Epilogue A Mortal Appetite
THE CARRIAGE STOPPED in front of the chapel shortly after three, its wheels breaking the frost which had hardened across the narrow approach.
Mr Bennet descended first and helped Jane and Charlotte alight before offering his hand to Elizabeth.
Her cream silk gown was concealed under a heavy cloak, but the hem still threatened to touch the frozen ground, and she had to gather it in her free hand while walking the short distance to the porch.
The chapel stood far apart from the house among bare yews, small enough that Mrs Bennet had spent years apologising for it and handsome enough that she now claimed it as the chief ornament of the estate.
Candles burned behind the windows. No other carriages were visible because Fletcher had directed Netherfield’s vehicles to the stables beyond the trees, where an early guest could not wonder why the groom and his household had arrived an hour before the ceremony.
Charlotte reached the door first. She knocked twice, paused, and knocked once more.
Mr Collins opened it.
He wore his clerical vestments over a black coat and carried no walking stick.
The absence ought not to have altered him so greatly, yet Elizabeth could no longer see him without remembering the stick driven through Mr Wickham’s heart and the blood concealed beneath borrowed linen.
His face was solemn, though the importance of presiding over two marriages in one afternoon had begun to inflate his chest.
“Everything is prepared.” He moved aside and extended one hand to the nave. “I have arranged the participants according to the requirements of the ritual, the Church, and propriety. Where those authorities differed, I exercised clerical judgement.”
Charlotte passed him. “You moved two chairs, Mr Collins.”
“They had been placed incorrectly.”
“You had placed them yourself!”
“I corrected my earlier interpretation,” he said sheepishly.
Mr Bennet removed his hat and turned to his daughters. “Engagement has improved your cousin already. He has discovered the value of revision.”
The door closed behind them, shutting out the freezing air.
Candles filled the chapel with subdued gold, their flames reflected in the candlesticks and the polished wood of the pews.
Evergreen branches and winter berries had been fixed along the ends of the benches for the public ceremony, and white cloth covered the pulpit.
Mrs Bennet’s largest candles were unlit, in obedience to her order that no one should enjoy the full effect before she arrived.
Mr Darcy waited near the chancel.
He wore a dark blue coat, a blue waistcoat, and an expression revealing that he had faced violent death more comfortably than his own wedding.
Mr Bingley stood beside him, prepared for either congratulations or physical support.
Mr Hurst was near the vestry door with Mrs Hurst, while Miss Bingley occupied the front pew, her gown arranged around her in precise folds.
Fletcher stood behind the rail holding the punch bowl under one arm and its ceremonial knife in his gloved hand.
Mr Darcy’s gaze found Elizabeth and remained there.
She released her cloak into Jane’s care, revealing her gown. For several seconds, no one moved. The lines of strain around Mr Darcy’s mouth eased, but the hunger in his expression had nothing to do with blood and affected her more deeply than the sight of his fangs ever had.
“You are already dressed,” he said.
Elizabeth glanced down at the cream silk. “Well, they are my weddings. I understood that clothing would be expected for both ceremonies.”
“I had not prepared myself to see you.”
“That seems an unfortunate omission on your part.”
Mr Bingley moved away from Mr Darcy, grinning. “He has been preparing himself since dawn. He rejected three cravats because he tied them as though intending to attend an execution.”
“The comparison is not entirely unreasonable.” Mr Hurst pushed himself away from the vestry wall. “He enters the chapel immortal and may leave it dead within fifty years.”
“Your gift for encouragement remains unequalled, husband,” Mrs Hurst murmured.
Mr Darcy walked slowly to Elizabeth, although he stopped before taking her hand. His eyes travelled to her face, questioning what pride prevented him from asking before witnesses.
“I have not changed my mind.” She offered him her right hand. “You may confirm it as often as necessary, but I warn you that the response will become less gracious through repetition.”
His cold fingers closed around hers. “Once more may be necessary.”
“You may have it during the ritual.”
Mr Bennet removed his gloves and sat in the first pew. “If every doubt has been temporarily subdued, perhaps we should proceed before Mrs Bennet arrives and demands admission to the secret ceremony on the grounds that she supplied the candles.”
The punch bowl moved under Fletcher’s arm.
“We have not forgotten you.” Elizabeth turned to it. “Behave.”
