CHAPTER SEVEN
Darcy, Elizabeth later learnt from Mrs Reynolds, had spent the remainder of that day closeted in the lesser library, emerging only briefly for a solitary dinner.
She supposed he must have been occupied in either brooding over fresh insults or mending the considerable damage done to his window.
Perhaps he had found a way to attend to both tasks at once.
The next two days passed without incident.
Darcy made no further attempts at training, whether from a sense of futility or a reluctance to provoke another destructive outburst, Elizabeth could not be certain.
He made no demand on her time, and his silent withdrawal granted Elizabeth a space for reflection.
She was his wife, his to command by every law of the land, and bound to him by a magic even more absolute. He could have exercised his authority over her, could have ordered her to present herself in the library each morning to continue. A lesser man might have. Yet he did not.
Gradually, Elizabeth had to own that Darcy did not appear to be the sort of man who would abuse his power; he would scorn, he would lecture, but he would not force.
This surprising lack of coercion, however, left the choice entirely in her hands, and Elizabeth was no more certain how she felt about attempting to master her magic again.
Thus she sought what refuge she could from the volatile world of magic in the orderly realm of her new duties.
She spent her afternoons bent over the household accounts, the neat figures a welcome contrast to the chaos of her magic.
She found a surprising comfort in her discussions with Mrs Reynolds, learning the rhythms of the great house, and wrote long, almost desperate letters to her family, a lifeline to a world that felt increasingly distant.
In these mundane tasks, she found a fragile foothold in a life that otherwise felt entirely beyond her command.
It was in this state when Brooks, in staid terms, announced an urgent summons.
“Mrs Darcy,” he said, “We have just received an imperative magical dispatch from the Arcane Office. Lord Magister Theron himself. The master bids you attend with him in the communications room.”
“If you would please show me there,” said Elizabeth, setting aside her correspondence and smoothing her morning dress.
The communications room was a small, windowless chamber. The air within hummed with a restless magical energy. In the centre of the room, a large, shallow, and exquisitely crafted basin, filled with what looked like ordinary water, rested on a carved stone pedestal.
Darcy, who had been staring with bleak intensity at the inert silver basin, spun around with a sharp, almost startled movement as Brooks announced her.
He gave a bow, a gesture that spoke more of engrained habit than welcome.
“Thank you for attending, Mrs Darcy,” he said formally, “This summons undoubtedly concerns us both. I cannot imagine the Arcane Office is calling with glad tidings.”
No, indeed, Elizabeth thought, with apprehension. The use of scrying, of such direct, magically potent communication, expended significant magical resources. It was a tool reserved only for the most urgent of pronouncements, a prelude, almost invariably, to ill news or even graver demands.
She lifted her chin a fraction, determined to betray nothing of the discomfort that his mere presence, his nearness in this small chamber, still aroused within her.
“Fortunately for Pemberley, Mr Darcy,” she replied, “there are no windows in this particular room to shatter should the Office say something not to my liking.”
He looked as if he were about to say something, but before any words, however contemptuous, could be delivered, the surface of the water in the basin began to glow.
The still water roiled, then cleared, and the stern, imposing, and undeniably displeased face of Lord Magister Theron coalesced within its shimmering depths.
“Mr Darcy. Mrs Darcy,” his voice resonated from the basin, with only a slight watery distortion, “I trust you are both well. You can be in no doubt as to the reason for my call. We have received your latest letters, Mr Darcy, pithy though they were. You will update us now.”
Darcy inclined his head, his face composed into formal deference.
“My lord, as I have written, we have commenced our efforts to understand and integrate our respective magical abilities. Progress, however,” and here he paused, choosing his words with care, “has been incremental. We have needed to overcome several unexpected challenges.”
Elizabeth almost laughed aloud at his entirely understated assessment of their recent, disastrous efforts to work together. “Incremental” was a remarkably generous term.
Lord Magister Theron’s eyes narrowed as his gaze flicked from Darcy’s scrupulously composed face to Elizabeth’s own, which she hoped betrayed none of her entirely inappropriate amusement at the present situation, nor the inner turmoil and aching sense of inadequacy that still consumed her.
