Page 17 of Transforming Mr. Darcy
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“He can spend his days as a man if you promise not to speak.”
Elizabeth’s brows pinched together. “You will take my voice?”
“No,” Mildread responded as though speaking to a child. “You will promise not to use it.”
“To what end?”
Mildread growled. “Stop talking andlisten.”
Elizabeth did.
The fairy tapped the end of her wand against her chin as she pondered. “You may not speak unless I grant permission. Otherwise, you must listen to him. If you speak, the amended spell will revert to the original, and he will be a swan forever.” She pursed her lips before adding. “You must also make him a shirt.”
Elizabeth almost asked why, but Mildread glared at her, so she fell silent.
“A shirt made of . . . wild roses.” Mildread sounded quite pleased with herself. “They grow abundantly here by the lake. At the end of one week, you will make sure the swan wears the shirt of wild roses at sunrise, and Mr. Darcy’s transformation will be complete. He will be a man again, both day and night.”
She wanted to ask again for an explanation, but Mildread would not tell her. She enjoyed being mysterious. Better just to pose practical questions. “But how will I know how to weave it?”
“I will instruct you.”
“This sounds nearly impossible, Mildread. How will I convince him if I cannot speak?”
“Be patient and listen, Elizabeth.” She lifted her wand and pointed it at the swan, whobegan to swim in their direction. “For tonight, he ought to sleep inside. He will be confused when he awakes.”
Darcy’s hands were cold.He groped for his blanket but could not find it. He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes against the grey sunlight of a late autumn dawn that streamed in through the window.
But it was not his window.
“Cartwright?” he called. His voice echoed off the walls.
As his vision cleared, Darcy realised he was sitting atop the bedclothes on a huge canopy bed. There were bedcurtains, but they had not been drawn. He was still in his clothes from dinner, though his cravat was a tangled mess. He unwound it and dropped the offending cloth on the bed before pushing himself to his feet.
There was little in the way of decoration in this stone room. A rug on the floor, two chairs near the fire with a table between, the bed, and another small table. There was nothing on the walls. No closet, no shelves, no wardrobe or dresser. No looking glass. He walked to the single window and pulled the sash up. It did not budge.
His heart raced as he gave one last, mighty tug. There was no movement at all. He turned quickly and surveyed the room again. How had he come here? He cast his mind back to the night before. He did not recall retiring. He had excused himself from the table and intended to go upstairs to his chambers, but he could not remember ever having arrived.
He strode directly to the door, turned the knob, and pushed. It swung open easily, and relieved, he stepped into the hall.
“Hello?” Darcy called, his voice echoing down the hall. The walls were bare here, too. It was all grey stone, similar to the castles he had toured in Scotland as a boy, but smaller and somehow . . . artificial, as he would expect a child’s toy castle to appear.
The door opposite his own was open, and he stepped across the floor to peer inside.
This room had no furniture at all, only a lonely figure sitting on a pillow near a small fire. The woman’s head was bent to her task, lustrous brown curls spilling over her shoulders. Suddenly, she looked up.
He swallowed. He would know those eyes anywhere.
He had never dared to think about her hair being let down. His breath came a little faster.
She was in the gown she had worn last night. He would prefer to see her in a ball gown, all clinging silk and daringly exposed skin.
Next to her was a pile of long-stemmed flowers in bud, which she was working into . . . something. There was a sound outside the window behind her. Darcy glanced up to see an owl perched on a branch, staring in at them with yellow eyes.
He rubbed his forehead. Now he understood. He was ill again, and this was some sort of fever dream. If he could not have Miss Elizabeth in reality, his mind had determined he would speak with her in his nightly imaginings. He ought to be embarrassed, but he could not regret it.
“Elizabeth,” he said warmly. “What are you making?”
