M iss Elizabeth was speaking to the owl again.
Darcy flapped his wings and then folded them in as he lowered himself into the water. Swimming helped him think.
He had never really considered what might happen if the spell was not broken.
Miss Elizabeth’s certainty had been contagious.
She had done everything she could to fulfil the requirements of her fairy godmother, no matter how eccentric.
To have it come crashing down around them through the interference of Miss Bingley, a grasping schemer if there ever was one—it was too much.
He would never forgive the woman for her meddling.
Not that it mattered now.
He glanced back at his heart’s desire. Miss Elizabeth was alone, though the owl was now perched on a branch just above her. Miss Elizabeth held out her hand, and an apple appeared. That was odd. There were no apple trees here. It was as though she had plucked one from the air.
Miss Elizabeth stared at the apple. “I just take a bite?”
“One bite is all it takes,” he heard a voice respond. He craned his long neck to see who might be speaking.
It was the owl. The owl had never spoken before. It had only hooted.
Had Miss Elizabeth been speaking with Mildread all this time? The same fairy who had trapped them in this nasty spell? She could not be trusted! Miss Elizabeth should certainly not eat anything the fairy gave her—he had to stop her.
“Then what happens?” Miss Elizabeth asked.
“Then he will be free, and you will sleep.”
No! Elizabeth! Blast this damned honking. He had to make her understand.
“One hundred years?” Miss Elizabeth asked, straightening her shoulders.
There was a pause. “Yes,” the owl said.
Darcy spread his wings out wide.
Miss Elizabeth took a breath. “Mr. Darcy will be himself again? He will be able to return home?”
“Yes.”
“Will he remember me?” Miss Elizabeth asked, and Darcy hissed.
How could she think I would forget her?
The answer was curt. “No.”
Miss Elizabeth blinked, and Darcy was sure he saw something wet in her lashes. “Perhaps that is for the best.”
It was not for the best, and it was not true. His mind might not remember, but his heart was another matter.
“Elizabeth!” he screamed, but there was nothing but a trumpet call. He flapped his wings and lifted himself into the air as she raised the apple to her lips.
He flew.
She opened her mouth.
He trumpeted as loudly as he could, causing her to turn in his direction. Miss Elizabeth’s lips were less than an inch from the fruit.
He stretched his long neck out as far as it could reach and stabbed at the apple as his momentum took him past.
The apple fell from her hand and rolled a few feet away as she cried out, but he had succeeded. When she picked it up, she stared at it for a second before shouting at him, “You must not! Mr. Darcy !”
But it was too late for that. He had managed to peck at the fruit. It was no more than a tiny morsel, but he was sure it still counted as a bite. If it killed him, at least she would be warned.
He swallowed.
The effects were immediate. He could feel his thoughts drifting, becoming harder to control. He was so tired. He circled back towards Miss Elizabeth. If he was to die now, at least he would not die alone.
As he glided in for a landing, the darkness overpowered him. There was a brief sensation of falling, and then nothing.
Elizabeth raced towards the swan as his head and wings drooped. Mildread called out a warning, but she paid no heed. He was a few feet away when she jumped to break his fall, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him close.
Suddenly Elizabeth was grasping something much heavier than she had intended and, for the second time in the past half an hour, found herself falling to the earth.
This time, it was under the much larger and much heavier body of Mr. Darcy.
They ploughed a little furrow in the ground as they skidded to a halt—or rather, she did, as she was underneath him.
She could feel the dirt in her hair, and it was a miracle her dress was not ripped to shreds, though the damp soil of the bank had made its way down her back.
“Oof,” she said involuntarily as they came to rest. At least she had been able to protect his head, though she was sure to be bruised from the attempt.
“You said he would change back if I ate the apple! You said nothing about him!” It was difficult to get the words out, but her anger fuelled her strength.
Only it was not Mildread she was angry with, but herself.
And Mr. Darcy, too. Proud, stubborn, protective .
. . “You should not have done it,” she whispered in his ear.
It took some doing, but she managed to wriggle out from beneath him. Mr. Darcy’s face was turned to one side, his arms flung out in the attitude of wings, his legs askew. Elizabeth ran the back of one hand gently down his cheek.
“The oaf seems to have done the right thing, in the end,” Mildread said, not in the least concerned. She held out her wand, and Mr. Darcy’s limp form floated to a long bench made from the roots of a tree that only now had sprouted from the earth. He was laid gently down on his back.
