"It was daylight robbery," Mary said stiffly. "She thought us fools."
"You were unyielding!" Georgiana sounded ecstatic. "Like a wall. Or... forgive me... like a mule."
Mary blinked. "A mule?"
"A very dignified mule," Georgiana added quickly, realising her error. "A mule of high breeding. But you would not move. And she broke! She lowered the price out of sheer defeat of her soul. I want that, Mary. I want to know how to do that. I want to know how to be a mule."
Mary looked at her hands. They were not elegant like Georgiana's. They were square-palmed, capable, and currently clenched in her lap. She had always hated them.
But Georgiana did not see clumsy hands. She saw masonry. She saw foundations.
"You wish to learn obstinacy?" Mary asked slowly.
"I wish to learn backbone," Georgiana corrected, looking at Mary steadily. "I want to be able to stand in a room and not feel as if I am about to blow away if someone opens a window."
Mary looked at the sheet music on the stand. It was a Clementi sonata. Dense. Complex. Technical. Impressive. About as emotional as a sermon on temperance.
She reached out and closed the book with a decisivethud.
Beneath it lay a thin, worn collection of Scottish airs. Simple songs. Songs of heartbreak and hills and wind. Jane used to hum them before she became a Viscountess and started communicating via strawberry.
Mary looked from the music to Georgiana, and she did not see a rival, or a superior, nor a mirror of her own inadequacy. She saw an ally.
"I will teach you." Mary's voice was steel. "I will teach you how to narrow your eyes. I will teach you the silence that makes men check their cravats to see if they are undone. I will teach you how to stand so that they must walk around you."
"Thank you," Georgiana whispered, as if accepting a state secret.
"And in return," Mary continued, touching the worn cover of the Scottish airs, "you will teach me this."
"The music?"
"The feeling. You will teach me how to play so that they do not just hear notes. You will teach me how to make them cry."
Georgiana smiled then. The smile was small and tentative, but it reached her eyes.
"Iron for air."
"Backbone for beauty," Mary countered.
"A pact." Georgiana held out her hand.
Mary looked at it. A Darcy hand. Pale, delicate, and trembling slightly.
She took it in her own. "A pact."
Georgiana shifted on the bench, sitting straighter. She mimicked Mary's posture—shoulders back, chin slightly lifted, gaze direct. It was an imperfect imitation, but the intention was there. She looked less like a mouse and more like a mouse that was considering buying a helmet.
"Play," Georgiana pleaded. "Please. But not the Clementi. The Clementi is shouting."
Mary moved the heavy exercise book aside. She opened the collection of airs. The notes on the page were simple—whole notes, half notes, emptiness. There was no technical shield here. Nowhere to hide behind velocity.
She placed her hands on the keys. This time, they did not feel like tools of conquest. They felt like an invitation.
She pressed down.
The chord rang out—a G minor, deep and rich and full of hidden things. It hung in the silent room, vibrating against the high ceiling, suspended in the dust motes dancing in the late afternoon sun.
Mary began to play.
She did not look at the door. She did not look at the empty chairs. She looked at the music, and she did not just read it. She felt the weight of it.
