Whatever had transpired in the intervening weeks, this child, man, this spirit now before him was that Harry. Until this moment, Darcy had not believed he existed any longer. And once again, Harry was depending on him.
The young Harry jerked as if tugged. "The mirror! It pulls me back!"
Before Darcy could respond, Elizabeth tore herself away and fled to the bed. "Fight it, Harry! Fight it." She extended her hand to grab his. Harry reached toward her. But her fingers closed around air, and the little boy was gone.
"Oh!" Elizabeth took a shaky breath and stared at her empty hand. "Oh, Harry…" She choked back a sob.
Darcy approached from behind. He put his hands on her shoulders. He consoled her thus — consoled himself — a moment, then bent his head to her ear.
"Give me the amulet."
She turned, her face full of confusion. Her hand went to the silver watch that hung round her neck, her fingers brushing the symbols engraved upon it. She looked at him searchingly.
"The amulet? Why?"
He gazed into her eyes, which held the only reflection him that mattered. He reached for the chain and gently lifted over her head. Then he slipped it around his own neck.
"Professor Randolph," he said, his eyes never leaving his wife. "Tell me more about this idea of a 'false exchange.'" |
Thirty
The very circumstance, in it's unpleasantest form, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen on them.
— Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 35
Elizabeth held her breath as Darcy walked lo the Mirror of Narcissus. She would not look directly at the glass—'twas especially reckless to do so now that she no longer wore the amulet — but she would not take her gaze off Darcy if Hades himself sprang from the mirror.
"You are certain?" Professor Randolph asked.
Darcy nodded.
"Bear in mind that the amulet lends some protection but does not make you impervious."
His lips crooked into a wry half-smile. She knew he doubted the silver watch possessed any powers of protection at all. "I understand."
"All right, then. Help me move Mr. Dashwood's body to the foot of the mirror."
The two men lifted Harry's huddled form and sat it upright in front of the glass. Still stiff with cold, the body held its position.
Dashwood hugged his legs; his forehead rested on his knees.
"Stand behind Harry's body so that when his spirit emerges
from the glass, his own shell is the first available receptacle he encounters, and he enters it instead of attempting lo enter yours."
"Harry would not steal Darcy's form." Elizabeth asserted.
"Perhaps not intentionally," said Randolph "But he may have little or no ability to control the transfer. Remember — we actually know very little about the mirror's workings. Most of this is conjecture."
Rather than remember that uncertainty, she wanted to forget it. Just now she shared Darcy's preference for hard facts and indisputable truths. She wanted a detailed chronology of every incident that was about to unfold, with annotations, illustrations and an index. She wanted a guaranteed outcome, assurance that, when this ordeal ended, Darcy would still be Darcy — safe, and whole, and hers.
She knew Darcy was not nearly as concerned. He thought his skepticism would grant him immunity to whatever power the mirror might indeed hold. If Elizabeth's willingness to believe enabled her to see into the glass, his disbelief would protect him from its hazards. Or so he had assured her. She prayed he was right, that his trust in his own invulnerability would not
prove misplaced. That on this day. at least, pride would not go before a fall.
Darcy moved into position. He stood about three feet from the mirror, just behind Harry's curled form. He turned to Elizabeth and regarded her as if committing to memory every nuance of her countenance "Naught will happen to me," he insisted once again. "I am not about to become trapped in the glass."
"Take care that you don't." She tried to smile. "It does not match the decor at Pemberley."
He held her gaze a moment longer before Professor Randolph coughed self-conscousiy.
"Shall we begin?"
Darcy nodded and turned to face the professor. Randolph took up his position at the mirror's side and moved the artifact slightly away from the wall.
"As we discussed, when the moment of transference approaches, I shall tilt the mirror toward Mr. Dashwood's body on the floor to further focus his spirit's destination," he said. "For now, however, I'll hold it upright. Gaze into the mirror whenever you're ready."
Darcy looked into it immediately. His stance was relaxed, his expression calm — just now he seemed more unflappable than Beau Brummell himself. Merely an ordinary English gentleman looking into an ordinary glass.
"What do you see in the mirror?" Randolph asked
"Myself"
"Harry?"
"Only the one at my feet."
Elizabeth could discern Harry moving in the glass, his still-childlike image crossing that of Darcy. One moment Darcy stood out more strongly, the next, Harry did. 'Twas frustrating to observe by indirection. She kept her gaze on Darcy — the real Darcy.
"Do you see anyone or anything else?"
"Elizabeth."
"Of course! I had not considered that the glass would capture the whole room, depending upon the angle of the viewer. Mrs. Darcy, come stand on the other side of the mirror. You can help me hold it."
She repositioned herself so that she flanked the glass along with Professor Randolph. Though she gripped the frame, he supported most of the mirror's weight. From her present angle, she could no longer see images in the glass at all.
"Mr Darcy, do your best to block us from your thoughts and focus only on your own reflection. As you look into the glass, hold in your mind an image of yourself as you would like others to see you. The mirror should respond by reflecting that image back at you."
"Must it be an image different from what I see now?"
"I believe so. The mirror preys upon those who are discontent with themselves."