“You could not have done that before I had to dig my way out?” Elizabeth asked indignantly.
“You did not ask for my help,” Mildread reminded her.
Mr. Darcy’s long arms dangled over the edges of his bed, and Elizabeth arranged them across his stomach. She sat on the edge of the bench and kissed his hands almost reverently. “What were you thinking?” she scolded him. “Your sister, sir! Your estate!”
“Do you love him, Elizabeth?” Mildread asked quietly.
“Does it matter now?” Elizabeth said, her throat tight and her heart pounding in her ears. She rested her head on his chest.
“It always matters, dear.”
What could it hurt to say it? He would be asleep for a hundred years. She would be gone long before he woke. He would find another with whom to make a life. She never would.
She had known her answer to his question the moment he had asked it, but never had she known herself so completely in love as now, when she knew all such sentiments were in vain.
“I do, Mildread.”
“You did not answer his proposal.”
“I wanted to be sure. I wanted him to be sure.”
“Of what?”
“That it was true love and not a spell.”
“Well,” Mildread said thoughtfully, “that is an interesting phrase, ‘true love.’”
“Why?”
“Because that is the only thing that can save Mr. Darcy, and I am sure Miss Bingley could not manage it.”
Elizabeth squinted at the fairy. “What are you saying?”
Mildread rolled her eyes. “I suppose you require a demonstration?” She snapped her fingers.
Miss Bingley appeared, a little the worse for wear.
Her perfect coiffure was askew, and her gown had a great rent at the hem.
The moment she spied Mr. Darcy, however, she let out a scream and threw herself at his prone form.
Elizabeth grabbed at the woman’s arms. “Leave him be!”
Mildread shook her head, and Elizabeth found herself ten feet away and forced to watch as Miss Bingley peppered Mr. Darcy’s face with kisses. He never responded. Elizabeth saw with rising panic that he barely even breathed.
Miss Bingley stood and began to stalk towards them, but Mildread snapped her fingers, and as quickly as the woman had been summoned, so was she dismissed.
Elizabeth dipped Mr. Darcy’s handkerchief into the clear, cool water of the lake and began to carefully remove any evidence of Miss Bingley’s determined ardour.
“I know you must be very angry with me for allowing her to assault you in such a way,” she told him.
“But you shall simply have to wake if you wish to scold me.”
Mr. Darcy remained motionless.
She sniffed. “I cannot bear to see him so still, Mildread.”
“True love, Elizabeth. Is that what you feel for Mr. Darcy?”
A tear escaped her, trailing down her face and splashing against Mr. Darcy’s lips. “Yes,” she said, the word choked from her in her grief. “But what good does it do either of us now?”
“Kiss him.”
“What?” Elizabeth asked with surprise.
Mildread’s sigh ended in a little grunt. “ Kiss him, you foolish girl. It is not as if you have not done so already.”
What harm would it do? One kiss to remember for the rest of her life. One kiss for him to carry through the rest of his.
One final kiss to say goodbye.
She lovingly pushed a lock of dark hair from his forehead and stroked his bearded cheek. Then she took his face gently in her hands and leaned in to touch his lips with hers. She lingered, tasting the salt of her own tears and shedding a few more.
“I love you, Mr. Darcy,” she said when she pulled away at last, the futility of words spoken too late coiling in her chest and waiting to strike. “I would have said yes.”
She threw her arms around him, laid her head on his chest, and surrendered to her grief.
Darcy came back to himself slowly. First, he acknowledged that he had all his limbs and that they ached, as though a carriage had run him down.
This led him to the conclusion that he was a man and that he was alive.
Then he heard Elizabeth speak. He would know her voice anywhere, even when it was pinched and broken as it was now.
“I love you, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said in an impossibly tender lament. “I would have said yes.”
There was weeping, and a warm weight pressing against his chest. After a moment of rest, he raised a hand to touch it. Something soft curled around his fingers, and the scent of jasmine wafted over him.
She loved him. She wanted to be his wife . His heart soared. She must have heard the change in its beat, for the weight lifted, and soon Elizabeth was gazing down at him.
It was an effort, but he smiled for her. “You are being impatient, my love,” he told her. “A man does like to ask first.”
