Page 19 of The Lost Prophecy

A silver punch bowl rolled abruptly around the corner.

The vessel travelled smoothly on its curved side, corrected its direction by striking the wall, and continued towards her. Its engraved handles hit the fine carpet at each rotation, producing the irregular clatter she had followed. Elizabeth retreated one cautious step, but the bowl increased its speed until it reached her slippers and stopped.

For several long seconds, neither of them moved.

Elizabeth stared down at the vessel. “You are a punch bowl.”

The bowl rocked forward and rubbed itself affectionately against her slippers like an oversized, metallic cat.

Elizabeth pressed one hand against the wallpaper. A second explanation failed to arrive, while the first was unacceptable to human reason.

The bowl circled her feet, caught one ornate handle on the hem of her gown, and tugged. She freed the fabric carefully, half expecting the vessel to bite her.

Footsteps thundered from the family apartments. A man rounded the corner far too quickly, collided with the table under the portrait, and seized its edge before both he and the furniture reached the floor. His sober black clothing identified him as a gentleman’s servant, although his expression suggested that service had acquired demands far beyond the original agreement.

He recovered his balance and hurried to her. “I beg your pardon, miss. I shall remove it at once.”

The bowl pressed itself far more firmly against Elizabeth’s slippers, issuing a low hum.

Elizabeth indicated the object at her feet. “Does this happen often?”

The servant grimaced. “Not often enough to establish a proper defensive procedure.”

He bent down and grasped both handles. The bowl refused to move a single inch.

Elizabeth examined him closely. “You appear intimately acquainted with it.”

He planted one foot behind him and pulled. “Fletcher, miss. Mr Darcy’s valet. The bowl is an ancient Pemberley heirloom.”

Elizabeth watched him struggle. “That explains its ownership. It does not explain its travelling alone through the house.”

Fletcher grunted. “There are complex mechanical principles involved.”

The bowl tightened its hold on her hem, dragging the fabric downwards.

“What mechanical principles?”

The valet kept his eyes on the unyielding bowl. “Magnetism, intense gravity, and very old silver, miss. The precise science exceeds my understanding.”

“Does magnetism commonly cause household vessels to pursue visitors?”

Fletcher pulled harder. “Only those of superior manufacture.”

Fletcher pulled again with all his weight. The bowl released Elizabeth without warning, sending the valet flying backwards into the floral wallpaper. He miraculously retained his grip, gathered the vessel tightly against his chest, and attempted to restore his dignity while the bowl tilted one handle back to her.

Elizabeth folded her hands neatly before her waist. “Is there anything wrong with it?”

Fletcher smoothed his coat with one free hand. “Mr Darcy prefers to consider it inanimate.”

Elizabeth did not blink. “That was not my question.”

Fletcher sighed. “It is the safest available answer, I am afraid.”

The bowl produced a loud, protesting clang against Fletcher’s waistcoat. He tightened his arms around it, bowed low, and retreated hastily to the family apartments before it could escape again.

Elizabeth remained frozen in the passage after both valet and heirloom had disappeared into the shadows. The library no longer presented sufficient attraction to justify any further exploration, and she returned to the blue chamber, closed the door, and verified that Jane continued to sleep.

The small cot provided for Elizabeth stood near the opposite wall. She lowered herself onto it, folded her arms, and released a long, exhausted huff aimed at the painted ceiling.