Page 41 of The Lost Prophecy

The preparation worked reliably under winter light, provided rain did not wash it away. Summer was less forgiving. The salve required frequent application, shade was advisable, and extended travel was undertaken in covered carriages, or after sunset. Fletcher had no sympathy for any vampire who confused protection with invulnerability.

As he began applying the salve to Hurst’s forehead, Bingley returned to the previous day’s visit.

“I still cannot comprehend it. Of every clergyman in England, Mr Bennet’s heir must be your aunt’s rector.”

“Lady Catherine has always had a talent for placing herself where she is least required.” Darcy adjusted his gloves. “Mr Collins merely extends her reach.”

The bowl gave a small tremor against the table.

Hurst glanced at it. “What caused that?”

“No cause worth investigating,” Darcy replied.

Bingley leaned sideways while Fletcher rubbed salve around his ear. “Miss Elizabeth was equally astonished by the connection.”

The bowl rotated sharply towards him.

All four men stared at it.

Fletcher continued his work without comment. He had served Darcy long enough to have learned that acknowledging every impossible event merely encouraged further conversation.

Darcy pointed a finger at the bowl. “Stay.”

It rocked once on its base, then settled with its rim directed to the door.

Hurst watched it for another moment. “It wishes to visit Longbourn.”

“It is a punch bowl,” Darcy said.

“It carried a fruit knife to her chamber.”

“Through magnetism,” Fletcher intervened.

“Of course.” Hurst stayed solemn. “I have found that most silver has preferences. I once had a chamber pot which favoured the sound of violins rather than the pianoforte. Perhaps, Darcy, yours merely likes night walks.”

Fletcher turned Hurst’s head and began spreading salve under his jaw. “I do not believe it wanted to harm Miss Elizabeth. Perhaps it wanted to protect her.”

Bingley rested his elbows on his knees. “I cannot decide which was more extraordinary, the connection to Lady Catherine or Collins announcing your engagement to Miss de Bourgh.”

The bowl struck the tabletop.

Darcy ignored it. “There is no engagement.”

“We know that,” Hurst replied. “Collins appeared to believe that you had overlooked it.”

Darcy remembered the drawing room at Longbourn with unwelcome clarity. Collins had spoken of Lady Catherine’s expectations as though discussing a marriage already solemnised. Anne’s name had emerged with his own, followed by assurances that their union had been anticipated since infancy.

Darcy had glanced at Miss Elizabeth.

Her astonishment lasted only an instant. Then her face altered. The warmth which had entered their conversations at Netherfield withdrew behind polite composure, and Darcy understood precisely what she believed. She thought he had pursued her while promised to another woman.

“There has been a serious misunderstanding,” he had interrupted. “I am not engaged to my cousin.”

Collins had stared at him.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“I am bound to Anne neither by honour nor inclination. No agreement has ever existed between us.”