“A river that changes its course can just as easily carve a new path of destruction,” Darcy said at last, his voice not angry, not sad, but toneless, “I wonder, Elizabeth, if you have considered what Wickham truly stands to gain from this venture. You speak of a change of heart. I speak of a lifetime of evidence to the contrary. He has always been a performer, and this is the greatest play of his life.”
She frowned, not understanding his meaning. “A play?”
Darcy still did not look at her as he said, “We have come to a city the Lord Magister himself described as one of despair and certain death. A place the Arcane Office has abandoned as a lost cause.”
As he spoke, the air grew thin and brittle, as if his magic were giving a chilling substance to his words. An unnatural cold radiated from him, raising goosebumps on her skin.
Yet Darcy gave no sign he felt it, continuing in that same deadened voice, “In a circumstance so fraught with risk, one must always examine where the deepest interests lie. And if we look past the performance, we see the true prize. If I should meet my end here, who, then, has the strongest claim to Pemberley?”
Elizabeth stared at him, the colour draining from her face as the horrifying implication fell into place.
Georgiana.
A sickening feeling seized her stomach. As if she had been plunged into freezing water, the warmth of her conviction was extinguished in an instant, and a shiver wracked her frame.
She saw his gaze snap to her, the hollow look in his eyes sharpening as comprehension flashed in his eyes. The effect was immediate. The oppressive cold was instantly curtailed,deliberately banished. An almost aggressive warmth bloomed from the hearth as Darcy reasserted his control over his magic.
He opened his mouth as if to speak, but before he could, a light knock sounded at the parlour door, followed by the entrance of Colonel Fitzwilliam. Close behind him were Wickham and Georgiana.
The innkeeper followed them in, bearing a tray laden with what passed for breakfast – a meagre offering of thin porridge, some stale bread, and a pot of tea. He set it down with a mumbled apology for the quality of the fare and scurried out.
A silence descended upon the room as the five of them regarded the repast, and each other.
It was Colonel Fitzwilliam who, after a moment, cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, attempting a lightness that did not quite reach his eyes, “Best eat up. What, then, is our first course of action, Darcy?”
Darcy drew a slow breath, his gaze moving from the map Wickham had spread on a side table the night before, to Elizabeth, then briefly to Georgiana and Wickham. The weight of responsibility settled naturally upon his shoulders.
“We will inspect the primary node Wickham has identified to the north of the city, near the ruins of the old monastic settlement,” Darcy said, his voice regaining its familiar decisiveness, “We must ascertain the precise nature of the Blight’s hold there before we can contemplate any direct magical intervention.” He looked at Elizabeth then, his expression unreadable, his gaze holding hers for a measured count longer than was comfortable. “Your assistance will be necessary, Mrs Darcy, to gauge the true state of the ley lines.”
His demeanour was so carefully formal, and it was a pain she knew she deserved. The regret was a heavy weight in her chest. “Of course,” she said.
Georgiana spoke then, her gaze fixed almost pleadingly on her brother. “And I, Fitzwilliam? What am I to do?”
Darcy’s expression closed off completely as he said, “Your immediate concern must be your own recovery. You should remain here.”
Wickham, who had been observing this exchange with a frown, now leaned forward. “The monastic ruins are well chosen, Darcy,” he said, “The monks there were powerful mages. If any place still holds a spark of the old magic, it will be there. But be warned,” he added, “the Blight is strong in those hills. It is cunning.”
“We are aware of the dangers, Wickham,” Darcy replied dispassionately, “I have read the Arcane Office’s accounts of their failed attempts. I am familiar with the risks.”
Wickham’s lips curved into an almost pitying smile. “The Arcane Office failed because they tried to fight a wild thing with rules. You cannot defeat this with your logic, Darcy. It will not bow to your name or your will, no matter how forcefully you try to apply it.”
“Perhaps you intend to charm the Blight into submission? Or challenge it to a game of cards and cheat it into leaving?” the colonel said derisively.
Wickham’s smile vanished, his own eyes hardening with a shade of long-held acrimony. “At least I understand what we are facing here. The Blight is a liar, a trickster. It promises growth and gives only rot.” He leaned forward, his voice low and intense. “You cannot simply overpower it. It will find the cracks in your defences and pour itself in. It will use your own strength against you.”
Darcy gave a slight, dismissive shake of his head, as if Wickham had just stated something utterly commonplace. “All corruption functions in such a manner.”
“Please,” a small, pained voice cut through the rising tension.
Both men turned. Georgiana was staring at them, her hands twisting in her lap. “Please…must you continue?”
Wickham looked from Georgiana’s distressed face to Darcy’s stony one. The antagonism seemed to drain out of him. “She has the right of it. To what end do we re-fight these old battles?” He met Darcy’s gaze again, his tone now devoid of challenge. “I am only trying to say that this is not a straightforward confrontation. It will not be overcome by sheer force of will, Darcy, however formidable yours may be. Be prepared for trickery. That is all.”
Elizabeth watched Darcy absorb the words, saw the subtle tightening around his jaw. The tension there was a sobering reminder of their recent disagreement, of the pain she had seen in his eyes as she had championed Wickham. In that instant, she knew she must make a deliberate offering of solidarity.
She offered Wickham a perfectly polite smile that held no real warmth. “That is a prudent observation, Captain. Fortunately Mr Darcy is a man of considerable forethought, and is not unacquainted with the necessity of guarding against,” her smile fading slightly as she delivered the final word with sweet, gentle precision, “unpleasantness.”
The air grew still for a moment as none present failed to take her meaning. Wickham had the grace to look slightly discomfited.
