Mr and Mrs Darcy 02 Suspense & Sensibility (34 page)

Or
perhaps requiem. Mr. Dashwood's balled-up body lay on its side on the bed, his
face toward the mirror. Darcy watched Elizabeth's countenance. He expected her
first sight of the corpse to disturb her, but she only regarded it sadly.
Poor Mr Dashwood," she said.
"Even if we succeed, he will never be the same."

Indeed,
at one-and-twenty, Harry would inhabit a body he would not have had until his mid-fifties,
and a very roughly lived one at that.

"It
is not a form I would wish to bear at this time of life," Darcy admitted.

"But
it is life," she said.

Professor
Randolph entered with a lit candelabrum and the portrait of Harry. The candles
he set on a side table, where their flickering glow illuminated the room just
enough to keep their party from stumbling in the dark as the sky rumbled
outside.

He shut the door. "Are we ready?"

Elizabeth
continued to gaze at the lifeless form on the bed. "Let us proceed."

"I'm
sure I need not remind either of you to avoid looking directly into the
glass," said Randolph. "Mrs. Darcy, do you still wear the
amulet?"
"Yes."

"Can
you see Harry in your peripheral vision?"

"Yes.
He is trying to get my attention again."

Darcy
interposed himself between her and the mirror. He did not want Elizabeth
glancing into the glass again, accidentally or intentionally. Nor did he want
her close to the artifact if anything unusual did happen. Not that anything
would.

"Mr.
Darcy, can you perceive Harry?"

He
stole sideways glances at the mirror, but detected nothing but an
ordinary-looking glass. "No," he said. And the fact troubled him.
What he could not see, he could not defend against.

"Nor
can I," said Randolph. He walked to the bed and propped the portrait
against Mr. Dashwood's body so that the likeness faced the mirror.
"What is Mr. Dashwood doing now. Mrs Darcy?"

She
leaned backward, trying to see around Darcy while using her side vision to
answer the professors question. Darcy knew he was making her job difficult, but
he felt better standing between her and the glass.

"He
is staring at his body on the bed.'

''I
would, too.' Randolph said. "Probably quite a shock, seeing oneself
displayed in such a state. Can he hear me?"

"I
think so."

"Good."
He crossed to the mirror and stood beside it, offering a three-quarters
profile. "Mr. Dashwood. we are going to try to release you from the glass.
I would like you to concentrate very hard on this portrait of yourself."

"He
is listening," Elizabeth said.

Randolph
nodded. "Mr. Dashwood. imagine yourself as that child again. Before all
this happened. Before the weight of worldly cares settled upon you. You are
that child. Those are your innocent eyes. Those are your soft curls..."

Randolph
continued in a slow, soothing voice, weaving mesmerizing words until Darcy was
almost ready to believe he was the boy in the portrait.

"Now.
Mr. Dashwood. 1 would like you to step out of the glass and into your body
there on the bed."

Darcy
fought the urge to look at the mirror and see whether anyone emerged. He suspected
the temptation was worse for Elizabeth. He took her hand and gripped it, willing
her to look at him instead. Their gazes met.

And then, from the comer of his eye, he saw a
small figure dart across the room.

It
was the boy Harry--the child of the portrait. Or rather, the ghost of a boy.
Darcy could at once see him and see through him as he climbed onto the bed. The
bed did not respond to his movement. He added no weight; he made no impression
on the counterpane.

The
child crawled to his lifeless adult body and threw himself over it. He lay on
top. He pushed himself down. He passed through it and out. He tried again.

And
again. Spirit and shell would not merge.

He
moaned, a wail of desperation and anguish "What do I do? He spoke in his
own voice, not a boy's. Yet the image was that of a tormented child, a little
boy in dire need of aid and protection. It was a sight heartbreaking to behold.

Randolph
raised his hands helplessly. "I do not know."

Harry
looked up at Darcy "Mr Darcy?" His round child-eyes regarded him
imploringly. "Can you help me?"

Darcy
was suddenly reminded of Harry at Norland, Harry as he had been just hours
before all these terrible events were set into motion. Harry had been a
fatherless boy seeking guidance as he matured and accepted his adult
responsibilities. He turned to Darcy then, just as he turned to Darcy now, and
Darcy had tried to teach him through example how a gentleman takes care of
those dependent upon him.

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.