“Incremental, Mr Darcy?” he repeated, his voice a fraction colder than before, “There are reports reaching us from across the realm, from every county, detailing every failing ward, every despairing community. They do not speak of incremental progress, but of accelerating decay! The agricultural enchantments, upon which so much of this country depends on for sustenance, are failing catastrophically. The harvest forecasts for this year are dire. We will face famine.”
A distinct, uncomfortable sensation tightened in Elizabeth’s stomach.
“We are doing all that is within our power, my lord,” said Darcy.
“Are you?” came the hard demand.
Darcy glanced away. It appeared deceit was not one of his abilities.
“We have not,” Elizabeth confessed, “but that is through no fault of Mr Darcy. My magic has proven unresponsive to — ”
He raised a hand. “I have been apprised of your difficulties in this area, Mrs Darcy. That is not the point of my call today. We do not have time. You must, with the greatest of urgency, form the Concordance. The wedding ceremony alone was not sufficient. The texts speak of the absolutely necessity for a true union between the chosen pair, in order for their disparate magics to fully become one. You must become more than the sum of the individual.”
A deeply uncomfortable silence fell in the room. Elizabeth felt heat creep up her neck as she absorbed the Lord Magister’s implication.
A true union.
Darcy’s face became stony. There was a faint flush on his high cheekbones. He was as discomfited by this turn in the conversation as she was.
“The texts also speak of the necessity of shared will,” he said at last, his voice carefully, almost painfully, controlled, “The texts speak of focused, unified intent. Of a mutual understanding of the arcane principles involved. We are concentrating our current efforts on achieving those goals, what I believe to be an essential, foundational alignment.”
“Shared will often follows shared experience, Mr Darcy,” Lord Magister Theron replied severely, his gaze, even its ethereal form, unyielding. “The Concordance is not only a matter of shared arcane understanding. It demands a merging of spirits that often requires…a catalyst.”
Elizabeth, feeling her face burn with a mixture of embarrassment and indignant anger at the Lord Magister’s indelicate words, decided that if he was to breach the bounds of decorum, she would not grant him the comfort of quiet mortification.
“My lord,” she said, her voice revealing nothing of the sudden tightness in her chest, “Please forgive my want of understanding, but does your counsel pertain to matters of arcane theory or do you speak of another matter entirely?”
A strangled note of protest caught in Darcy’s throat, which he quickly, if unconvincingly, turned it into a cough. He opened his mouth as if to interject, but seemed to find no words equal to the occasion.
“Upon my word, madam!” exclaimed the Lord Magister, his eyebrows rising in astonishment, “You speak very decidedly for so young a person.”
Elizabeth summoned her most convincing, if entirely feigned, impression of Lydia’s wide-eyed, artless innocence as she met his gaze. “I merely seek clarity. In an undertaking of this magnitude, it is essential, is it not, that there be no room for misinterpretation?”
In truth, a nauseating feeling was coiling in the pit of her stomach. Her outward composure hung by a thread. She was not at all certain how much further she could press this vulgar act. Her innards were already quaking.
Thankfully, before she was forced to either escalate her dangerous gambit or retreat in defeat, Darcy intervened, a note of strained diplomacy in his voice.
“Mrs Darcy has a deeper appreciation for the…philosophical underpinnings of the Concordance, my lord. But I can assure you, the broader implications of your directive have not escaped us.”
“In which case, I expect a more encouraging report from Pemberley, and soon,” came the Lord Magister’s uncompromising reply.
With that parting shot, the stern face faded from the waters of the basin, leaving only a wispy, lingering scent of ozone.
“Good God, Elizabeth,” Darcy said, his voice filled with stunned disbelief, edged with an inflection she could only interpret as distaste. “That was the Lord Magister.”
“I am certain you regret extending me an invitation to join this call,” Elizabeth replied unapologetically, though her heart was still racing from the confrontation.
The corner of Darcy’s mouth twitched, a movement so fleeting she almost missed it. He immediately pressed his lips into a thin, hard line, as if fighting back a more severe expression.