"But I am not discontent."
"Everybody wants something, Mr Darcy."
Thunder rumbled outside. The rain fell harder, its patter the only sound in the room.
Darcy gazed into the mirror. Elizabeth wondered what image he had conjured, what desire as yet went unfulfilled.
"Concentrate on that ideal," Randolph said. "Allow yearning for it to envelop you. It will shimmer and tease; it will offer tantalizing vision of what was or could be. Let it tempt you."
The drumming of the rain increased, competing in volume with the sound of Elizabeth's own breathing. Tension raised the temperature of the room. She wanted to open a window, to admit cool mist and fresh air.
Darcy did as the professor bade. His expression at first exhibited his natural resistance, but the longer he gazed into the mirror, the more he yielded. She wondered again what vision held him transfixed.
"Let the image lure you. Let it whisper its promises."
She grew warmer. Her muslin dress stuck to her chest and back. Moisture beaded her upper lip She longed to wipe it away, but held still lest she distract Darcy. He appeared warm as well; damp locks clung to his forehead But he seemed oblivious to discomfort.
The rain cascaded now. pounding on the cobblestones and splattering the windows. Gusts of wind shook the panes of glass that revealed a sky as black as night. The candles flickered, their dim offering barely sufficient to combat the darkness. Shadows skipped like dark elves in the corners of her
vision. Illusory representations of her own foreboding.
"The image will beckon. Answer its call — but for only a moment."
The room grew unbearably hot. Droplets ran down her temples. She wiped her brow — she could not help herself; it was either that or be blinded by her own perspiration. The movement went unnoticed by Darcy. The mirror held him completely in thrall. At his feet. Mr Dashwood's body slumped over. Thawed by the
intense heat, it now lay on its side in a state of repose.
The wind howled, and a huge thunderclap shook the house. The candles sputtered and died, but a glow brightened the room. It came from the mirror.
The glow illuminated Darcy, curling around his contours, blazing every muscle and sinew. It danced across him, bathing him, caressing him, dancing and wavering like—
Flames.
A powerful sensation of evil assailed her with such force that she nearly collapsed under its magnitude. She let go of the frame and staggered forward, weaving to the side lo avoid tripping over Mr. Dashwood's body. The mirror tugged at her hand, inviting — directing — demanding that she look. She need only turn her head.
She turned.
Mr Dashwood. still bearing the image of a child, clawed the glass in silhouette. The fires of hell were behind him.
She looked to Darcy. He remained enthralled, transfixed by something she could not see.
"Mrs. Darcy, stand back!'' Professor Randolph cried. He spread his feet wide and began to tilt the mirror.
Thunder boomed. The room was so hot she could hardly breathe.
Darcy shifted. Or appeared to. Then she realized he had not moved at all, but had developed a double profile. The narrow gap between outlines slowly widened, the fainter one moving toward the glass.
It was Darcy's soul.
Why did Darcy himself not move? It was time! He must break contact now, or the false exchange would become true.
The gap increased. The Mirror of Narcissus summoned, demanding its tithe. But she'd be damned before she allowed it to take Darcy s soul. That belonged to God. And to her.
With a cry, she hurled herself against her husband, knocking him to the floor. She held him, and her breath, while she wailed in agonizing helplessness to see whether she also held his spirit. Its outline remained separated from that of his body for what seemed an eternity until, blessedly, they merged.
Darcy's gaze, however, found the glass once more and locked upon it.
"Darcy?" she shouted. "Darcy!"
She could not command his attention, nor, she discovered, could she physically turn his face from the glass. "Professor!"
Randolph abandoned his post. He pushed the mirror upright and rested it against the wall, where it continued to bathe the room in the glow of hell-fire. He rushed forward and dragged Darcy out of the mirror's range. She stood and tried to follow.
The mirror would not permit her.
It held her in its sight. Invisible claws raked her, rent her, trying to claim her soul for the one she had denied. She felt a tear, a grasp, as the mirror prepared to consume her spirit. The flames leapt in anticipation of their feast.
Still on the floor. Darcy pushed himself to a sitting position. He moved groggily, as if awakening from slumber. She could not even see his face. With a swift prayer that this would not be her last vision of him in this lifetime, she steeled herself against the mirror's imminent pull.
She felt its grip — strong, overpowering, cold for all the heat of its fire. Then, suddenly, it released her.
The wails of every soul the Mirror of Narcissus had ever held flooded the air, centuries of tormented shrieks and cries that had gone unheard in their glass prison. The flames burned blue, then black. Mr. Dashwood's image had disappeared, no doubt consumed by the raging inferno.
The mirror's surface wavered, losing solidity, threatening to send molten glass oozing across the floor. The wails grew so loud she had to cover her ears or go mad. As they reached a crescendo, a mighty roar sounded. The mirror shook violently, Elizabeth feared it would come away from the wall and topple over to crush her. But it did not.
It imploded.
Thirty-One
"Thank heaven you are what you always were."
— Marianne Dashwood to Edward Ferrars,
Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 35
The sudden silence was almost more disturbing than the howls of the damned.
