Page 33 of The Lost Prophecy

Elizabeth drew back. The bowl covered the remaining distance, reached the hem of her travelling gown, and rubbed its rim against the muslin.

She stared down at it. The movement had been unmistakably affectionate, although affection required a heart, a mind, and considerably less silver.

“This is magnetism,” she informed it. “Mr Darcy explained the matter very clearly.”

The bowl pressed itself against her ankle.

“An unusually determined form of magnetism,” she conceded.

It rolled back several inches, then returned and nudged her again. The gesture had the patient insistence of a cat requesting entry, except that a cat would have been far easier to explain.

Elizabeth glanced along the empty corridor. She ought to call for a servant. She ought to return to Jane, close the door, and wait until someone subdued the bowl. Instead, an absurd tenderness tightened her throat.

The creature knew she was leaving.

But it was not a creature. It knew nothing. It was an expensive household object suffering from magnetic irregularities and an inadequate respect for locked doors.

Elizabeth tucked the book under one arm and bent. The bowl tilted to her hands before she touched it. When she lifted it, it settled against her bodice with suspicious readiness.

Its engraved rim caught the light.

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “Did you smile?”

The bowl gleamed innocently.

She placed the book inside it and began walking to the main staircase. Carrying both proved less difficult than expected. The bowl made no attempt to escape, although it shifted occasionally against her arms as though improving its position.

She had reached the end of the corridor when Mr Darcy appeared below and began ascending the stairs. He carried a pair of gloves in one hand and had evidently returned from outside, for cold air still clung to his coat. His eyes found Elizabeth first. Then they descended to the bowl nestled against her and the book resting inside it.

He stopped two steps below the landing.

“My new friend appears to have escaped again,” Elizabeth told him.

Mr Darcy came up the remaining steps, his gaze fixed on the fugitive. “So I see.”

“It was waiting outside Jane’s chamber.” Elizabeth adjusted her hold when the bowl moved closer to her. “Very patiently, I might add.”

“That patience did not extend to the cupboard in my chamber.” He reached the landing but left several feet between them. “Fletcher locked it inside less than half an hour ago.”

Elizabeth examined it. “Perhaps it objects to confinement.”

The bowl struck the book with a small metallic knock. Mr Darcy’s eyes narrowed.

“That is enough,” he said, with his most severe voice.

It responded by rubbing its rim against Elizabeth’s sleeve.

She shifted the book before it could be dislodged. “You are remarkably calm about the matter.”

“I have discovered that alarm encourages it.” Mr Darcy moved a little closer and studied the bowl with the grave concentration another man might have devoted to an armed intruder. “It escaped twice during the night.”

“Perhaps it wished to apologise for frightening me.”

“It attempted to overturn Fletcher on both occasions.”

“Remorse affects everyone differently.”

Mr Darcy’s mouth moved, although he suppressed the smile before it fully appeared. The bowl tilted itself towards Elizabeth and settled more securely in her arms.