Page 8 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)

The familiarity of the drawing room—the quiet murmur of conversation, the clink of teacups, her father’s low cough—should have been a comfort, but Elizabeth felt unmoored.

She sat in her usual chair, Wollstonecraft’s Letters Written During a Short Residence in Sweden, Norway, and Denmark, in her lap.

Her father had handed her the volume last week with a wry smile. “Too bold for your mother’s shelf, I think. But not for yours.”

She had not yet turned a page. Across from her, her family carried on as they always had. And yet, she no longer saw the world as it was, only as it flared around her in a manner that defied reason.

At first, she thought it a remnant of her fevered dreams. But now, as her family sat before her, she could not deny what she saw.

There was no ignoring Kitty’s swirling hues or Lydia’s flickering golds.

Her father sat across from her, wrapped in rich brown.

Steady, like well-worn leather. Her mother waved a handkerchief.

Flickers of orange and yellow, low embers in the fireplace.

“Mr Bennet, did I tell you of Mrs Long’s niece? I have not, have I?”

Her father pressed his lips together. The brown about his shoulders darkened, a slow shift towards a dull red.

“May I defer your raptures until later? I have not the patience to do them justice.”

He returned to his broadsheet. The dull red receded. The brown returned.

Her mother frowned. A flare of orange, sharp and quick, and then silver seeped in at the edges, washing it thin.

Elizabeth returned to her reading—an exercise in futility. The words floated. None held. She closed her eyes and counted to ten.

“Lizzy? Are you well?” Beside her, Jane sat draped in white, like a freshly scrubbed sheet.

“I am,” she replied.

“I am relieved.” Jane returned to her embroidery. Her white had faltered for a moment, then resumed its original colour.

Elizabeth peered at Mary, who was surrounded by a cool, unwavering silver, polished and smooth like moonlight on water. She searched for variations but saw no imperfections.

“Lizzy?” Mary looked left and then right. “Do you require something?” The silver surrounding her did not change.

“Thank you, Mary.”

“You are the most insufferable creature alive!” Kitty’s voice rang sharp with irritation.

Elizabeth turned towards the younger girls. Kitty’s colours flared red, blue, and green, like ribbons caught in a storm, never still. Lydia, by contrast, shimmered, gilded, and flickering bright one moment, transparent the next.

“What have I done now?” Lydia huffed. She threw herself back against the settee.

“You took my blue ribbon.”

“I did not!” Lydia’s gold sharpened.

Did she smile? Elizabeth blinked. Something about it felt different.

Kitty crossed her arms. “Then where is it?”

Lydia sighed dramatically, then smirked. “I suppose it has vanished into thin air.”

Kitty’s hues twisted and darkened. Lydia’s gold flickered bright and then dulled. A shift. A change. Was it truly a lie? Or simply mischief? If I asked, if I pressed, would it change again?

Elizabeth closed her book. There would be no reading today. The teapot’s silver caught her reflection and warped, uncertain. Still, she saw a shimmer of something green.

Yet, I am still me. Jane said so.

“Lizzy, you know your eyes no longer match?” Lydia’s voice cut through her thoughts. “It’s so strange! I keep thinking you look like two different people!”

Heat pricked at Elizabeth’s cheeks. Lydia did not mean to be cruel. But the words stung nonetheless.

“That was unkind.” Jane’s white pulsed. A star in the night sky. “You will apologise to Lizzy. At once.”

Mrs Bennet’s hand froze in mid-air. The room grew still.

Lydia swallowed. Mold-like green edged her gold. Verdigris? “I… I apologize, Lizzy.” The green hues yellowed.

“I forgive you, Lyddie. I know you did not intend to be unkind.” Elizabeth smiled to ease the tension.

“Her eyes are ruined,” Mrs Bennet said. She pressed her handkerchief to her chest. Her flames flickered. “What man of fortune will wish to marry a girl with differing eyes? It is unnatural.”

“It is striking,” Jane replied. She was not smiling. Her whites continued to pulse.

“Novelty is for horses, not young ladies,” Mrs Bennet said. She turned to her husband. “Mr Bennet, say something!”

Her father lifted his newspaper even higher.

“I suppose if she cannot marry well, we shall simply have to keep her.”

* * *

Elizabeth returned to her bedchamber, mentally exhausted. She closed the door with care as if noise alone might shatter the fragile thread holding her together. The mirror across the room caught the moon’s reflection; she turned away from it, heart pounding.

Elizabeth feared she was going mad. My head.

These wretched eyes. This cursed sight. The colours, the flickers, the silent betrayals no one else could see.

She could bear no more. She carefully drew the curtain and lay upon her bed.

In the muffled blackness, her breath came fast, then slower, then fast again.

A silent prayer rose from her lips, fierce and broken. Let it end. Let me be as I was.

She pulled the counterpane over her head and welcomed the darkness.

* * *

Her father sat beside her, reading. The scent of ink and parchment lingered on his coat, the familiar comfort of old books and warm pipe smoke.

A muted tan haze coiled about him, steady, shifting only when he turned a page or adjusted his glasses. When he chuckled at something in his book, the tan lightened at the edges, like autumn wheat beneath the sun.

She studied it, mesmerised.

“Are you inspecting me, my dear?”

She startled. “I… No.”

He studied her, keen and observant. “You have been watching me rather intently these past minutes.”

She bit her lip. “Have I?”

Setting aside his book, he said, “I have read many things about how the mind works. Fevers often leave one’s thoughts in disarray. Are yours?”

Elizabeth hesitated. She could tell him. He would listen. And yet… “I only dream strange things, Papa.”

His eyes searched hers. The tan mist about him did not waver, and he said nothing more.

* * *

Her mother did not sit. She flitted about, her hands wringing, her voice rising and falling with every exclamation.

“Lizzy, I cannot endure this. You have wasted away. Mr Jones must return. He must.”

Elizabeth turned her head, pressing her cheek into the pillow. It did nothing to block out the sight.

Red. Brilliant, searing red. The colour clung to her mother, wrapping around her like flames in the wind. When she fluttered her hands, the light flared. When she dropped onto the settee, wringing her handkerchief, it dimmed into a deep, pulsing crimson. Too much.

Elizabeth shut her eyes. Even then, the colour burned behind her lids. She counted silently until—

Darkness.

* * *

A cold hand touched her forehead. Elizabeth winced.

“A delicate spot,” said Mr Jones. “Still sensitive, I see.” His voice was dispassionate. Clinical. Another grey mist.

She closed her eyes and turned away.

“The fever has passed, and hopefully, the headaches will fade in time. Keep her in dim light. Avoid even watered wine. Most importantly, she must rest. Her thoughts will right themselves soon enough.”

Elizabeth did not speak. Even as he examined her eyes. Even as he muttered about her fall. Even as he prodded her bruised temples. She said nothing.