Page 9 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)

Elizabeth sat propped against the pillows, the late morning light pooling at her feet. Jane crept about the room, folding linen and freshening the water jug. Beyond the window, she heard the distant rumble of carriage wheels and the clatter of poultry.

Lydia burst through the door, a flurry of skirts and laughter.

“Goodness, Lizzy, you have been abed an age. You shall never guess who I saw at Lucas Lodge!”

Elizabeth shielded her eyes against the sudden brilliance of Lydia's entrance. Around her sister, colours flashed bright gold one moment, sharp yellow the next--like firelight in a mirror. She pressed back into the pillows. Even breathing pained her.

“Oh, but I suppose you do not care about that just now,” Lydia said, tossing herself into the nearest chair.

“Lydia, please,” Jane said. “You must not startle her.”

Elizabeth watched the glow around Lydia quiver and dart restlessly, ceaselessly. It left her weary. Thankfully, Lydia bored easily and was gone a moment later. Jane sat beside her; the room quieted.

Elizabeth turned her gaze to her sister. Jane’s presence offered relief. A soft, white steadiness that eased the ache behind her eyes. She curled deeper into the bedclothes. “Jane.”

Jane smoothed a hand over her forehead. “Yes, dearest?”

Elizabeth hesitated, then whispered, “Nothing.”

Jane pressed a cool cloth to her brow. “Rest. You need not say anything.”

And for the first time in days, Elizabeth believed her. She closed her eyes.

Elizabeth woke the next morning to the muted clatter of china and the faint strains of Lydia’s laughter from below. The chair by her bed stood empty. Jane had gone. She rolled onto her side and pulled the covers over her head.

By evening, she ventured down the stairs. The candlelight threw long shadows across the polished wood floors. The familiar clink of silver, the soft murmur of conversation. Ordinary sounds in an ordinary evening.

And yet. The colours shifted again.

Her father’s steady tan darkened to bronze as he spoke, each measured word sending a faint ripple through the air. Jane’s soft white pulsed gently.

But the others? Elizabeth, her fingers clenched around her napkin, sat rigid.

Kitty’s amber crackled and snapped like a summer storm. Lydia's gold shimmered bright one moment, then vanished the next like a candle guttering in a draught. The contrast made Elizabeth’s head throb.

She reached for her fork. The instant her fingers touched the silver, Lydia laughed. A spike of gold pierced the air. Elizabeth flinched; her fork struck her plate with a sound like shattering glass.

Her breath caught. The room blurred. She gripped the table's edge. Her pulse hammered. She needed air. Elizabeth pushed back her chair. The legs scraped across the floor.

“Lizzy?” Jane’s white light pulsed urgently.

Too many colours. Too much noise. Elizabeth staggered to her feet, nausea rising. “I—”

Her mother’s aura flared red.

Her father set down his knife. His tan remained unchanged. Watching.

Jane reached for her, but Elizabeth turned and fled.

* * *

In the stillness of her room, she sat at the dressing table, cradling her face in her hands. The mirror before her sat silent and accusing.

She raised her head. One eye, the brown of her childhood. The other? Green as early leaves. The same face. And not the same. She closed her eyes and prayed.

“Thou art my refuge and my strength, my fortress in time of need. Grant me the fortitude to bear my trials with patience, the courage to stand firm in righteousness, and the wisdom to discern Thy will.”

She opened her eyes. No coloured mists. No flickering lights.

Only herself. And yet, not quite.

* * *

By December, Elizabeth’s strength had returned enough to permit brief walks beyond the garden.

The fields lay bare under a pale winter sun, and the air held a crispness that stirred colour in her cheeks.

As Christmastide approached, Jane declared that their duty to the tenants must not be neglected.

Thus, Elizabeth found herself bundled into her warmest pelisse, accompanying her mother and Jane along the familiar lanes that wove between cottages.

Their first visit brought them to the Millers’ house, snug against the edge of Longbourn’s lower pasture. Thomas Miller, aged seven, stood stiffly by his mother’s side, his hair sticking up in untamed tufts.

