“I am quite curious to learn what a man like you considers a fitting apology,” she said, with her tone tempered by a soft concession, “Name your price, for my debt is considerable.”
He considered this with every appearance of gravity. “If I am to name my price, then my terms must begin with the favour of a kiss.”
“Only one? Your demands are surprisingly modest, Mr Darcy.”
“And,” he said, the word emerging on a quieter and more bashful note, “I should like to remain with you until the morning.”
The unexpected request, layered with such a different tenor than the first, left her momentarily speechless. Seeing the surprise in her eyes, a look of almost anxious haste crossed his features. A faint flush rose on his neck as he quickly added, “To…to simply share the quiet hours. Nothing more. I find the prospect of a lonely room and my own thoughts rather bleak company on a night like this.”
Any sense of amusement faded. His mention of the lonely hours until dawn was a sombre reminder of what awaited thematdawn. The lightness of the moment evaporated, replaced by the cold, shared reality of the battle to come.
Tomorrow, they would go into the most terrifying battle they had ever faced. They would stand before a corrupted node, a place of unrelenting darkness, and set their power against an all-consuming evil.
Tomorrow, they might fail. Tomorrow, they might die.
And how cruel it seemed, she thought. To have come all this way, to have finally dismantled the walls between their hearts, only to have it all now at risk.
So tonight, in the small circle of warmth cast by a single candle, they would hold the darkness at bay. Tonight, they had each other.
“A kiss and my company until the dawn,” she said, with a brave smile, “I find these terms entirely agreeable.”
They lay side-by-side, the rough wool of the inn’s blankets pulled up to their chins. The silence was not uncomfortable, but it was awake. She turned her head on the pillow to face him and couldjust barely discern the tension in the line of his shoulder and the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. Neither of them was sleeping.
Finally, the rustle of the bed linens broke the quiet as he turned to face her. In the dim light, his gaze seemed to gather the shadows of the room.
“You cannot sleep either?” he asked.
Elizabeth shook her head. The fear for the morrow was an leaden feeling coiling in her stomach, a thing her brave words had held at bay but could not entirely vanquish.
“I suspect our thoughts are too restless for sleep; perhaps a conversation might quiet them,” she said.
The mattress shook with the vibration of his laugh. “That is a sound philosophy, though I will not pretend it has ever been my preference.”
His laugh seemed to loosen the coil inside her. The familiar impulse to parry in kind was too strong to ignore.
“Your inclinations on that matter have never been a great mystery,” Elizabeth teased back.
He paused, and she waited, sensing he was searching for a topic that was safe and neutral, a memory that could offer some small measure of warmth against the coming chill.
“I find I am not accustomed to stillness,” Elizabeth offered, “Longbourn is a place of constant noise. Even at this hour, one is likely to hear Lydia giggling or Mary practising her scales.”
“And I find I am not accustomed to sharing my quiet with anyone.” He paused, his gaze thoughtful as he studied her. “Does everyone in your family call you Lizzy?”
The question was so unexpected, so personal, it caught her by surprise. “Yes,” she said. “Nearly always.” An amused light entered her eyes. “However, I confess I cannot imagine you calling me ‘Lizzy.’ You are far too formal.”
“Am I, indeed. Does it seem so impossible that I, too, might have a familiar name?”
“It seems entirely impossible,” she declared with a laugh, rolling onto her side to face him fully. “But you have roused my curiosity. Pray, indulge me. Is it Fitz?”
“It is not,” he smiled.
“Fitzy?”
He shuddered a little. “No. Heaven forbid.”
“You had best tell me at once, for my remaining guesses are likely to be far less dignified than the truth,” she coaxed.
His gaze softened, giving way to a fond reminiscence. “My mother called me William,” he said, “She felt a great pride in the name Fitzwilliam, for its heritage and for the honour of seeing her name joined to the Darcy legacy. And yet, she often said she found it a strange thing to address me by her own surname, save for those occasions when my conduct had sorely displeased her.”
