Jane picked up her pen and dipped it in ink that had nearly dried, adding nothing but needing the familiar motion to calm her racing thoughts.Ambergris braised in honey.She had obtained the ambergris through one of her uncle’s spice merchants, the pea-sized lump arriving wrapped in oiled paper that reeked of the sea, her uncle assuring her the merchant would not dare pass off a fake, not for the price they had paid. Over half of Jane’s long-hoarded savings.Spirits of wine well-rectified. The apothecary on Cheapside had provided that without question when she claimed it was for making perfume.Pearl powder. She had bought a single pearl earring, its mate presumably lost, from a pawnbroker and ground it herself with pestle and mortar.
Saffron, grains of paradise, lemon balm, lavender water.All accounted for, all sitting in careful packets and vials in a satchel that never left her side, waiting to be combined into the potion that would reverse Anne’s wicked spell. Even the hair. Jane had managed to trim a lock from the impostor Elizabeth’s head just that morning, claiming she wanted to try a new style for the wedding. The false Elizabeth had submitted with surprising docility, apparently unconcerned about a few snippedcurls. That hair now rested in a twist of paper among the other ingredients, dark and glossy and completely wrong.
But the bezoar. The bezoar remained impossibly distant, locked away in collectors’ cabinets or hoarded by physicians who valued its supposed medicinal properties. Her uncle had never heard of such a thing when she first mentioned it, and his enquiries had turned up nothing useful. One contact claimed to have seen a bezoar years ago in an East India Company auction, sold for more money than Mr. Gardiner earned in six months. Another remembered a Persian trader who dealt in exotic curiosities, but the man had left London five years past.
Jane’s throat tightened with despair.Three days. Anne de Bourgh had three days before she became Mrs. Darcy in truth, bound by vows spoken while wearing stolen flesh, putting the situation beyond easy reversal even if they did manage to get Elizabeth her own body back. Three days to find an ingredient that might not exist in all of London, to brew a potion that required hours of careful preparation, to somehow convince Anne to drink it simultaneously with Elizabeth when they would not even be in the same location until the wedding itself.
The study door opened with a soft creak that made Jane start violently, her hand knocking against the inkwell and nearly overturning it. She caught the glass container before it could spill, her heart hammering as she looked up to see her uncle standing in the doorway. Mr. Gardiner carried a candle that illuminated his face from below, creating shadows that emphasised his concern.
“Jane,” he said, his voice gentle. “My dear girl, it is well past midnight. What are you doing still awake?”
Jane shifted slightly, letting her body block his view of the cramped handwriting and disturbing illustrations. “I could not sleep, Uncle. I thought I might work on the final preparations for Elizabeth’s wedding gift.”
Mr. Gardiner moved into the room, setting his candle on the desk beside hers. His gaze took in her exhausted face, the papers scattered across the desktop, the list with its ominous unmarked entry. He picked up the foolscap and read it with eyebrows drawing together.
“These are very strange items for a wedding gift,” he observed. “What manner of present requires such exotic ingredients?”
“A good-luck charm,” Jane said, the lie emerging more smoothly than it should have. She had practiced this explanation, had prepared for questions. “An old family recipe from the Bennet side. It is meant to bring prosperity and happiness to a new marriage. I thought it would please her to have something from home, something made with care rather than simply purchased.”
Mr. Gardiner’s expression softened, though doubt lingered in his eyes. He set down the list and patted Jane’s shoulder with affection that made guilt twist in her stomach. “That is very thoughtful of you, my dear. Elizabeth is fortunate to have such a devoted sister. But this bezoar. My enquiries have turned up nothing useful. Perhaps you might substitute something else? Surely the charm would work just as well without this one ingredient.”
“No,” Jane said, desperation leaking into her voice. “It must be complete. The recipe requires all the ingredients, or it will not work properly. Uncle, is there no one else you might ask? No other merchant who deals in rare curiosities?”
Mr. Gardiner shook his head, sympathy mixed with gentle scepticism. “I am afraid not, my dear. And even if I could find such a thing, the cost would be prohibitive. I cannot justify such expense for what is essentially silly superstitious nonsense, however well-intentioned.”
The words struck Jane like physical blows.Silly superstitious nonsense.If only he knew the truth, knew that his niece’s verylife depended on obtaining this impossible ingredient. But she could not tell him. Could not explain that Elizabeth was trapped in a dying body while an impostor prepared to marry Mr. Darcy. He would think her mad.
“Of course,” Jane managed, forcing her voice to remain steady. “You are quite right, Uncle. I shall manage without it somehow.”
Mr. Gardiner squeezed her shoulder again, clearly relieved. “That is my sensible girl. Now, you must get some rest. The wedding is only three days away, and you will want to look your best for the ceremony. Lizzy needs your support, not your exhaustion.”
He collected his candle and moved towards the door, pausing to look back. “Please, Jane. Go to bed. Whatever this charm may be, it can wait until morning.”
“Yes, Uncle,” Jane said, though she had no intention of leaving the study any time soon. “I will retire shortly.”
Mr. Gardiner nodded and left, pulling the door closed behind him with a soft click. Jane remained frozen in her chair, staring at the grimoire without really seeing it. The clock ticked with relentless rhythm, each sound marking another second lost, another moment closer to the wedding that would seal Elizabeth’s fate.
Jane slumped forwards, resting her forehead on her crossed arms. The wood felt cool against her fevered skin. Three days. And she had no idea how to obtain the final ingredient that could save her sister.
The clock ticked on, indifferent to her despair. Jane listened to its steady rhythm and felt tears gather hot behind her closed eyelids. She had tried so hard, had worked so carefully to collect everything the potion required. But hard work and careful planning meant nothing when faced with an impossible obstacle.
Three days until the wedding. Three days until Anne completed her triumph and left for Derbyshire with Darcy, closing their window of opportunity.
Three days, until Elizabeth would be doomed to die in a failing body, unless Jane could do this one, apparently impossible thing.
Jane had no idea what to do next.
The afternoon sun slanted through the Gardiners’ parlour windows, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazy and unconcerned. Jane sat in the chair by the fire, her hands folded in her lap with fingers that would not quite stay still, a book open on the table beside her that she had not managed to read a single page of in the past hour. When the maid announced Colonel Fitzwilliam, Jane’s first response was confusion.
She rose with movements that felt disconnected from her intentions. The Colonel entered with his usual easy manner, though his smile faltered when his gaze landed on her face. Jane became suddenly aware of how she must appear. The looking glass had shown shadows beneath her eyes that no amount of cold water could diminish, and her hands had trembled while pinning up her hair.
“Miss Bennet,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, executing a bow that seemed more concerned than formal. “Forgive my calling without prior arrangement. I hoped to find Miss Elizabeth at home.”
“She is out shopping with my mother and aunt,” Jane replied, hearing the weariness in her own voice. “They have gone to BondStreet to purchase wedding clothes. I expect them back within the hour, if you would care to wait.”
The Colonel moved further into the room, declining the chair she gestured towards in favour of standing near enough that his attention felt almost uncomfortably focused. His eyes searched her face with the same perceptiveness she had noticed during their brief acquaintance in Kent.
“Miss Bennet,” he said again, his tone carrying genuine worry. “Forgive my frankness, but you seem troubled. Are you quite well?”
