He did not break his stride, his gaze fixed resolutely ahead. “Not now, Elizabeth. This is not the time.”
“Perhaps it is precisely the time,” she countered gently. “Before you speak with Lord Magister Theron, before this situation with Georgiana escalates further. Whatever your justifiable feelings about Captain Wickham may be, Georgiana is a married woman. And she is, at present, a guest in this house, not a prisoner to be confined by your decree.”
He stopped then, so abruptly she almost collided with him, and turned to her, his lips pressed into a thin line of exasperation. “And you would have me condone this lunacy? Facilitate her return to that man, to that blighted city, to her almost certain doom?”
“I would have you consider the alternatives,” Elizabeth reasoned, “If she is truly determined to go, as she appears to be, and you forbid her the use of your carriage, will that stop her? Or will she merely find some other means – travel post, as she said, a journey far less safe, far less comfortable, and entirely outside your ability to protect her?”
He plainly did not like the logic of her words. The weight of his sister’s choices, of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s gleeful complicity in her plans, of the Arcane Office’s demands, and now, of Elizabeth’s persistent reason, seemed to press down on him from all sides. The man who had, only the night before, in the candlelit intimacy of their shared sitting room, held her with tenderness and kissed her with passion, now seemed to be retreating once more behind the instinctive rampart of implacable resolve.
“Lord Magister Theron is expecting us,” he said, in a detached tone as his gaze shifted from Elizabeth to the corridor that led towards the communications room. His adamant posture made his intent abundantly clear: the discussion regarding Georgiana was, for him, closed.
But Elizabeth, her heart aching at this jarring return to a more distant Darcy, reached out, her fingers gently brushing his arm. “Fitzwilliam,” she said softly, her voice a low plea that held no demand, only the echo of the previous night’s tenderness.
He stopped, the slight, unexpected touch seeming to sway him more effectively than any argument. When he finally did turn to look at her, the remoteness in his eyes had fractured, and she saw a hint of the man from the night before – the manwhose defences had crumbled in her presence, whose kisses had spoken of a desire and a vulnerability she had never imagined, whose whispered use of her Christian name had resonated through her like a spell.
“I cannot allow this, Elizabeth,” he said, his voice no longer cold, but at last revealing his pain, “Her safety and happiness is all I have ever desired for her. Even when…” he trailed off.
“I know,” Elizabeth murmured, her hand still resting on his arm, a small, steadying pressure, “But I do not believe she will be deterred by the danger.” She looked up at him then, her gaze full of meaning. “It is a trait I find I am developing a surprising fondness for.”
He blew out a breath.
She did not press him further on the matter of the carriage, sensing that the seed of her reasoning might have taken root in the momentarily softened ground of his heart.
With a sigh of resignation, Darcy gave a nod towards the communications room. “It does not do to keep the Lord Magister waiting. Let us hear his decree.”
The communications room was hushed, the only light coming from the shimmering silver basin where Lord Magister Theron’s imposing face was already formed.
As they came to a halt before the pedestal, Elizabeth felt, rather than saw, Darcy shift beside her. It was a small thing, a barely discernible change in the alignment of his body, yet she understood its unspoken intent – a quiet, almost reflexive, positioning that placed him as a subtle bulwark between herand the Arcane Office’s stern arbiter. Warmth filled her at the gesture.
The Lord Magister’s gaze settled, with a heavy accusatory look, upon Darcy.
“Mr Darcy, Mrs Darcy,” his voice resonated through the room, “I trust my appearance does not unduly inconvenience your plans to proceed without the Office’s express sanction.”
Darcy bowed in polite deference. “My lord, your presence commands attention. As for acting without sanction, you must forgive my ignorance, but I am unaware that any recent course of action required a formal writ from the Office.”
The Lord Magister’s lips thinned. “We are well aware of the extensive travel arrangements you have been making. Arrangements for a journey north to Newcastle, I believe?”
“I have,” owned Darcy, “Perhaps my new wife has expressed a desire to see more of England. Newcastle, I am told, has a certain charm this time of year.”
She fought to suppress a smile. To suggest that their plans were a wedding trip to blighted Newcastle in the winter! Only Darcy could deliver such a preposterous notion with such unwavering gravity.
“Do not trifle with me, sir,” the Lord Magister warned, “Newcastle is not a destination for a leisurely tour. It is a catastrophe. The Blight there is rampant, its magical energies dangerously unstable, its ley lines almost entirely corrupted.”
“If Newcastle is as perilous as you describe, it is perplexing that the Arcane Office has not seen fit to issue any formal advisories or restrictions regarding travel to the region.”
“And to what purpose would such public pronouncements serve, Mr Darcy? The populace is ill-equipped to comprehend such matters. Their fear would be a greater contagion than the Blight itself. The hard truth, however unpalatable, is that Newcastle’s fate is largely sealed.”
“So it is true,” said Elizabeth, “You have abandoned the city.”
“What we have done, Mrs Darcy, is expended considerable resources and magical effort. For weeks we have battled the Blight there, attempted to cleanse the corrupted nodes, and reinforce the failing wards. Many have paid the ultimate price for their dedication. Good men and women, lost forever, to the insidious sickness that now festers in that city, a sickness that seems to feed on magic itself. We have been forced to withdraw to conserve what strength remains. It is a decision that brings no satisfaction, I assure you. Only a deeply regrettable sense of loss.”
The Lord Magister fixed Darcy with a challenging gaze. “Knowing this, Mr Darcy, knowing the virulence of the Blight in that accursed city, knowing the fate of those who have gone before you, are you still determined to enter a place of despair and certain death?”
“That city is home to thousands. I cannot stand aside when we may possess the possibility of offering aid,” said Darcy.
“And while you martyr yourselves in Newcastle,” the Lord Magister said, his voice cold as ice, “what of the rest of England? What of the hundreds of thousands who might benefit from your power, wisely applied, rather than rashly expended on a cause already deemed hopeless by those with greater oversight?”
“I suppose that will be your concern,” said Elizabeth, “as in that scenario, our responsibilities will have rather definitively and unfortunately concluded.”
