Page 26 of Colour My World
“Lizzy, I cannot endure this. You have wasted away. Mr Jones must return. He must.”
Elizabeth turned her head, pressing her cheek into the pillow. It did nothing to block out the sight.
Red. Brilliant, searing red. The colour clung to her mother, wrapping around her like flames in the wind. When she fluttered her hands, the light flared. When she dropped onto the settee, wringing her handkerchief, it dimmed into a deep, pulsing crimson. Too much.
Elizabeth shut her eyes. Even then, the colour burned behind her lids. She counted silently until—
Darkness.
* * *
A cold hand touched her forehead. Elizabeth winced.
“A delicate spot,” said Mr Jones. “Still sensitive, I see.” His voice was dispassionate. Clinical. Another grey mist.
She closed her eyes and turned away.
“The fever has passed, and hopefully, the headaches will fade in time. Keep her in dim light. Avoid even watered wine. Most importantly, she must rest. Her thoughts will right themselves soon enough.”
Elizabeth did not speak. Even as he examined her eyes. Even as he muttered about her fall. Even as he prodded her bruised temples. She said nothing.
Chapter 8
Elizabeth sat propped against the pillows, the late morning light pooling at her feet. Jane crept about the room, folding linen and freshening the water jug. Beyond the window, she heard the distant rumble of carriage wheels and the clatter of poultry.
Lydia burst through the door, a flurry of skirts and laughter.
“Goodness, Lizzy, you have been abed an age. You shall never guess who I saw at Lucas Lodge!”
Elizabeth shielded her eyes against the sudden brilliance of Lydia's entrance. Around her sister, colours flashed bright gold one moment, sharp yellow the next--like firelight in a mirror. She pressed back into the pillows. Even breathing pained her.
“Oh, but I suppose you do not care about that just now,” Lydia said, tossing herself into the nearest chair.
“Lydia, please,” Jane said. “You must not startle her.”
Elizabeth watched the glow around Lydia quiver and dart restlessly, ceaselessly. It left her weary. Thankfully, Lydia bored easily and was gone a moment later. Jane sat beside her; the room quieted.
Elizabeth turned her gaze to her sister. Jane’s presence offered relief. A soft, white steadiness that eased the ache behind her eyes. She curled deeper into the bedclothes. “Jane.”
Jane smoothed a hand over her forehead. “Yes, dearest?”
Elizabeth hesitated, then whispered, “Nothing.”
Jane pressed a cool cloth to her brow. “Rest. You need not say anything.”
And for the first time in days, Elizabeth believed her. She closed her eyes.
Elizabeth woke the next morning to the muted clatter of china and the faint strains of Lydia’s laughter from below. The chair by her bed stood empty. Jane had gone. She rolled onto her sideand pulled the covers over her head.
By evening, she ventured down the stairs. The candlelight threw long shadows across the polished wood floors. The familiar clink of silver, the soft murmur of conversation. Ordinary sounds in an ordinary evening.
And yet. The colours shifted again.
Her father’s steady tan darkened to bronze as he spoke, each measured word sending a faint ripple through the air. Jane’s soft white pulsed gently.
But the others? Elizabeth, her fingers clenched around her napkin, sat rigid.
Kitty’s amber crackled and snapped like a summer storm. Lydia's gold shimmered bright one moment, then vanished the next like a candle guttering in a draught. The contrast made Elizabeth’s head throb.
