'We should start immediately, then. I overheard the servants questioning why no one else has been summoned. I announced that Mrs. Darcy had gone to inform Mr. Dashwood's mother, which seemed to satisfy them, but now that Elizabeth has returned, they will start to wonder what we are about.'
'Let us say that Mrs. Dashwood is so overcome with shock that she cannot leave her bed, but requested the authorities not be called until she could lay eyes upon her son,' Elizabeth said 'Say further that I promised we would sit with him until she came, and we would like to commence our mourning undisturbed'
Darcy regarded her with admiration. 'I had no idea you could spin tales with such facility.'
'Nor did I.' she responded. 'I think I am still recovering from my call upon Fanny Dashwood.'
Once they were upstairs, the mood became heavier. The light rain that had been falling at breakfast time had grown stronger throughout the day, and now dark grey clouds cast the chamber in gloom. Darcy had hardly noticed the weather earlier, so preoccupied had he been with the business of Mr. Dashwood's death, but as they prepared to challenge the Mirror of Narcissus for Harry's soul, the steady patter of raindrops seemed an appropriate prelude.
Or perhaps requiem. Mr. Dashwood's balled-up body lay on its side on the bed, his face toward the mirror. Darcy watched Elizabeth's countenance. He expected her first sight of the corpse to disturb her, but she only regarded it sadly.
Poor Mr Dashwood,' she said. 'Even if we succeed, he will never be the same.'
Indeed, at one-and-twenty, Harry would inhabit a body he would not have had until his mid-fifties, and a very roughly lived one at that.
'It is not a form I would wish to bear at this time of life,' Darcy admitted.
'But it is life,' she said.
Professor Randolph entered with a lit candelabrum and the portrait of Harry. The candles he set on a side table, where their flickering glow illuminated the room just enough to keep their party from stumbling in the dark as the sky rumbled outside.
He shut the door. 'Are we ready?'
Elizabeth continued to gaze at the lifeless form on the bed. 'Let us proceed.'
'I'm sure I need not remind either of you to avoid looking directly into the glass,' said Randolph. 'Mrs. Darcy, do you still wear the amulet?'
'Yes.'
'Can you see Harry in your peripheral vision?'
'Yes. He is trying to get my attention again.'
Darcy interposed himself between her and the mirror. He did not want Elizabeth glancing into the glass again, accidentally or intentionally. Nor did he want her close to the artifact if anything unusual did happen. Not that anything would.
'Mr. Darcy, can you perceive Harry?'
He stole sideways glances at the mirror, but detected nothing but an ordinary-looking glass. 'No,' he said. And the fact troubled him. What he could not see, he could not defend against.
'Nor can I,' said Randolph. He walked to the bed and propped the portrait against Mr. Dashwood's body so that the likeness faced the mirror. 'What is Mr. Dashwood doing now. Mrs Darcy?'
She leaned backward, trying to see around Darcy while using her side vision to answer the professors question. Darcy knew he was making her job difficult, but he felt better standing between her and the glass.
'He is staring at his body on the bed.'
''I would, too.' Randolph said. 'Probably quite a shock, seeing oneself displayed in such a state. Can he hear me?'
'I think so.'
'Good.' He crossed to the mirror and stood beside it, offering a three-quarters profile. 'Mr. Dashwood. we are going to try to release you from the glass. I would like you to concentrate very hard on this portrait of yourself.'
'He is listening,' Elizabeth said.
Randolph nodded. 'Mr. Dashwood. imagine yourself as that child again. Before all this happened. Before the weight of worldly cares settled upon you. You are that child. Those are your innocent eyes. Those are your soft curls…'
Randolph continued in a slow, soothing voice, weaving mesmerizing words until Darcy was almost ready to believe he was the boy in the portrait.
'Now. Mr. Dashwood. 1 would like you to step out of the glass and into your body there on the bed.'
Darcy fought the urge to look at the mirror and see whether anyone emerged. He suspected the temptation was worse for Elizabeth. He took her hand and gripped it, willing her to look at him instead. Their gazes met.
And then, from the comer of his eye, he saw a small figure dart across the room.
It was the boy Harry — the child of the portrait. Or rather, the ghost of a boy. Darcy could at once see him and see through him as he climbed onto the bed. The bed did not respond to his movement. He added no weight; he made no impression on the counterpane.
The child crawled to his lifeless adult body and threw himself over it. He lay on top. He pushed himself down. He passed through it and out. He tried again.
And again. Spirit and shell would not merge.
He moaned, a wail of desperation and anguish 'What do I do? He spoke in his own voice, not a boy's. Yet the image was that of a tormented child, a little boy in dire need of aid and protection. It was a sight heartbreaking to behold.
Randolph raised his hands helplessly. 'I do not know.'
Harry looked up at Darcy 'Mr Darcy?' His round child-eyes regarded him imploringly. 'Can you help me?'
Darcy was suddenly reminded of Harry at Norland, Harry as he had been just hours before all these terrible events were set into motion. Harry had been a fatherless boy seeking guidance as he matured and accepted his adult responsibilities. He turned to Darcy then, just as he turned to Darcy now, and Darcy had tried to teach him through example how a gentleman takes care of those dependent upon him.
Whatever had transpired in the intervening weeks, this child, man, this spirit now before him was that Harry. Until this moment, Darcy had not believed he existed any longer. And once again, Harry was depending on him.
The young Harry jerked as if tugged. 'The mirror! It pulls me back!'
Before Darcy could respond, Elizabeth tore herself away and fled to the bed. 'Fight it, Harry! Fight it.' She extended her hand to grab his. Harry reached toward her. But her fingers closed around air, and the little boy was gone.
'Oh!' Elizabeth took a shaky breath and stared at her empty hand. 'Oh, Harry…' She choked back a sob.
Darcy approached from behind. He put his hands on her shoulders. He consoled her thus — consoled himself — a moment, then bent his head to her ear.
'Give me the amulet.'
She turned, her face full of confusion. Her hand went to the silver watch that hung round her neck, her fingers brushing the symbols engraved upon it. She looked at him searchingly.
'The amulet? Why?'
He gazed into her eyes, which held the only reflection him that mattered. He reached for the chain and gently lifted over her head. Then he slipped it around his own neck.
'Professor Randolph,' he said, his eyes never leaving his wife. 'Tell me more about this idea of a 'false exchange.'' |
The very circumstance, in it's unpleasantest form, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen on them.
