“Hear, hear!”
"Bring them on!"
“In any case,” said Lady Hazelmere, “It is not something that impacts the Royal Mages. Mages can't do magic on water.”
“True, but it appears the Prince Regent is concerned that this time, he will be sending mages, with a planned landing further north. He has asked that we send a few of our best mages to repel them, and to ensure they do not set foot on our soil. Frankly, I welcome it. I have been hoping for a long time now that if we bide our time and wait for Napoleon to become overconfident, then we can win this war, once and for all. If we can interceptthese mages, we might be able to get rid of them, and weaken the enemy substantially."
“Has there been word when this will happen?”
“Not yet. It could be days, it could be weeks. But he has asked us to prepare contingency plans. We should be ready to move when we receive an order.”
“In other words,” said Devereux, “we need to do nothing at all. It all sounds very vague. You said weeks, but it could well be months.”
“Let us hope so. It would give us more time. But there is no doubt that tents have been set up, and people have been arriving at Boulogne. We cannot dismiss the threat completely.”
He looked around. “I will inform you the moment I hear something new.”
Now that his business was over, Darcy looked hopefully at his uncle, waiting for him to bring up Pemberley. But his uncle merely dismissed the Council and agreed to meet at the same time tomorrow.
He had trusted his uncle. He had believed Matlock was willing to help him. Now Darcy even questioned whether Matlock had ever intended to bring the topic to the Council. After all, he had mentioned Pandora’s box. Perhaps the Head Mage wanted to keep that box locked rather than being inundated with requests for military leave.
Darcy lingered until Matlock finished talking to some of the Council members and left the room, then followed after him, trying to reign in his ire.
“Ah, Darcy. I had the feeling you would come after me.”
“Rightly so,” said Darcy. “Why did you not raise the issue?”
“I had something more important to discuss.”
"Could it not have waited until after I received permission to go to Pemberley?"
Lord Matlock stopped walking and turned to face Darcy. “I am sorry to have been the bearer of bad tidings, and to have ruined your possibility of marital bliss, but do not kill the messenger. It is my role to put the Kingdom first. I cannot give you special treatment. Hopefully, it is another false alarm, and there is nothing to it. Then you will still have your chance at happiness."
He put his hand on Darcy's shoulder. "It is a matter of ten days or two weeks at the most, and then you can do as you please."
Darcy shrugged the hand off. Disappointment was choking him. "As Devereux phrased it, those ten days could extend into months," he said, bitterly.
"I am sorry. If we receive the order, the Prince Regent has made it clear he expects you and Elizabeth to go.”
“Ah, so instead of going to Pemberley we are to face danger, yet again, while you stay here, safe and sound.” He was snarling. He could not help it. The sour taste of betrayal was too strong to reign it in.
“As it so happens, I will not be staying here. I have told the Prince Regent that I will be accompanying you."
Darcy stared at his uncle. "But you are the Head Mage. Surely you cannot put yourself in that situation?"
"If Napoleon’s mages manage to land, the Academies will fall.” Matlock’s voice was harsh. “You are not the only one who is tired of the status quo. I, too, am tired of waiting. I would rather go and meet the enemy head on than cower here, waiting for the roof to fall in again."
Elizabeth paced up and down in the practice room. She had dismissed her apprentices early, too distracted to focus on performing magic. Instead, she had decided to perform some ofthe warming exercises in the hope it would help her think more clearly. So far, it had not. She had yet to work out how she was going to respond to Darcy if the Council gave its permission, and it was drawing closer to four o’clock.
Then suddenly, it was too late. There was a sharp rap on the door, and Darcy strode in.
One look at his face told her everything. His jaw was clenched, and his hands were scrunched into fists. He carried himself with the air of someone who had suffered a serious blow.
He stared at her from across the room, his expression saying it all.
"They turned you down."
He did not answer at first. Instead, he went to the leather armchair at the corner of the room and threw himself down onto it. He rubbed the back of his neck, then dropped his head back, crossed his arms across his body and stared up at the ceiling.
