observe the mirror's relocation so as to determine the exact chamber to which it was being consigned, but she would have to settle for listening to the movers' weighted footfalls from the drawing room and making her best guess.
As they entered, Mr. Dashwood refilled his glass with amber liquid that smelled of sulfur. He poured two more and held them toward the women. 'Care to join me in a glass of brimstone.'
Elizabeth could scarcely stomach the odor of it. The thought of swallowing the vile brew made her nauseated. She declined, as did Elinor.
He laughed. 'Probably too strong for your delicate palates anyway.' He drained one of the glasses, then the other, and set them on the table beside the empty bottle. He took his own glass in hand once more and came toward them.
Elinor gaped at Mr Dashwood as he neared, causing Elizabeth to assess his person anew. Weeks of heavy drinking, all-night gambling, and God knew what else had corrupted his form into that of a man over twice his age. Grey touched his hairline, and cheeks had developed into jowls. Wrinkles framed his blood-shot eyes, and a slight tremor in his hand threatened the security of the glass he held. For Elizabeth, who had witnessed his deterioration gradually, his appearance was distressing enough, she could only imagine Elinor's shock at seeing it all at once. Colonel Brandon, at more than fifty, appeared in better health than her nephew. And the impression did not even take into account Harry's moral corruption. She was reminded of Milton's Satan, whose outward appearance declined in pace with his spiritual fall until the former angel Lucifer was as ugly without as within. This was no epic poem; this was real life. Yet Harry, too, had made a
hell of heaven and a heaven of hell, pushing away the fiancee, friends and family who loved him to rule over his own profane domain.
Mr Dashwood assessed them both with a lascivious gaze. Mrs Darcy, your visit today renders me all curiosity — particularly since Mr. Darcy does not accompany you Tell me, does your husband know you are here?'
'Of course' The lie came out smoothly.
'Truly?' He smirked. 'I would have guessed him ignorant on the subject of your coming.'
'Mr Darcy knows me well.'
'I'd like to know you well.'
Her pulse quickened, like that of prey realizing a predator lurks. Mr Dashwood made no move toward her, but she nevertheless retreated a step.
He laughed, a scornful sound that went straight to her spine.
'Is it I who threatens you. Mrs. Darcy? Or your own repressed desires?'
'Harry Dashwood!' Elinor exclaimed. 'I rejoice that my father cannot hear your wicked address!'
'And who is he to me?'
'You may not have inherited your grandfathers noble character, but you do bear his name. Perhaps you could cease dragging it through the sewers of London.'
He appraised her for a minute before finally saying, 'Can I anticipate any more aunts arriving to lecture me today, or shall you be the last?'
'You should be ashamed of your behavior to Mrs Darcy.'
He mocked them both with a bow. 'I beg your pardon. Mrs Darcy.' He gestured at his glass. 'That which makes others drunk hath made me bold'.'
She acknowledged his apology with a curt nod, but every muscle remained tense She wanted to get away from him.
' — 'and hath given me fire'. which I would be most obliged if you would quench.'
An audible gasp escaped her She thought she'd previously borne witness to objectionable behavior in him, but his conduct in her home had been nothing compared to what he now displayed in his own. She could not even formulate a reply sufficient to express her revulsion. Still nauseated, she now believed it was not the smell of his brimstone concoction but Mr
Dashwood himself making her sick.
'Mrs. Ferrars,' she said, 'if you do not object. I think I would be more comfortable waiting in the hall whilst you visit with your nephew.'
'I understand,' Elinor replied. 'I shan't be long.'
'Take as much time as you need. I shall be quite all right '
A sardonic smile contorted Mr Dashwood's lips 'I hope it wasn't something I said. Mrs Darcy?'
She left the room, shut the door, and leaned against it. She'd hoped the nausea would abate once she was outside Mr Dashwood's presence, but it did not. Her heart, however, stopped pounding in her ears enough that she could think clearly. Conscience pricked her for leaving Elinor alone with Harry, but she thought Mrs. Ferrars would be fine. As Elinor was his aunt, Elizabeth doubted she would suffer anything worse than incivility from Harry — certainly nothing approaching the insult she herself had just endured. Besides, if Elinor's mission were going to succeed at all, it was probably best attempted without a third party present.
Her withdrawal, meanwhile, presented an ideal opportunity to obtain a glimpse of the mirror. While Mr. Dashwood's inappropriate ovenures in the drawing room had diminished her motivation to try to help him, her own curiosity over whether he indeed possessed the Mirror of Narcissus — combined with a lack of anyplace better to go for the next few minutes — proved sufficient incentive to climb the stairs.
She found the looking glass in the bedchamber most proximate to the staircase, its bearers evidently having determined it most convenient to their interests. She shut the door behind her, in case any servants wandered past, and went about unveiling the mirror.
The process involved a good deal of exertion. Removing the coverings required her to lift the heavy frame away from the wall and support it with one hand while tugging the blankets with her other. Fortunately, the mirror had been positioned so that when the wrap at last pooled on the floor, the glass faced outward.
She stepped round the front of the mirror. Keeping Professor Randolph's caution in mind, she diverted her gaze from the glass and focused on the frame. Exquisitely sculpted ancient athletes stood out in relief from a background of intertwined laurel leaves. Each champion, whether gripping a javelin, launching a discus, or racing on foot, was as flawlessly formed
as the last. Elizabeth's eye roamed from one to the next, awed by the display of physical perfection, until her gaze reached the top of the frame.
There, at the mirror's crown, she beheld the most ideal male visage she'd ever seen. It was the face of youthful vigor, its noble cheekbones, strong jaw, and expressive eyes enhanced by Apollonian curls. The beauty of it overwhelmed her. Surely this was the image of Narcissus.
She looked upon the mythical youth she knew not how long, unable, like he himself in legend, to tear her gaze away.
The mirror itself possessed a quality of timelessness, creating the sense that it was not the product of any one age but of eternity, and Elizabeth could well have spent eternity studying it had not a sudden noise in the hall wrenched her attention toward the door. She held her breath in anticipation of discovery, but released it when no one entered. The sounds must have
come from a passing servant.
She turned back to the mirror, but the interruption had distracted her. She forgot, just for a moment. Professor Randolph's warning.
It was a moment too long. She looked full into the glass.
'Twas not her own reflection it returned. It was Harry Dashwood's.
No time was to be lost in undeceiving her, to make her acquainted with the real truth.
Elizabeth whirled around to confront Mr. Dashwood. She fought down panic at having been caught prowling