Only the sound of the rain, falling gently once more, penetrated the stillness. No one spoke. No one moved. All simply stared at an empty gold frame. The glass had collapsed in on itself, disappearing into whatever plane of hell it had occupied and leaving nothing but a tarnished shell behind.
Elizabeth shuddered — from horror or chill, she knew not. Probably both. The room had returned to a normal temperature, leaving her cold in her perspiration-drenched gown. Darcy came to her. He pulled her into his arms and held her tightly enough to assure her that he was, indeed, her Darcy—
unscarred, if not untouched, by their ordeal. His whispered enquiries and her murmured responses reassured him of her own wholeness.
Though the dimness of the room granted them partial privacy they soon grew conscious of their audience and separated.
Professor Randolph had crossed to the table, where he was actually taking his time relighting the candelabrum. When he finished his task, the tapers emitted a gentle glow, comforting in contrast to the blaze just extinguished.
Randolph assessed them. "You both appear all right."
"We are," Darcy confirmed.
"Then I think we must consider the end result of this enterprise a success, even if we failed to rescue Mr. Dashwood."
Dread washed over Elizabeth at the mention of Harry. She glanced at his body, still lying on the floor. "Is he lost forever?"
"The mirror is destroyed. I can only assume that his spirit perished along with it"
She swallowed a lump in her throat. Sadness settled upon her as she thought of the lost potential Harry's death represented, how extraordinarily unfair it was, that he should have the simple pleasures of one life stolen from him, so that Sir Francis could indulge in the guilty pleasures of a second.
Darcy, noting her distress, touched her cheek. "Perhaps instead of being destroyed along with the mirror, his spirit found rest."
She released a heavy sigh and turned to look at Harry's body once more. "I shall hold out hope of that."
Viewing Mr. Dashwood now. she could believe he had, indeed, somehow found rest. He posed as if in slumber, his limbs having fallen into more natural positions when his body thawed. He lay on his side, his knees slightly bent, his left arm tucked under him and his right gently draped. She imagined his chest lightly rising and lulling in the steady rhythm of sleep.
She caught her own breath. 'Twas not her imagination.
"Darcy, Mr. Dashwood is breathing."
Incredulous, they all gathered round Mr. Dashwood's form.
Elizabeth extended her hand, but Darcy captured it and instead felt Mr. Dashwood's chest himself.
"His heart beats, and he is as warm as you or I."
She pressed Darcy's hand at the news but hesitated to celebrate. She raised her gaze to Professor Randolph. "Is he Harry — or Sir Francis?"
"Harry." Mr Dashwood murmured
His eyes opened. He slowly rolled to his back and blinked trying to focus his gaze as it shifted among the three of them.
"I'm afraid I've been a neglectful host today." he said. His voice was feeble, but he sounded more like himself than he had in weeks. "Do forgive me — I've been away for a while."
The rain had ceased, and a ray of evening sunlight slanted through the window. Elizabeth smiled.
"It is good to have you back. Mr Dashwood."
A quarter hour saw Harry sufficiently recovered to transfer from the floor to a chair, and another quarter hour beyond that brought his request to remove from the chamber altogether.
Though only the mirror's frame remained, the sight of it distressed him far more than the exertion of changing rooms. His own chamber having also been the scene of unpleasant memories, Mr. Dashwood chose to relocate to the drawing room.
They assisted him downstairs, where they found most of the servants milling around, speculating about what had transpired above. Elizabeth supposed a little cunosity was the natural result of all the waiting and roaring they must have heard issuing from the spare bedchamber. At the sight of Mr. Dashwo
od — whom they had last seen stone-cold dead — all gasped, a few crossed themselves, and one maid fainted.
"Mr Dashwood has recovered from his indisposition." Elizabeth announced.
The four of them ignored the servants' bewildered gazes and continued to the drawing room, where they settled Harry in a comfortable chair. Mr Dashwood's ordeal had left him weak but he showed signs of steady improvement In fact. Elizabeth thought his visage already looked better than it had when she'd spoken to Sir Francis. Confident that some nourishment
would further speed his revival, Elizabeth called lor a light supper to be brought up.
Shall I also send for something fortifying to drink?" she asked Harry. "Wine, perhaps?"
Mr. Dashwood gnmaced. "Tea. I think in recent weeks this body has taken in quite enough spints, in every sense of the word."
The tea arrived first. Its delivery required two maids — one to carry the tray, the other to look busy while casting furtive glances at Mr Dashwood.
"Will your servants speak of this outside the house?" Darcy said when they departed.
"They are not my servants. Sir Francis replaced my staff with his own, and paid them well to keep silent about anything they might observe. Startling as my apparent resurrection is, I'm afraid it's not the most shocking thing that has taken place this house."
Elizabeth poured tea and placed the first cup in Mr. Dashwood's hands. Then, still feeling a bit indisposed herself after her ordeal, she poured a cup of her own and swallowed a sip.
"What did happen?" she asked. "I know what you revealed to me when I discovered you in the glass yesterday—" Good heavens, had that been only yesterday? "But all the rest?"
A shadow passed across his countenance, and she immediately regretted the query. "Do not speak of it, if doing so will cause you distress." she hastened to add.
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