Chapter 48 Soaring
SOARING
LIZZY
I felt the dagger’s influence break. Fènnù’s mind came free—still damaged, still seeking for me, but calming as the dagger’s commands for violence faded.
Yuánchi and I flew past Darcy’s soldiers on the shore. They were a blur. We circled the lake twice more while I tried to get a better glimpse. But my vision darkened until I could barely tell water from land.
Even whipped by the cold air, my face and neck were burning and slick with perspiration. And I was burned more truly. Splashes of black breath had penetrated Yuánchi’s shield through tears in his wings. Ragged holes were cut in my clothes, the skin beneath blistering.
Elizabeth Darcy Bennet. I must go into the deep.
I know.
Our senses were merged. I felt his unimaginable strength, at last exhausted. I felt the wind on his shredded wings. Drops of golden blood trailed in the air like a rain of jewels. At least his pain was no burden. My own illness outshone it.
That harmony made my choice easy. I am coming with you.
That is human foolishness. Return to your life.
My life is finished. Darcy told me not to say goodbye. I wish him to remember me as I was then, not nurse me through a handful of wretched hours.
Yuánchi did not reply. Silently, we glided around a quarter of the lakeshore.
I leaned closer, touching my cheek to one of the smooth, scarlet knobs on his neck. We saved England together. Perhaps it will not fade like a dream. Perhaps you will wake and find it flourishing.
The stone beach by the cave passed below, a burning, vague glare.
I hugged his neck tight. Remember me.
EMMA
Again, Yuánchi passed over us, so low that I saw Lizzy clearly.
Mr. Darcy shouted this time, waving hard, and Yuánchi turned at last, sweeping out over the center of the lake.
He soared up, higher and higher, then his wings folded around Lizzy like sheltering hands.
He fell, a scarlet spear, and vanished in a colossal tower of spray.
Horrified cries and exclamations came from the soldiers. Harriet was sitting on the rocks beside me, and she gasped, “No!”
Mr. Darcy rushed into the lake, tearing off his coat, throwing his boots aside. He plunged into the water and swam, his powerful strokes meeting the cresting wave rolling from Yuánchi’s fall.
Mr. Knightley had taken off his own coat, but he was looking around the shore. “He cannot swim that far. The water is freezing cold. Is there a boat?”
There was nothing, of course. Pemberley lake was pristine and natural. One of the soldiers set out after Mr. Darcy, but he returned after fifty feet, shivering and defeated.
Silently, we gathered at the shore edge, watching the long swim until Mr. Darcy reached the center of the lake. He dove and vanished. It seemed a full minute before his head appeared, alone. The soldiers swore when they saw that, and Harriet, propped up to stand with Mr. Knightley, began to sob.
Mr. Darcy dove again. I counted my breaths this time. There were a dozen before his head reappeared, alone.
“Call him back,” I said. Mr. Knightley waved and called, but Mr. Darcy dove again. Grief was tearing my heart, but again I counted breaths. Twenty. Thirty. Still nothing.
I felt in my reticule and found the precious tea for Nessy. I passed it to Harriet and said, “Keep that safe,” then I waded into the lake. The water was a shock, numbing my feet in a step. The shelf was shallow at first, then dropped. Twenty yards out, it lapped my chest, and my ribs clenched.
When Mr. Darcy’s head reemerged. I shouted and waved, and he began to swim back. I breathed a gasp of relief, and finally, tears of grief ran from my eyes.
He splashed up beside me and stood, the water high on his waist. He bent in two, gasping, staggering in the water while he fought for air. His hands were blue, his arms shaking. He lost his balance and fell, choking, submerged.
I caught his arm, pulling him up. “Come to shore. There is nothing more to do.”
The water trembled as Fènnù swept over us. She crossed the center of the lake, her wingstrokes slow as a dirge. She turned at the far shore and crossed a second time, then a third. A mournful call sounded, then she drove upward and away, rising toward the farthest hills.
Mr. Darcy was staring at me with mad eyes, water streaming from his soaked hair. “The waters of Pemberley are a curse. They took my mother. They take my wyfe.”
“Come back,” I said. “I implore you.”
I reached for him, but he pushed me away, then turned to the depths of the lake and cried, “Here lies Elizabeth, my Juliet, and her brilliance makes this tomb a brave arena full of wit. My love, my wyfe, why art thou sunk so far? Shall I believe that red and greedy dragon binds thee here in dark to be his paramour?” He waded deeper.
“For fear of that I stay with thee, and never from his grasping lair, depart again. Here, here, will I drown my bitter loss.”
I was struggling to catch him, and finally I caught his sleeve.
“Mr. Darcy. Stop.” He strode on, pulling me behind him.
My toes scrambled on the slippery rocks as the water reached my chin, then the bottom fell away and my full head ducked, my soaked clothes dragging me down.
I floundered, fighting panic, unsure even where the surface was.
I had never been in water deeper than my shoulders.
A pair of hands seized my waist. Desperate, I grabbed around Mr. Darcy’s neck and hung, coughing, while he waded into shallower water. Then, gently but insistently, he pushed me to arm’s length.
“You cannot do this,” I gasped. My body was shuddering uncontrollably.
“You have a sister to protect. Do not abandon her. There is nothing worse than being abandoned.” He watched me steadily, then backed toward the depths.
I cried, “Your mother’s wyvern promised I would save a third life today.
Do you not see? It is you I am to save!”
He stopped, his eyes amazed.
Water sloshed as Mr. Knightley splashed up beside me. His arm steadied mine, and when the heat of his fingers sent a tremor through my frame, he pulled me against his side. It was like leaning against a gloriously warm stove.
He extended his hand to Mr. Darcy. “The lady is cold. We should accompany her to shore. Please.”
Mr. Knightley waited, his offered hand steady, neither demanding nor conceding. Mr. Darcy’s wondering, pained gaze found me again, then he gripped Mr. Knightley’s hand, and we waded back.
Ashore, the soldiers shed their coats and waistcoats, toweling the cold water off us. They wrapped me in layer after layer. Under it all, I hugged my gloved hands, counting by touch the soggy lines of lace.
Mr. Knightley, his wet coat discarded, approached Mr. Darcy. Wordlessly, he offered the sheathed dagger.
Mr. Darcy drew the black blade, weighed it once in his palm, then turned and threw it—a tremendous, violent, savage throw. The dagger spun, glinting and soaring through the air before it plunked into the water, distant and deep.