Page 22 of Colour My World
Before Jane could protest further, Elizabeth urged Eirene on. The mare responded eagerly, and they left Jane behind.
As the fence loomed ahead, Elizabeth’s heart raced. The wind tore her bonnet from her head, and Jane’s desperate, “Lizzy, do not—”
Eirene skidded to a halt. Elizabeth did not. Somewhere Jane screamed.
The horizon flipped, and the ground rose to meet her. Then…nothing.
* * *
Elizabeth surfaced from darkness, but the world resisted her return. Her skull throbbed, the pain sharp and relentless, slicing down her neck with every shallow breath. Her limbs lay useless, heavy as lead, refusing to obey her will. The weight of the bed pressed against her, suffocating.
Sounds reached her in waves, muted and distant. A chair scraped against the floor. Fabric rustled. Someone breathed close by. She forced her eyes open. The light struck like a blade. She winced; her vision blurred and doubled.
A figure moved. A voice, low and familiar. “Lizzy.”
She swallowed. “Papa.” The word came out like a frog.
“You have returned to us, my dear girl.” His voice held a gentle warmth. But something stirred. Just there at the edges of her sight.
Faint, curling tendrils that did not belong. A trick of the candlelight? She blinked once, twice. Still, it lingered. It coiled around her father, barely perceptible, the colour of old parchment steeped in tea.
“You gave us quite a scare.” The brown softened to tan.
Elizabeth blinked rapidly. The colours wavered but did not vanish.A trick of the light?She closed her eyes, counted to three, and opened them again. The tan mist remained.
The door opened, and Mrs Hill entered with a tray. Around her, something faint glowed, a soft, golden haze, as if she stood beneath a lantern. “Miss Elizabeth, it is a comfort to see you awake.”
She looked between them, her father and Mrs Hill, both wreathed in colour, though not the same.
Elizabeth clenched her eyes shut, counted to three, and opened them. The colours remained. Her father’s silhouette wavered through a veil of sepia mist. Mrs Hill stood within a golden glow.
No. No.She rubbed her eyes with trembling hands until spots danced behind her lids. But when she looked again, the colours still clung to them.
“Water, please.” Sand filled her throat.
Mrs Hill filled a glass and handed it to her father, who held it to her lips. The cool liquid soothed her throat, but the coloured phantoms lingered.
The door flung open with a crash; the sound, a burst of searing light behind her eyelids. The room filled with her mother: heat, motion, blinding orange and crimson streaks that set the air aflame. Elizabeth gasped, recoiling as the fire pressed against her skull, scorching and unrelenting. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the colours still burned behind her eyelids.
It overwhelmed her. Too vivid, too shrill, too harsh.
Her breath came in sharp, uneven gasps.
Elizabeth turned into her pillow and moaned, a fresh lance of pain through her skull.
“Lizzy! You naughty child! This dreadful accident. I knew your wild ways would end in disaster one day.”
The light, the sound, the colour. Each sharpened to a blade.Her nerves frayed under their assault. She squeezed her eyes shut and counted to five. When she turned back, she raised her hand to her forehead as if the sun shone on her face.
Two versions of her mother stood at the foot of the bed. One solid. One burning.
The real one shouted. The other blazed. Both hurt.
“Mrs Hill, please escort your mistress to her sitting room.” Her father did not sound amused.
Elizabeth peeked from beneath her lashes. Mrs Hill, her glow softer, steadier, lit as she gently took her mother’s arm. From one open eye, Elizabeth watched her guide the flaming Mrs Bennet out of the room.
“You have been through quite an ordeal, my dear. You must rest and regain your strength.”