It produced a faint metallic sound which Miss Bingley received as a personal insult.
“The object has never demonstrated patience. It has demonstrated persistence, violence, and a deplorable preference for Miss Elizabeth.”
Mr Collins cleared his throat and took his place before the altar.
Charlotte joined him, carrying the paper on which Mr Darcy had translated the inscription.
Jane stood at Elizabeth’s side, while Mr Bennet was close enough to intervene should ancient vampire law attempt any innovation which had not been disclosed in his study.
Fletcher set the punch bowl on a table before the altar. It appeared inert until Elizabeth approached; then the writing around its rim began to glow.
The change passed through the vampires.
Mr Bingley withdrew half a pace from Jane.
Mr Hurst turned his face towards the nearest window, Mrs Hurst folded her hands tightly, and Miss Bingley’s fingers closed around the edge of the pew.
Mr Darcy remained next to Elizabeth, but every line of his body hardened.
The True Blood still moved safely inside her, yet the knowledge that it would soon be released had reached them before the knife touched her skin.
Mr Bennet surveyed the five rigid figures. “I trust we are not about to discover that this ceremony should have been conducted from behind iron bars.”
“No one will approach her.” Mr Darcy kept his eyes on Elizabeth’s face. “They gave their word.”
“So did you,” Mr Bennet reminded him.
“I will not touch the blood.”
“That may make the marital portion of the afternoon difficult.”
Elizabeth pressed Mr Darcy’s fingers. “Papa means that you will be expected to touch me eventually.”
“I understood him, thank you.”
“Your expression suggested murder.”
“My expression has always suffered under interpretation.”
Charlotte handed the paper to Mr Collins. “The original language first, followed by the English translation. Nothing else.”
“But I had composed a brief introduction!”
Charlotte shook her head.
Mr Collins examined the page, evidently mourning several paragraphs which would never be delivered. He then raised his eyes, and the absurdity fell away. What was left was the man who had returned to a room commanded by terror because Elizabeth had needed him.
“We are assembled before blood, law, and time to witness a binding which no command may compel, and no master may impose.” His voice carried through the chapel without effort.
“The True Blood stands here of her own will. The immortal master stands here having renounced all claim to her life, power, or obedience. If either enters through fear, deception, or coercion, the vessel will refuse the offering, and judge the offender.”
The bowl glowed more brightly, confirming that it had retained judicial ambitions.
Mr Collins turned to Mr Darcy. “Fitzwilliam Darcy, do you enter this binding freely, knowing that the life you possess will end and that mortality, once accepted, cannot be surrendered?”
Mr Darcy faced Elizabeth. “I do.”
“Do you accept Elizabeth Bennet as your equal before blood and law, with no power to command her mind, her body, or her will?”
“I do.”
“Do you accept the limits of mortal life without claim against the woman whose freely given blood restores it?”
Mr Darcy’s hand tightened around Elizabeth’s. “I do.”
Mr Collins shifted to her. “Elizabeth Bennet, do you enter this binding freely, without command, fear, or obligation?”
“I do.”
“Do you understand that one drop of your blood will restore this man to mortality and bind you to him as his wife before the laws of his world?”
“I understand.”
“Do you offer that blood by your own choice?”
Elizabeth met Mr Darcy’s gaze. His control was perfect to anyone who did not know him, but she knew him. She saw the plea he would not voice, not for humanity but for one final assurance that she wished to stand there.
“I do.”
Fletcher offered the ceremonial knife to Mr Collins, who carried it to Elizabeth with both hands. Its silver handle bore the same marks as the bowl, and the narrow blade caught every candle flame.
Mr Collins stopped before her. “Until the blood enters the vessel, you may withdraw.”
Elizabeth took the knife.
Mr Darcy released her hand and placed both of his behind his back. The movement was neither elegant nor casual. He restrained himself because the scent of her blood would reach him first, and his final act as a vampire must not be to frighten the woman giving him life.
Elizabeth held her right hand over the bowl and placed the blade against the heel of her palm. The metal felt colder than Mr Darcy’s fingers had done.
Jane drew a sharp breath. Mr Bennet rose but did not interfere. Around them, five vampires stood utterly motionless, bound only by promises which mattered because each had chosen to keep them.
Elizabeth drew the blade across her skin.
Pain flashed through her hand. A thin red line opened, and the scent of blood entered the chapel.