thunder. The gloomy voice grew fainter as it beseeched the dead to rise and begged for pity on the living until drowned completely by the wailing sounds emanating from the depths of the orchestra pit. Abruptly a deafening boom rent the air, succeeded by utter silence.
Lizzy was clutching Darcy's hand so tightly he winced, attempting to wiggle his fingers enough to restore circulation, but she would not let go. He bent to where he thought her ear was, whispering, “Elizabeth, I cannot feel my fingers.” She started violently and then giggled, planting a kiss in the dark, which landed on the side of his nose, and loosened her crushing grip. He immediately encircled her shoulders and drew her into his side. No fear of inappropriate public behavior being frowned on here as no one could see them and he strongly suspected everyone would be tightly clenching each other before the show concluded.
The boom was rapidly followed by the appearance of a hazy red fog at center stage, the curtains apparently having been withdrawn. Out of the smoke a phantom appeared, growing larger and larger as it seemed to float over the gasping audience. The evilly grinning phantom was bathed in the red smoke, giving it the impression of blood, with a dagger in one hand and a severed head in the other. All instantly knew this to be the French Revolutionist Marat. Screeches pierced the void; fans could be heard fluttering wildly. Crazy laughter emanated from Marat's grin as he disappeared into thin air.
A collective breath was taken, but released in a rush as another apparition emerged. A woman in trailing garments, face beautiful initially but incrementally morphing into an old crone bent and wrinkled, her elaborate dress falling into rags as her old face decayed before their eyes until only a skeleton in strips of moldy cloth remained. She moved over their heads as she decomposed, skeletal form joining the now visible skeletons positioned all about the stage, or rather what had been the stage, but was now a cemetery replete with crypts and headstones. One by one the dead rose, walking on spindly legs, speaking from lipless mouths, empty sockets roving over the crowd.
On and on it went; one scene after another in rapid succession allowing no time to collect oneself. The haunting music rose and fell, ghostly voices droned, thunder and lightning crashed, specters and demons of all sizes materialized. Many of the scenes were familiar from literature or history:
It was terrifying and fascinating. Fleetingly one would wonder how the effect was created, but generally the images and emotions engendered were so spectacular and realistic that coherent thought was eradicated. Lizzy, once past the introductory fright and comforted by Darcy's sturdy arm and warmth, calmed to a vague trembling and moderately heightened pulse rate. Screams were frequent, crying could be detected, and undoubtedly swooning occurred. The heat in the room increased from the combined press of bodies and raised body temperatures.
The crescendo was an appearance of all four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. The Biblical Riders trampled across the stage and into the crowd, swords and scythe brandishing, the clap of horses hooves echoing, while the original inhumanly bleak voice quoted from Revelations. With final bursting neighs and a resounding crash of cymbals, the Horseman rode through the back wall and precipitous silence fell, the room plunged into cavernous darkness for a full ten minutes.
The lights were lit all at once, revealing a tiny figure before the drawn curtains on center stage. The familiar voice again penetrated the quiet, although now it spoke with a bit more warmth and normalcy, “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the Illusionist Extraordinaire, Master of the Magic Lantern and Limelight, Creator of the Macabre, Professor Leonardo Finocchi Sciarratta!”
The tiny man bowed with a flourish, his grandly feathered tricorne doffed and swept theatrically as he blew kisses to the audience. The crowd erupted in applause and cheers, standing for a glorious ovation. Darcy and Lizzy stood as well, clapping enthusiastically. Her heart still raced and she was yet torn between loving the spectacle or hating it, but there was no doubt it was a stupendously artistic performance. Certainly one she would never forget, her fervent hope being that the ghosts did not resurface in her dreams!
Chapter Six
The room was sunk into deepest shadows. It was that singular hour of the night when the moon and stars were fading, but the morning sun was still well hidden beyond the threshold of the horizon. Darcy snored softly, in his typical comatose state of slumber, blissfully dreaming, and wholly unconscious to his wife's gentle nudging and whispering.
“William, wake up. Dearest, please. William? Fitzwilliam Darcy!” Lizzy knew her husband to be a deep sleeper, but this was ridiculous. She did not wish to startle him, but the easy rousing was not working.
It was their ninth morning at the resort in Caister-on-Sea and Lizzy had determined that today they would not only finally rise early enough to view the sun ascend, but would be settled cozily on the sandy shore when it occurred. Thus she had forced herself to sleep lightly and had risen to the chill of pre-dawn, dressed in the darkness, and was now shivering beside Darcy's warm body. She sighed, gazing at his peaceful, handsome face and seriously reconsidered the wisdom of her plan. However, the vision of the very body displayed now before greedy eyes encompassing her on a blanket lying in the sand as the sun ascended and heated their skin was extremely appealing.
She lifted her skirts and nestled, kneeling, against his side. Bending over, she reverted to a form of waking known to prevail each and every time.
“William, my love, I need you to wake up,” she spoke softly but clearly while bestowing firm kisses to his face.
Darcy groaned faintly, swiping at his face as if shooing a fly, then abruptly jolted awake and lurched up, nearly bashing heads with Lizzy, who fortunately had excellent reflexes. “Elizabeth! What is it? The baby? Are you ill? What…?”
“No, no! I am sorry, dearest. Please forgive me for startling you,” she soothed with a giggle, stroking his dazed face and squeezing his hand. “I want to see the sunrise with you.”
He stared blankly at her smiling face, illuminated by the single flickering candle on the bedside, very gradually and laboriously assimilating her words. “I have your clothes here, and a blanket, and I am certain it will be vacant down by the rocks. We can hold each other and watch the dawn.” She paused, Darcy yet befuddled, and leaned in to touch his lips with hers. “It is on your list of things to do, Fitzwilliam. Additionally we can perhaps add another item to the inventory that I am positive has occurred to you but you were too polite to place in writing.”
She accentuated her words with focused caresses, but it was not necessary as he was now fully awake and knew precisely what she meant. He smiled sensuously, staying her fondling hand but returning her kiss lustily.
“You are becoming quite proficient at these little surprises, my lover.”
“I have learned from a master,” she replied with a quick peck to his nose. “Now, get dressed, William! We have a sunrise to beat.” She leapt up before he could halt her for more kisses, grabbing the pile of clothing on the foot of the bed and tossing them into his face.
Minutes later they were sneaking quietly down the dimly lit corridors and out the rear double-pane glass garden doors. A handful of servants were about, performing their morning tasks, but they ignored the Darcys as if they were invisible. It was quite dark on the pathway to the beach, but they had traversed it so frequently over the past week that their feet stepped confidently. The shoreline was deserted; debris and seaweed deposited by the high tides dotted the smooth sand, offering breakfast to the hundred birds pecking and fluttering about, which also ignored the Darcys.
Morning fog was minimal today, already drifted far out to sea where a thick blanket of clouds obstructed the black horizon. The sky immediately above their heads was crystal clear, the final visible stars extinguishing one by one as the sky began to lighten imperceptibly. Darcy spread the blanket on the firmer sand near the rocks. The waiting bathing machines provided additional cover from the possibility of prying eyes, although it was unlikely that