She laughed. Then she cried. Then she laughed again and kissed him.
The white lights of the comet swirled around them, and he could feel his vitality returning. “One more,” he whispered to her, “and I shall have enough strength to plead my case.”
“Insufferable man,” she scolded him merrily, “how you do vex me.” She leaned in to give him the sweetest kiss he thought he might ever receive.
“Insufferable,” he agreed, when they at last parted. Elizabeth helped him to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bench. “But handsome, no?”
Her ruby lips twitched. “Very handsome,” she said with a nod. “Even as a swan.”
He chuckled. “Marry me, you impertinent minx.”
“Is that your plea?” she asked pertly. “A lady likes to be sure.”
He huffed, but he could not convince anyone he was displeased. “Yes, you maddening woman,” he growled, “this is my plea and my offer.” He grinned. “Are you listening?”
She smiled brightly in reply and nodded.
He took her hands. “Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth, now that we are free"—he glanced over Elizabeth’s head at the owl, who was silent, before returning his gaze to her—“I must tell you that I ardently admire and love you. My affections and wishes are unchanged.” He could not resist adding, “If you recall, I told you they would be.”
She slapped playfully at his chest, but he caught her hand and held it to his lips. When he turned it over to place a kiss in her palm, he was relieved to see that her fingers no longer bore any sign of the thorns. “Now, at long last, Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he said, “will you marry me?”
“You only had to ask,” she teased. “And yes.”
There was a crackling in the air. “I thought you would never agree,” someone said, and huffed. “You truly are the most obtuse, stubborn girl I have ever known.”
“Who is that?” he asked, for he wished to be certain. “I thought I heard her before. Is that Mildread?”
“You can hear her?” Elizabeth asked, surprised. “Are you able to see her?”
He shook his head. “Only the owl.” He bowed, addressing the bird with his typical formality. “It is a . . . pleasure to make your acquaintance, madam.”
“Mildread, it is unfair, you know it is,” Elizabeth said. “Why should Mr. Darcy be required to suffer for my stubbornness?”
“Mr. Darcy had lessons to learn as well,” Mildread said airily. “I said you must learn to share your burdens and so you have. Elizabeth, you needed to learn how to listen. He needed to learn to how to speak.”
Darcy grimaced. “But in the end, I said nothing of consequence.”
“That is not entirely true. Were not your hopes in every word?”
Darcy could only nod.
“And it was your choice to eat the apple,” the owl—Mildread—said approvingly. “By making it, you spoke volumes.” She addressed Elizabeth. “He was more concerned for you than for himself. In making the choice to take on your burden, he freed you both. He has proven himself worthy of you.”
“I could have told you that he was,” Elizabeth said.
“But you did not . You had not yet convinced yourself that his love was true.”
Elizabeth leaned into his embrace, and he was perfectly happy to hold her. “I only wanted to know how he felt when the magic was withdrawn,” she said. “Now I do.”
“I do not approve of this . . . test you have set us, Mildread,” Darcy said, shaking his head at the foolishness of admonishing the air. “However, I must thank you for the result.”
Mildread was smug. “You were going to leave even though you were already half in love with Elizabeth. Elizabeth was going to pretend to hate you so that she did not have to feel you did not care for her.”
“I was not!” cried Elizabeth, but for his part, Darcy could not deny it, and his guilt flared. Would he really have caused her pain when he removed to town?
“Do you two have any idea how difficult it was going to be to contrive enough coincidences for you to meet again—and who would believe it? In Kent! At Pemberley! It would have taken near a year to get you to this point without some sort of dramatic event to force you to work together. I will be frank, dearies. I am not patient enough for such a ridiculous courtship. I have Mary to think of!”
Miss Elizabeth sputtered, readying another argument, so Darcy leaned over to kiss her on the forehead. Two dark eyes gazed lovingly up at him. “Is it worth a quarrel, my love?”
She blinked. “No, I suppose not.”
“Oh, I like him very well indeed!” Mildread crooned. “He will be good for you, my saucy miss.”
“Please,” Elizabeth whispered in his ear. “Make me a Darcy as soon as may be. I do not wish to be a Bennet any longer than absolutely necessary.”
There was a huff. “Well, Mr. Darcy, she is all yours now, the ungrateful goose.” There was a puff of smoke and a shower of stars, and Elizabeth’s fairy godmother was gone.