Suspense & Sensibility

where she did not belong. How had he sneaked in without her awareness?

He hadn't.

She was alone in the room. The door remained shut. Nothing had been disturbed — except her ease of mind.

Had the vision been only her own projection? She spun back around.

'Oh!' She caught her breath.

Again, Harry Dashwood gazed back at her.

Repeated glances over her shoulder confirmed that he was not behind her. She stepped back, struggling to make sense of what she saw.

He stood slumped, dejected, watching her with a resigned air. Though his gaze followed her, it was detached, as if he observed a stage actor delivering a performance in which he did not take part. Despite the events of recent weeks, somehow this sight of him caused an overpowering wave of sadness to engulf her.

Why she should experience pity for a man who had behaved so reprehensibly toward her sister, herself, and everyone else who cared about him, she could not comprehend. Then she realized that this image of Mr Dashwood was not that of the degenerate rake she'd left downstairs with Elinor, the man suffering disfigurement wrought by his own dissipation. It was that of the earnest young man who had wooed Kitty, the handsome gentleman who'd earned the respect and admiration of them all. Erased were the effects of excess. In his mirror image, Harry was restored to health, vigor, and — from outward appearance, at least — himself.

How was this possible? If Mr. Dashwood was not present in the room, whom — what — did she behold?

'Mr — Mr Dashwood?'

His eyes widened. He stood up straight and moved toward her, stopping when he reached the glass barrier between them. He regarded her eagerly

Mrs. Darcy, he mouthed. Mrs. Darcy, can you hear me?

His expression implored her to say yes. But she could not. The only sound she could hear was the pounding of her own heart.

She shook her head. 'Can you hear me?'

He nodded vigorously

She had no idea what to say. Or to whom she would be saying it. Was this Harry Dashwood? A devil in his guise? A figment of her imagination?

'Mr Dashwood, what—' She gestured toward the empty chamber. 'You are not present in the room with me. How is it that I can see you in the mirror?'

He started talking, but she could not hear a syllable.

'I cannot comprehend you. More slowly, Mr. Dashwood.'

He nodded and took a deep breath, then tried again. Though he moved his lips with deliberate slowness, she still could not make out his words.

She shook her head helplessly 'Mr. Dashwood, I'm afraid I cannot understand you.'

He ran his hands through his hair, even more disheartened than she at their inability to communicate. She wanted to know what was transpiring, and he clearly wanted to tell her. She searched her mind for some means by which he could make himself heard, but turned up naught.

She glanced at the door. Could someone else help them? She doubted Elinor could, and even so, how would she ever get Harry's aunt to this chamber without the knowledge of—

She froze.

Of whom? If Harry Dashwood was in the mirror, whom had she left downstairs? And if Harry Dashwood was downstairs, who or what was in the mirror? She didn't know which thought disturbed her more. Of only one thing was she certain: The Mirror of Narcissus was indeed cursed. She needed to find Professor Randolph. If anyone could explain this extraordinary situanon, he could.

She turned back to the figure in the mirror. 'I–I have to go,' she said.

He shook his head vehemently No! Please — no. He pressed his hands against the glass.

'But Mr. Dashwood. or whoever you are—'

Help me.

Though the words had no sound, they reverberated in her mind. His haunted expression beseeched her. Compassion seized her, yet the fact remained that she hadn't the power to grant his plea.

She held up her palms. 'How can I aid you if I cannot understand you?'

His jaw and fists clenched in frustration He broke their gaze and brought his hands up before him. He looked from his fists to the glass as if contemplating punching the barrier He seemed about to try when his gaze shifted to her palms, still raised.

He opened his hands and studied them. Then he raised his head and met her eyes.

He gestured to her hands. He held his own up and pressed them to the glass. Then he nodded toward her hands again.

Elizabeth hesitated. If Professor Randolph had warned against looking directly into the mirror, pressing ones hands against it to commune with some image that had no original present seemed like a very poor notion, indeed. She did not know upon whom or what she gazed. Man or ghost? Benign entity or demonic creature? If she did as he bade, what would be the consequence? I seem to recall that many of its owners have met untimely ends, the archaeologist had said. She did not even have the amulet with her for protection.

She should leave this instant. Turn her back and walk away. Retrieve help — or perhaps never return. She owed Mr. Dashwood nothing. He had ceased being an object deserving her concern the moment he first mistreated Kitty.

If that transgressor had, in fact, been Mr. Dashwood.

She could not ignore the nagging impression taking hold of her, that somehow she presently gazed upon the true Harry Dashwood. Nor could she ignore the desperation in his countenance.

Elizabeth said a swift, silent prayer. Then lifted her hands to the glass

She is in a great, drafty room, cluttered with trunks and shrouded furniture. A large, rectangular object leans against one wall. A slightly smaller and thinner parcel rests against it. She reaches out to the smaller object. Her hands are not her own. They are larger — a man's hands. She unwraps the item. It is the portrait of Sir Francis. She unveils the mirror. Harry Dashwood gazes back at her. But moves as she moves. His reflection is hers. She is Harry, discovering the mirror at Norland. Experiencing his memory with dual conciousness — her own and Harry's.

She is in a well-appointed dressing room now. Pall Mall bustles outside the window. Her valet helps her tuck her shirt into her trousers, and offers a cravat. She approaches the mirror to tie the neckcloth and is startled to see someone else's face instead. Not her own — not Harry's — but one very like his. The vision lasts but an instant.

She is in the dressing room again. She — Harry — straightens her waistcoat before the mirror. Behind her hangs the portrait of Sir Francis, brought from Norland. She sees the face in the mirror again. It matches that in the portrait. It speaks. Come closer, Harry. Then the face is gone again.

It is dark. She is m bed, alone. Exhausted but afraid to sleep. A voice

whispers in the night. Trust me. Harry. She crushes a pillow to her ears and prays for sunrise.

She is in her own house — her and Darcy's townhouse. Darcy is speaking to her in the hall. Mr. Dashwood, if you would but confide in me, perhaps 1 can help you out of this scrape. She shakes her head. I have to go home. She returns to Pall Mall and heads rightaway for the mirror. Show yourself. Sir Francis! Nothing happens. She keeps vigil. No matter what, she cannot allow herself to fall asleep. But fatigue overtakes her, and she nods off as the candle sputters out.

She awakens with a start. Twelve white-robed fibres surround the bed, chanting. She at first takes their song to be a Gregorian chant but soon realizes that the latin words hold a profane undercurrent. She tries to rise from the bed. but the rhythmless song holds her immobile. One of the monks parts the curtains to admit the light of the full moon. The shaft illuminates the mirror. Sir Francis appears. And steps