not be too disappointed when I defeat you. I suggest a proper game.” She gestured to the table invitingly. “Your magic against mine.”
“You seem to be extrapolating a great deal from one lucky shot.”
“I see. You are afraid of the competition.”
“You are welcome to that notion, if it pleases you. But I must insist upon playing with a handicap. My control is a matter of long practice. It would hardly be a fair contest otherwise.”
“What manner of handicap did you have in mind? Perhaps you could play blindfolded?”
Elizabeth had meant it as a jest, a bit of light raillery at his confidence. She expected him to shrug it off. Instead, with a glimpse of playfulness she would never have expected from him, he seemed to take her challenge in earnest. He tilted his head slightly, as if he were calculating the mechanics of playing without sight.
“On second thought,” she said quickly, before he could agree to such an fanciful term, “perhaps a more conventional handicap is in order.”
“And what more conventional advantage do you propose?”
“How about a simple advantage in points. Let us say...I shall begin with ten, and we play to eighteen.”
“Such a commanding lead before the game has even begun. You are quite certain you require such an advantage?”
She offered him a wry glance, a silent admission that her need for such a handicap would soon be made abundantly clear. Focusing intently, she sent a pulse of will towards her cue ball. It shot forward, taking an errant course that curved away from his plain white ball and came to a stop well off from its target.
“I suppose you do,” Darcy said, a trace of amusement in his otherwise serious tone. “A successful shot requires a mind for the angles, and I believe you neglected them entirely.”
“I believe an over-reliance on Euclid stifles one’s artistic creativity.”
He let out a soft chuckle. “Naturally.”
In that brief moment of levity, Elizabeth savoured the absurdity of how meticulously Darcy, too, was avoiding the heavy subjects that lay between them: Georgiana’s presence, Wickham’s trustworthiness, the looming threat of Newcastle, the volatile nature of their magic, and the ever-present scrutiny of the Arcane Office. For just one game, they seemed united in their effort to pretend that nothing in the world was more important than the geometry of three balls on a field of green.
Darcy took his turn. His white ball glided forward, striking the red with a definitive click. The red ball rolled on before dropping smoothly into the corner pocket.
“In billiards, a predictable outcome is usually the most desirable one,” he said.
“What a tedious way to live, Mr Darcy,” she retorted with a bantering smile as she circled the table and considered her next shot. Trying to mimic his control but infused with her own energy, she sent her spotted ball flying. It was too fast. The ball ricocheted off the red with a crack, careened off two cushions,and by sheer luck, clipped his white ball and scored her two points.
Elizabeth gasped, then a peal of delighted laughter rang out as she looked at him. “It is an unconventional approach, I grant you, but one cannot argue with the results.”
“It is a result achieved through sheer luck,” Darcy observed, unimpressed, “The ball very nearly left the table.”
“I find a little unpredictability makes life more interesting and enjoyable. Do you not?” she teased.
“I cannot agree with that sentiment. In my experience, ‘interesting’ is often a precursor to requiring extensive repairs.”
The game continued in this manner. His shots were models of perfection, each angle flawlessly determined; hers, by contrast, were speculative ventures that occasionally proved remarkably effective.
Darcy was lining up a particularly difficult manoeuvre, one requiring him to send his ball off three cushions before striking its target, when Elizabeth, observing him, could not resist and said, “Should I send for tea? You look as though you might be there for some time.”
