Page 113 of The Lost Prophecy

He raised his face. His eyes were clear, disorientated, and no longer fixed by unnatural stillness.

“Yes.” He swallowed and pressed his hand harder against his breastbone. “There is a pounding.”

Elizabeth placed her palm against his chest, forgetting the linen wound around her palm. Under her hand, his heart struck again, strong and rapid.

“It is your heart!” she exclaimed, tears running down her cheeks.

“It is excessively violent.”

“It may be objecting to centuries of neglect.”

He drew another breath. Surprise crossed his face when cold air entered his lungs, and he released it slowly, a faint cloud forming in front of him.

Fletcher had not moved from the altar. His eyes rested on Darcy’s breathing chest, and the control inherited from generations of service threatened to desert him.

“Your father’s salve will no longer be necessary,” Darcy told him.

“No, sir.” Fletcher pressed his lips together before continuing. “He would have been very pleased to see it wasted.”

Elizabeth touched her husband’s cheek. Warmth had begun to gather under his skin. It was not yet the living heat of her father or Jane, but the deathly cold had gone.

Behind them, the bowl’s light faded. Its polished side caught the candles, the pulpit, and two figures standing together before it.

Elizabeth stared and, miraculously, Darcy’s reflection stared back.

He followed her gaze and became still for a very human reason. His reflected face was pale and shaken, but it was there. For the first time in centuries, he could see himself standing beside another person rather than a blank space where his body ought to have been.

Miss Bingley approached the bowl and looked inside. “You are there.” Her voice lost its customary polish.

Darcy lifted one hand to his face. The man in the surface did the same.

Mr Bingley stood behind them, absent from the reflection. Jane reached for him and linked their fingers. He watched Darcy’s image without envy, but Elizabeth saw the grief he concealed for Jane’s sake. Jane leaned closer, offering no promise beyond the hand already holding his.

Darcy turned away from the bowl. His attention moved around the chapel, touched Elizabeth, and then passed her completely.

Then he lifted his head. “What is that?”

Elizabeth followed the direction of his eyes. “What is what?”

“That smell.”

No one responded.

He drew another breath and turned to the vestry, his uncertainty vanishing. He walked past the chancel, passed Mr Collins, ignored Mr Hurst’s attempt to stop him, and opened the vestry door.

A basket of muffins rested on the table inside, covered by a white cloth. Mrs Bennet had ordered them for the choir children, who were expected to sing after the public wedding and receive food in exchange for enduring the cold.

He removed the cloth.

“Those belong to the children,” Elizabeth warned as she followed him.

He lifted one muffin and examined it with deep suspicion. “What is it?”

“A muffin,” she stated the obvious.

“I know the word. What flavour is it?”

“Why do you not find out yourself?”