She bent over him again, unable to bear the distance even of inches. Her fingers twisted into the wool of his coat as though she might drive life back into his chest by force alone. The fabric was sticky and slippery with blood. She did not care.
“Love…” The word fractured in her throat. She swallowed and tried again, her mouth brushing his temple, his cheek, the cold edge of his brow. “Love never fails. And neither did he.”
Her voice broke entirely. She pressed her lips to his mouth, lingering there, as if warmth might pass from her into him by sheer persistence. One hand slid to cradle his face, her thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone, the hollow beneath it, the place just before his ear where his pulse had once answered her own.
“Darcy! Do not leave me, my love.”
No one moved now. No horse cried out. Even Lady Catherine’s voice had fallen silent somewhere beyond the edge of Elizabeth’s awareness. The air seemed emptied of motion, emptied of sound.
And Darcy lay utterly still.
Elizabeth did not move. She did not lift her head. She could not endure to look upon his face and see nothing answer her.
But there, beneath her cheek…
Something shifted.
For one suspended instant, she did not lift her head. She did not dare. The world had already taken too much; she would not be made a fool of by hope. Her palm lay flat against his chest, fingers splayed over the torn cloth and his dear form. The air seemed to thin around her.
There.
A tremor.
So slight she thought at first it was only her own trembling. She lifted her head, stared at his chest. Surely not. No! It was only her longing, her agony and tortured imagination that—
Another pulse. Her breath caught—not in shock, but in refusal. She pressed harder, as though she could compel truth from stillness by force alone.
“Darcy?” The word scarcely formed.
Nothing.
She bent closer, her lips brushing the hollow of his throat, where the thorn had pierced deepest. Her tears fell there, warm against cooling skin.
And then his chest rose.
Not fully. Not cleanly. It hitched—as though some unseen weight resisted the motion—and fell again.
Elizabeth recoiled this time, a broken sound escaping her before she could contain it. She clutched at his coat, fingers digging into wool damp with blood as she caught him, tugged his heavy frame upwards.
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head as if to ward off illusion. Her hand flew back to his chest. “No—do not mock me! Can it be true?”
Again. A breath, dragged in as though through bramble and ash. Uneven. Painful. Real.
Harrowe pushed to her side, drawing Anne away and bending over Darcy’s body. She saw him only dimly at the edge of her vision, kneeling, one broad hand hovering uncertainly over Darcy’s shoulder as though even he feared to interfere.
Elizabeth cupped Darcy’s face between her hands. His skin, though pale, no longer held the chill of death. There was colour—faint, stubborn—gathering again at his mouth.
“Fitzwilliam Darcy,” she breathed, the name trembling from her. “Do you hear me?”
His lashes flickered.
Not the full sweep of awakening. A twitch. A struggle.
She pressed her forehead to his. “You chose this,” she whispered, her voice breaking anew. “You foolish, noble man—you chose it. And you were right. Now come back to me!”
His brow furrowed faintly, as though in distant confusion. His lips parted.
Another breath.
