Page 74 of Ashes and Understanding
He tried to rise, to take a step, but he was again brought to the ground, coughing so violently he could sense the copper metallic taste of blood.
“You are useless,” she told him angrily. “If you were a real man, you would be able to do this. Why are you so weak?”
“No, Eliz—” His protests were lost once more as his lungs betrayed him.
She turned her back on him, and the blanket fell away from the baby, revealing its face. He recoiled in horror as—instead of the round, delicate features of a newborn—the sharp, pointed visage of Mr. Smithson appeared.
The hideous creature gave him a malicious smirk, then somehow, impossibly, its tiny hands revealed a knife. There was a flash as flame reflected on silver, which turned red as the blade buried itself in Elizabeth’s back again and again.
She gasped, then staggered and fell.
He tried to shout her name, to reach out to her—but again, the coughing. It ripped through him like a storm. He gagged, doubled over, unable to get air.
And then she turned those wide, pained eyes back to him. Her lips moved, barely audible:
“Why did you not save me?”
He could not scream.
He could not breathe.
Elizabeth!
∞∞∞
Darcy woke with a violent start, sitting bolt upright in bed. His breath came in ragged, rasping gulps, his heart pounding in his chest.
The fire was gone.
The baby was gone.
Elizabeth was—
Alive.
He clutched a hand to his chest, trying to steady his breathing. The room was cold, the sheets soaked beneath him. Sweat clung to his skin, and a tremor shook his limbs.
It was just a dream. It was just a dream.
But the images lingered like smoke: the knife, her voice, that terrible moment when she looked at him and found him lacking.
“Bates,” he croaked hoarsely, reaching for the bellpull.
Moments later, his valet appeared, alert despite the early hour. “Sir?”
“Herbs,” he rasped, fighting back a cough, “Stronger… than usual.”
“At once, sir.” Bates rushed from the room, concern for his master apparent in his uncustomary haste.
As the door clicked shut behind him, Darcy swung his legs over the side of the bed, planting his feet on the rug. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.
It was only a dream. A grotesque, twisted dream—but not real.
Still, the echo of her voice—Why are you so weak?— left a bitter taste.
He sat in silence until the tea arrived, inhaling the steam with careful, measured breaths. The scent of thyme and licorice root filled the room. He took it slowly, the double-strength infusion burning a little as it went down.
After several minutes, the tightness in his chest eased—just enough.