“Good morning, Thomas.”

He scrubbed a sleeve across his nose and bobbed a quick bow, his eyes darting to the ground.

“Have you seen to the hens?” Mrs Bennet demanded, peering down at him.

Thomas shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I-I meant to, ma’am.” A ripple of light blue stirred about him.

Mrs Bennet tutted under her breath. “Meant to, indeed. Your poor mother must run herself ragged after you.”

Thomas flushed scarlet and stepped closer to his mother’s side. The blue mist wavered and then sank into stillness.

Beside him, his four-year-old sister clung to the folds of her mother’s skirt, her cheeks ruddy with cold. Around Sarah, Elizabeth saw nothing. No mist, no flicker. Only the bright, clean presence of a child.

Mrs Bennet handed over a parcel wrapped in brown paper: sugar, a bit of tea, and a shiny ha'penny tucked inside. Sarah’s eyes opened as wide as her smile.

No colours.

As they walked on, Longbourn Pond glistened under the weak winter sun, a shard of glass set into the muted earth.

Their boots crunched over frozen furrows where the last rains had hardened to brittle ice, each step tracing a path across a field washed in silvers and faded golds.

Bare trees clawed the sky, their dark branches etched against the faint grey of the clouds.

Elizabeth slowed, drawing in the picturesque: the icy blue sheen on the pond’s surface, the white lattice of hoarfrost in the ditch, the charcoal shadow of a hawk crossing overhead.

She could not have said why it pulled at her so.

Their next call brought them to the Taylors’ cottage, squat against the hedgerow. Six-year-old Johnny Taylor burst out barefoot despite the frost, trailing a broken spinning top in one hand. Elizabeth clutched Jane’s arm; a brief spell of light-headedness passed as quickly as it came.

“Mind your feet, Johnny!” Jane called, laughing. She patted Elizabeth’s hand.

He grinned, then faltered as his mother followed him out, a frown darkening her face.

“And where did you get that, young man?” Mrs Taylor asked sharply, pointing at the top.

Johnny clutched it tighter. “In the shed, Mama,” he said, his voice pitched a little too high. Something bright flickered around him: sharp and gold, like a spark blown from a fire.

Mrs Taylor set her hands on her hips. “The shed, was it? And not from your brother’s things where you have no business poking?”

Johnny stared at his toes and mumbled something Elizabeth could not hear. The spinning top slipped from his fingers. He edged towards the doorway, leaving the toy forgotten behind him.

At Elizabeth’s feet, a rosy little girl, no more than eighteen months, staggered forward, arms lifted. Elizabeth bent and gathered her up, pressing the child close against the cold. The little one’s warmth settled against her like a heartbeat, no colours, nothing but living weight.

Elizabeth closed her eyes. Peace.

* * *

The next day, Jane accompanied Elizabeth for an hour’s walk in the garden. Elizabeth found her strength increasing each day. Her thoughts, so cluttered in recent weeks, had quieted.

Jane’s presence had always had that effect.

Kitty and Lydia had darted ahead of them, lost in some whim, their laughter trailing. Elizabeth did not need to see them to know their colours flailed about. Restless ribbons twisting and tangling.

Jane, in contrast, was constant.

Elizabeth inhaled deeply and savoured the scent of fresh greenery. She turned to Jane and—

Tiny flecks of gold and red hovered. Shifting, like ash lifted by a breeze.

Ladybirds? At this hour? She brushed at the air above Jane’s head. Her hand passed through them. They remained small and delicate, pulsing in the sparks of sunlight. They are not truly there.

Elizabeth looked closer.

Jane’s serenity seemed stressed; her eyes were narrowed, her lips pressed tight.

What did it mean? Elizabeth waved about the space where they danced.

“Lizzy?”

Jane’s voice startled her out of her reverie.

“I—” Would Jane laugh? Would she think she was mad?

“What is it.? What do you see?”

Elizabeth forced a breathless laugh. “Nothing.” But it was not nothing.

The golden motes, a faint halo of light, whirled around Jane’s head. Elizabeth had no idea what it meant.