Page 16 of Colour My World
“Again.” Darcy gritted his teeth, rising to his feet. Angelo stood over him, expression unreadable.
“You hate losing. Good. You will lose many times before you master this.”
The apprentice reset. Darcy squared his shoulders and stepped forward. “Again.”
Barty appeared.
“What is it?”
“The carriage is readied, sir.” He paused. “If you wish to reach Matlock House before nightfall.”
Darcy tightened his grip on the foil. “I shall conclude my lesson first.”
Barty hesitated. “Miss Darcy arrived some hours ago.”
The smallsword felt heavier in his grasp. Darcy gripped it until his knuckles whitened. He then relaxed his stance.
Master Angelo said nothing. He simply watched. Then, after a moment, he lowered his cane. “Go. A man must remember whatit is he fights for.”
Darcy set his foil aside. “Another lesson tomorrow?”
Master Angelo smiled.
Barty stepped back. “The weather, sir.”
Darcy marched past him, boots hard against the floor. Each step cracked like flint against stone.
* * *
December 1802
Pain ruled him. It lived in every breath, every step. Bruises darkened his ribs, his hands raw from the sword’s unforgiving grip.
Before dawn, he arrived alone. Shadows stretched across the salle, his only companions. He lunged at them, parried spectres that never tired. He pushed beyond exhaustion.
Master this or return a disappointment.His father’s voice echoed in his mind. Failure was a luxury he could not afford.
“You do realise that air cannot fight back?”
The voice came as expected, curling around him like smoke. He had heard the footsteps behind him—not real ones,never real ones. Just the lazy gait of someone who haunted his imaginings.
George Wickham, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe. His cravat was perfectly tied, his coat uncreased. He belonged to an effortless world where sweat and blood meant nothing.
Wickham stepped forward. “You are aware, are you not, that your father sent you here to humble you?”
Darcy adjusted his stance. “If you have nothing useful to say, leave.”
Wickham cackled, the sound reverberating to Darcy’s soul. “Oh, but I think I shall stay. You sweat like a commondockworker. It is rather amusing.”
Darcy lunged. Wickham did not move, did not even blink. The blade passed through him like mist.
Wickham smirked. “Predictable.”
Darcy gripped his foil tighter, his palm slick. Mist. Shadows. Nothing more. And yet, the voice dug under his skin, deeper than any blade.
“I must admit,” Wickham mused, tilting his head, “I am rather intrigued. Do you actually believe this will make you a warrior?” His eyes gleamed with mockery. “I imagine you quite like the idea.Darcy the undefeated.”
Darcy ignored him.
