Wickham grimaced, rubbing a hand over his face. “She has the right of it. All I can feel now is the Blight, waiting. If there is anything truly alive down there, its voice is once more smothered.”
“Then we have our answer,” Darcy said, “We must proceed as if such a miracle will not occur again. Let us move on.”
While the men resumed their debate over their possible next moves, Elizabeth found herself unable to concentrate, haunted by the vivid memory of Darcy being choked by the living darkness, his face a mask of agony, his magic sputtering like a dying candle. She could still feel the constriction in her own chest, the desperate, frantic surge of her own power as she reached for a magic she hadn’t known she could touch.
In that moment, it had no longer been an abstract war for England; it had been a visceral, terrifying fight for the life of the man she had come to love.
Their words now, so detached and clinical, became unbearable. To hear them dissect the moment of Darcy’s greatest vulnerability, the moment she had almost lost him, asif it were merely a move in a chess game, was a torment. The memory was too raw, the fear too close.
She rose abruptly, her chair scraping against the floorboards. The harsh sound was answered a moment later by the softer, collective scrape of three other chairs as the gentlemen reflexively stood.
“I am not feeling quite myself,” she said, tightly, strained, “I must ask you to excuse me.”
Without waiting for a reply, she left the room, leaving a startled silence in her wake. She sought the sanctuary of her chamber, but found no peace. The battle had taken a tremendous toll, leaving her feeling magically and physically depleted, her body moving with a stiff, bruised slowness. The thought of another assault, of facing that darkness at the third node, was a terror she could barely contain. She sank onto the edge of the bed, pressing a trembling hand to her mouth, the image of Darcy’s agonised face searing itself into her mind. She simply could not stop shaking.
It was then that a hesitant knock came at her door. “Elizabeth?”
It was Georgiana.
Upon opening the door, she saw that Georgiana stood in the corridor, a cup of steaming tisane in her hands, her expression one of shy concern. “I saw you looked unwell, Elizabeth,” she said tentatively. “Mrs Reynolds packed this for me. It is meant to soothe the spirits.”
Elizabeth managed a grateful smile and gestured for her to enter. They sat together for awhile, while she took small sips of the tisane and still felt like ice inside. Georgiana watched her, her eyes holding a thoughtful note.
“May I try something else?” Georgiana ventured at last. “I might be able to help.”
“Is it…your healing you offer? Georgiana, you do not have to do this for me, if it would be too difficult for you.”
A wistful smile touched Georgiana’s lips. “It is always difficult to be reminded of what I have lost,” she admitted, “But to have even a shadow of that power, and to not use it for a friend? That would be a different kind of failure, and one I am not willing to accept.” She shook her head slightly. “Do not worry. It is not the great gift I was trained to command; there is little enough of it left to cause me any great strain.”
Seeing Elizabeth’s silent question, she elaborated. “I was meticulously trained at Pemberley when I was young. My magic was never like Fitzwilliam’s; I have never had a good command of the elements. My father sensed my true talent was for healing and engaged some of the best masters to teach me.” Then she paused. “I suppose it does not matter. It has not been the same…since.”
“I remember,” Elizabeth said carefully, a gentle acknowledgment that Georgiana did not have to explain the painful details again.
In response, Georgiana gave a grateful nod. “During the worst of the Blight in Newcastle, I did what little healing I could for the sick, but it was never enough. It exhausted me so, and offered so little in return. All I will likely manage now is to soothe the ache behind your eyes or offer some small comfort of that nature.”
Elizabeth felt a surge of affection for her. “It will not be small to me.”
Her sister-in-law took her hand, her fingers surprisingly warm, and her brow furrowed in concentration.
What she felt at first was a hesitant, almost painful trickle of magic. It felt constricted, a sorrowful hum that seemed afraid of its own sound. Elizabeth’s heart ached in sympathy for the effort it was costing the younger woman.
But then something shifted. The sorrowful hum seemed to find a new note, and the constricted feeling dissolved.
What followed was stunning. It was no longer a trickle, but a current. Cool, clean, and impossibly potent energy flowed from Georgiana’s hand into hers. It felt like diving into a clear lake on a hot day; it was pure, restorative life as it swept through her, not only soothing the physical exhaustion, but cleansing the scars left by the Blight’s assault. The lingering panic, the terror, the haunting memory of the choking tendrils — all of it was gently washed away, leaving behind a sense of peace and strength.
The flow of magic ceased as abruptly as it had begun. Elizabeth opened her eyes, her own weariness and fear utterly vanished, replaced by a clear-headed vitality. She stared at Georgiana, her shock rendering her speechless, and saw in Georgiana’s own wide eyes a matching astonishment; neither of them had known that this power had somehow returned, waiting to be called.
Georgiana now looked down at her own hands as if they belonged to a stranger. “I had forgotten what it felt like to have the magic answer so freely,” she whispered, her words choked with emotion, “It was like hearing a song I thought was lost forever.”
The revelation was revolutionary. Darcy had not included Georgiana in their plans, had dismissed her every offer of help as the well-intentioned but misguided notions of a girl still in the schoolroom. In his fierce, desperate need to shield his sister from further harm, he had treated her like a porcelain doll to be protected.
But Elizabeth now knew better. She had just felt the undeniable proof of it flow through her own veins. This was a power that could not be kept cloistered in an inn room.
“Georgiana, you must go to your brother. He is in pain, whether he admits it or not.”
“I know he is,” Georgiana whispered, her gaze full of worry. “But he would never ask for aid. He will simply endure it.”
“And now you must show him he does not have to,” Elizabeth said, squeezing her hand. “Go to him. He will be comforted to witness the return of your strength.”
