The maid nodded and darted off.
Elizabeth hurried down the hallway, her slippers barely making a sound against the marble tiles. The music room was familiar—she had passed it earlier that evening—and she reached the door in a matter of seconds. Her heart thudded loudly in her ears.
“Lydia?” she called softly, pushing the door open. “Georgiana?”
The room was dark. Oddly so. Only a single candelabrum burned near the far wall, and the heavy curtains had been drawn over the windows. The air was too still.
Elizabeth stepped inside cautiously. “Georgiana?” She crossed the room and lit a few nearby candles. “Lydia?” she called again.
The door slammed shut behind her, and she heard the distinct click of a lock being turned.
She whirled around with a startled cry, the hair on her neck rising.
Mr. Wickham stood before the door, pistol in hand.
Elizabeth froze.
He smiled—a twisted, awful parody of charm—and the noise of the weapon cocking echoed like a thunderclap.
“Good evening, Miss Bennet,” he said softly. “I have been expecting you.”
Elizabeth’s voice was caught in her throat. “Mr. Wickham—what is this? Where are Lydia and Georgiana?”
“There were no girls,” he said, still smiling. “Only a message. For you.”
She stared at the gun, then at his face. He was pale beneath his usual healthy glow, his eyes shining with something unhinged.
She could scarcely breathe.
The air in the room felt thick as treacle, heavy with the scent of wax and damp velvet. Wickham’s shadow stretched long across the floor, the flicker of the single candle behind him casting his features into sharp, monstrous angles.
Elizabeth’s thoughts raced.
He has a pistol. No one knows where I am. The door was closed behind him, and they were entirely alone.
You must stall. Reason with him. Appeal to whatever sense remains.
“Mr. Wickham,” she said, her voice low and calm—astonishingly so, given that her knees felt close to buckling. “You must know this is not the way.”
His expression twitched. “What way is left to me? He has taken everything.”
Think, Elizabeth. Think.
“I loved him first,” he whispered. “You understand that, do you not? I did. Long before you ever saw him. He was mine.”
“Mr. Darcy?” she whispered, praying her voice would not shake. “Is that whom you mean?”
“He cast me off,” Wickham went on, ignoring her. “But only because he feared what others would say. What it would mean for him. He loved me once, I know it. I saw it. And now—now he pretends I do not exist. Thatyoumatter more.”
Elizabeth lifted her chin, heart pounding. “Mr. Wickham, you are not well. Let me help you. Let me speak to him. We can—”
“Help me?” he barked, eyes glittering.“Youwould help me? The interloper? The usurper?”
“If you still love him,” she said slowly, “then why threaten his happiness? Do you not see that hurting me would only ensure he would never forgive you?”
He flinched. Slightly. Just enough.
She followed the movement of his hand—still clutching the pistol—and made herself glance away, as though unbothered. A glint caught her eye, and her heart skipped a beat. There, atop the sideboard near the window—a porcelain vase. Heavy, broad at the base, likely ornamental but solid. If she could reach it…
