“The sketch,” he said at last. “The man you drew.”
Her brows furrowed. “What about him?”
“I believe,” he said carefully, “we may now know who sent him.”
“Oh?” She drew closer. “Then why did you come to me?”
Darcy reached into his coat and pulled out a folded paper. “I may have a name for the man providing the money, but I am still at a loss for the identity of the man who pulled the trigger. I…” He heaved an exasperated sigh. “Egad, I do not know why I am showing this to you. You have given me what you could, but we are running short on time. I suppose I hoped you might recall something more. Anything…”
Elizabeth accepted it, unfolding the paper to reveal the sketch she had drawn days earlier. The sight of it sent a shiver through her; though it was her own handiwork, the man’s visage now felt eerily unfamiliar. As though the work belonged to someone else. She stared down at the stark lines, the shadowed angles of the man’s face, the narrowed eyes.
“It still troubles me,” Darcy said, watching her closely. “The detail in this is exceptional. Clearly, yousawthis man. Anyone who knew him could point the finger at him. I just have no idea who it is. He does not resemble anyone I can implicate.”
Her eyes traced the lines, absorbing each detail anew. A nagging sensation stirred within her, as if a crucial element hovered just beyond her recollection.
“I wish I had introduced myself, then,” she said tartly, and trying to hand the paper back. “How terribly negligent of me.”
But Darcy refused to take the drawing. “Elizabeth,” he said, his voice edged with urgency, “I must ask—did you… imagine… or embellish…anydetails of this image? Is ittrulyan accurate representation?”
Elizabeth’s head snapped up, eyes flashing with indignation. “I assure you, Mr. Darcy, I did not invent this man. Every line, every shadow—I captured them as faithfully as memory allows.”
“‘As faithfully as memory allows…’” he repeated. “Surely there issomethingyou may have missed. Overlooked. The turn of his nose, the set of his mouth… Are you sure that was what his hat looked like?”
“No, no, those are quite…” She tilted her head. “But perhaps…”
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Then what is it? What detail eludes you?”
She returned her gaze to the sketch, frustration knitting her brow. The man’s face, his posture, the surrounding elements—all seemed in place. She had even captured the pillars behind where he stood when she saw him. Yet, an intangible void persisted.
Suddenly, her breath caught. Her eyes locked onto the man’s hand, the one holding the pistol, and clarity struck like a bolt of lightning.
“The ring,” she murmured, almost to herself.
Darcy’s posture stiffened. “What did you say?”
She looked up, eyes wide with realization. “I remember seeing a flash of gold when he was putting his pistol back in his coat. It caught my eye, but then I was looking more at the pistol.”
“Do you recall anything about it?”
She squinted, as if trying to pull the wisps of memory into something tangible. “Thick, with an image in the center. I think it might have been a signet ring. There was a figure in the center, set in ebony.”
He blinked. “You are sure? You are not simply ‘recalling’ this to appease me? Your memory is accurate in this case?”
She narrowed her eyes and shook her head. “No, I can see it—I could not have invented that memory.”
Darcy stepped closer. “Describe it to me.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly, summoning the image from the depths of her memory. “Gold, with black details. Not large or ostentatious. I know this sounds strange, but I could swear it bore the design of a jagged 'J' shape. Or perhaps a hippocampus—a sea horse.”
Darcy’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as if restraining a surge of emotion. “You arecertain?” he pressed, his voice a shade deeper.
She nodded slowly. “As certain as one can be from recollection. Why? What does it signify? Perhaps it was not a hippocampus, but that is the shape my mind sees—”
Darcy turned away, pacing a few steps before facing her again. “I doubt you invented something so odd and yet so coincidentally significant. The hippocampus is the emblem of the King’s Fellowship for Civil Order—a society with noble beginnings but... rather questionable endings.”
Elizabeth’s mind raced, attempting to connect the dots. “And the man who wore this ring?”
Darcy’s gaze met hers, a storm of contemplation and concern swirling within. “If he possessed such a ring, it suggests he was a member—or perhaps an associate—of the Fellowship. This ties him to influential figures, potentially even… egad, I dare not name him yet, but there is… an individual… one I already had reasons to suspect, who has known affiliations with the group.”
