Carrie Bebris: Suspense & Sensibility

Randolph abandoned his post. He pushed the mirror upright and rested it against the wall, where it continued to bathe the room in the glow of hell-fire. He rushed forward and dragged Darcy out of the mirror's range. She stood and tried to follow.

The mirror would not permit her.

It held her in its sight. Invisible claws raked her, rent her, trying to claim her soul for the one she had denied. She felt a tear, a grasp, as the mirror prepared to consume her spirit. The flames leapt in anticipation of their feast.

Still on the floor. Darcy pushed himself to a sitting position. He moved groggily, as if awakening from slumber. She could not even see his face. With a swift prayer that this would not be her last vision of him in this lifetime, she steeled herself against the mirror's imminent pull.

She felt its grip — strong, overpowering, cold for all the heat of its fire. Then, suddenly, it released her.

The wails of every soul the Mirror of Narcissus had ever held flooded the air, centuries of tormented shrieks and cries that had gone unheard in their glass prison. The flames burned blue, then black. Mr. Dashwood's image had disappeared, no doubt consumed by the raging inferno.

The mirror's surface wavered, losing solidity, threatening to send molten glass oozing across the floor. The wails grew so loud she had to cover her ears or go mad. As they reached a crescendo, a mighty roar sounded. The mirror shook violently, Elizabeth feared it would come away from the wall and topple over to crush her. But it did not.

It imploded.

The sudden silence was almost more disturbing than the howls of the damned.

Only the sound of the rain, falling gently once more, penetrated the stillness. No one spoke. No one moved. All simply stared at an empty gold frame. The glass had collapsed in on itself, disappearing into whatever plane of hell it had occupied and leaving nothing but a tarnished shell behind.

Elizabeth shuddered — from horror or chill, she knew not. Probably both. The room had returned to a normal temperature, leaving her cold in her perspiration-drenched gown. Darcy came to her. He pulled her into his arms and held her tightly enough to assure her that he was, indeed, her Darcy—

unscarred, if not untouched, by their ordeal. His whispered enquiries and her murmured responses reassured him of her own wholeness.

Though the dimness of the room granted them partial privacy they soon grew conscious of their audience and separated.

Professor Randolph had crossed to the table, where he was actually taking his time relighting the candelabrum. When he finished his task, the tapers emitted a gentle glow, comforting in contrast to the blaze just extinguished.

Randolph assessed them. "You both appear all right."

"We are," Darcy confirmed.

"Then I think we must consider the end result of this enterprise a success, even if we failed to rescue Mr. Dashwood."

Dread washed over Elizabeth at the mention of Harry. She glanced at his body, still lying on the floor. "Is he lost forever?"

"The mirror is destroyed. I can only assume that his spirit perished along with it"

She swallowed a lump in her throat. Sadness settled upon her as she thought of the lost potential Harry's death represented, how extraordinarily unfair it was, that he should have the simple pleasures of one life stolen from him, so that Sir Francis could indulge in the guilty pleasures of a second.

Darcy, noting her distress, touched her cheek. "Perhaps instead of being destroyed along with the mirror, his spirit found rest."

She released a heavy sigh and turned to look at Harry's body once more. "I shall hold out hope of that."

Viewing Mr. Dashwood now. she could believe he had, indeed, somehow found rest. He posed as if in slumber, his limbs having fallen into more natural positions when his body thawed. He lay on his side, his knees slightly bent, his left arm tucked under him and his right gently draped. She imagined his chest lightly rising and lulling in the steady rhythm of sleep.

She caught her own breath. 'Twas not her imagination.

"Darcy, Mr. Dashwood is breathing."

Incredulous, they all gathered round Mr. Dashwood's form.

Elizabeth extended her hand, but Darcy captured it and instead felt Mr. Dashwood's chest himself.

"His heart beats, and he is as warm as you or I."

She pressed Darcy's hand at the news but hesitated to celebrate. She raised her gaze to Professor Randolph. "Is he Harry — or Sir Francis?"

"Harry." Mr Dashwood murmured

His eyes opened. He slowly rolled to his back and blinked trying to focus his gaze as it shifted among the three of them.

"I'm afraid I've been a neglectful host today." he said. His voice was feeble, but he sounded more like himself than he had in weeks. "Do forgive me — I've been away for a while."

The rain had ceased, and a ray of evening sunlight slanted through the window. Elizabeth smiled.

"It is good to have you back. Mr Dashwood."

A quarter hour saw Harry sufficiently recovered to transfer from the floor to a chair, and another quarter hour beyond that brought his request to remove from the chamber altogether.

Though only the mirror's frame remained, the sight of it distressed him far more than the exertion of changing rooms. His own chamber having also been the scene of unpleasant memories, Mr. Dashwood chose to relocate to the drawing room.

They assisted him downstairs, where they found most of the servants milling around, speculating about what had transpired above. Elizabeth supposed a little cunosity was the natural result of all the waiting and roaring they must have heard issuing from the spare bedchamber. At the sight of Mr. Dashwood — whom they had last seen stone-cold dead — all gasped, a few crossed themselves, and one maid fainted.

"Mr Dashwood has recovered from his indisposition." Elizabeth announced.

The four of them ignored the servants' bewildered gazes and continued to the drawing room, where they settled Harry in a comfortable chair. Mr Dashwood's ordeal had left him weak but he showed signs of steady improvement In fact. Elizabeth thought his visage already looked better than it had when she'd spoken to Sir Francis. Confident that some nourishment

would further speed his revival, Elizabeth called lor a light supper to be brought up.

Shall I also send for something fortifying to drink?" she asked Harry. "Wine, perhaps?"

Mr. Dashwood gnmaced. "Tea. I think in recent weeks this body has taken in quite enough spints, in every sense of the word."

The tea arrived first. Its delivery required two maids — one to carry the tray, the other to look busy while casting furtive glances at Mr Dashwood.

"Will your servants speak of this outside the house?" Darcy said when they departed.

"They are not my servants. Sir Francis replaced my staff with his own, and paid them well to keep silent about anything they might observe. Startling as my apparent resurrection is, I'm afraid it's not the most shocking thing that has taken place this house."

Elizabeth poured tea and placed the first cup in Mr. Dashwood's hands. Then, still feeling a bit indisposed herself after her ordeal, she poured a cup of her own and swallowed a sip.

"What did happen?" she asked. "I know what you revealed to me when I discovered you in the glass yesterday—" Good heavens, had that been only yesterday? "But all the rest?"

A shadow passed across his countenance, and she immediately regretted the query. "Do not speak of it, if doing so will cause you distress." she hastened to add.