Carrie Bebris: Suspense & Sensibility

Dashwood hugged his legs; his forehead rested on his knees.

"Stand behind Harry's body so that when his spirit emerges

from the glass, his own shell is the first available receptacle he encounters, and he enters it instead of attempting lo enter yours."

"Harry would not steal Darcy's form." Elizabeth asserted.

"Perhaps not intentionally," said Randolph "But he may have little or no ability to control the transfer. Remember — we actually know very little about the mirror's workings. Most of this is conjecture."

Rather than remember that uncertainty, she wanted to forget it. Just now she shared Darcy's preference for hard facts and indisputable truths. She wanted a detailed chronology of every incident that was about to unfold, with annotations, illustrations and an index. She wanted a guaranteed outcome, assurance that, when this ordeal ended, Darcy would still be Darcy — safe, and whole, and hers.

She knew Darcy was not nearly as concerned. He thought his skepticism would grant him immunity to whatever power the mirror might indeed hold. If Elizabeth's willingness to believe enabled her to see into the glass, his disbelief would protect him from its hazards. Or so he had assured her. She prayed he was right, that his trust in his own invulnerability would not

prove misplaced. That on this day. at least, pride would not go before a fall.

Darcy moved into position. He stood about three feet from the mirror, just behind Harry's curled form. He turned to Elizabeth and regarded her as if committing to memory every nuance of her countenance "Naught will happen to me," he insisted once again. "I am not about to become trapped in the glass."

"Take care that you don't." She tried to smile. "It does not match the decor at Pemberley."

He held her gaze a moment longer before Professor Randolph coughed self-conscousiy.

"Shall we begin?"

Darcy nodded and turned to face the professor. Randolph took up his position at the mirror's side and moved the artifact slightly away from the wall.

"As we discussed, when the moment of transference approaches, I shall tilt the mirror toward Mr. Dashwood's body on the floor to further focus his spirit's destination," he said. "For now, however, I'll hold it upright. Gaze into the mirror whenever you're ready."

Darcy looked into it immediately. His stance was relaxed, his expression calm — just now he seemed more unflappable than Beau Brummell himself. Merely an ordinary English gentleman looking into an ordinary glass.

"What do you see in the mirror?" Randolph asked

"Myself"

"Harry?"

"Only the one at my feet."

Elizabeth could discern Harry moving in the glass, his still-childlike image crossing that of Darcy. One moment Darcy stood out more strongly, the next, Harry did. 'Twas frustrating to observe by indirection. She kept her gaze on Darcy — the real Darcy.

"Do you see anyone or anything else?"

"Elizabeth."

"Of course! I had not considered that the glass would capture the whole room, depending upon the angle of the viewer. Mrs. Darcy, come stand on the other side of the mirror. You can help me hold it."

She repositioned herself so that she flanked the glass along with Professor Randolph. Though she gripped the frame, he supported most of the mirror's weight. From her present angle, she could no longer see images in the glass at all.

"Mr Darcy, do your best to block us from your thoughts and focus only on your own reflection. As you look into the glass, hold in your mind an image of yourself as you would like others to see you. The mirror should respond by reflecting that image back at you."

"Must it be an image different from what I see now?"

"I believe so. The mirror preys upon those who are discontent with themselves."

"But I am not discontent."

"Everybody wants something, Mr Darcy."

Thunder rumbled outside. The rain fell harder, its patter the only sound in the room.

Darcy gazed into the mirror. Elizabeth wondered what image he had conjured, what desire as yet went unfulfilled.

"Concentrate on that ideal," Randolph said. "Allow yearning for it to envelop you. It will shimmer and tease; it will offer tantalizing vision of what was or could be. Let it tempt you."

The drumming of the rain increased, competing in volume with the sound of Elizabeth's own breathing. Tension raised the temperature of the room. She wanted to open a window, to admit cool mist and fresh air.

Darcy did as the professor bade. His expression at first exhibited his natural resistance, but the longer he gazed into the mirror, the more he yielded. She wondered again what vision held him transfixed.

"Let the image lure you. Let it whisper its promises."

She grew warmer. Her muslin dress stuck to her chest and back. Moisture beaded her upper lip She longed to wipe it away, but held still lest she distract Darcy. He appeared warm as well; damp locks clung to his forehead But he seemed oblivious to discomfort.

The rain cascaded now. pounding on the cobblestones and splattering the windows. Gusts of wind shook the panes of glass that revealed a sky as black as night. The candles flickered, their dim offering barely sufficient to combat the darkness. Shadows skipped like dark elves in the corners of her

vision. Illusory representations of her own foreboding.

"The image will beckon. Answer its call — but for only a moment."

The room grew unbearably hot. Droplets ran down her temples. She wiped her brow — she could not help herself; it was either that or be blinded by her own perspiration. The movement went unnoticed by Darcy. The mirror held him completely in thrall. At his feet. Mr Dashwood's body slumped over. Thawed by the intense heat, it now lay on its side in a state of repose.

The wind howled, and a huge thunderclap shook the house. The candles sputtered and died, but a glow brightened the room. It came from the mirror.

The glow illuminated Darcy, curling around his contours, blazing every muscle and sinew. It danced across him, bathing him, caressing him, dancing and wavering like—

Flames.

A powerful sensation of evil assailed her with such force that she nearly collapsed under its magnitude. She let go of the frame and staggered forward, weaving to the side lo avoid tripping over Mr. Dashwood's body. The mirror tugged at her hand, inviting — directing — demanding that she look. She need only turn her head.

She turned.

Mr Dashwood. still bearing the image of a child, clawed the glass in silhouette. The fires of hell were behind him.

She looked to Darcy. He remained enthralled, transfixed by something she could not see.

"Mrs. Darcy, stand back!'' Professor Randolph cried. He spread his feet wide and began to tilt the mirror.

Thunder boomed. The room was so hot she could hardly breathe.

Darcy shifted. Or appeared to. Then she realized he had not moved at all, but had developed a double profile. The narrow gap between outlines slowly widened, the fainter one moving toward the glass.

It was Darcy's soul.

Why did Darcy himself not move? It was time! He must break contact now, or the false exchange would become true.

The gap increased. The Mirror of Narcissus summoned, demanding its tithe. But she'd be damned before she allowed it to take Darcy s soul. That belonged to God. And to her.

With a cry, she hurled herself against her husband, knocking him to the floor. She held him, and her breath, while she wailed in agonizing helplessness to see whether she also held his spirit. Its outline remained separated from that of his body for what seemed an eternity until, blessedly, they merged.

Darcy's gaze, however, found the glass once more and locked upon it.

"Darcy?" she shouted. "Darcy!"

She could not command his attention, nor, she discovered, could she physically turn his face from the glass. "Professor!"