Posted on: 2013-04-22

Chapter Seven

Lydia and Kitty whined so much that Mrs. Phillips finally offered to let them stay until the worst of the rain had passed. The younger girls leapt at the chance, but Lizzy smiled and declined the invitation. Mr. Collins' eyes bulged as he realized that she intended to walk home in the torrential rain. He visibly steeled himself, his cheeks ruddy from drink, and declared he would escort her home. She demurred, but he insisted, and finally she acquiesced. A devious part of her was absolutely gleeful at his discomfort.

She stepped out. The water was heavy on her shoulders, and no amounts of wrappings would keep her dry in this weather. It was cold, but not unbearably so. She had braved worse weather to attend some creature that called out to her in its ailment. Mr. Collins, however, was utterly miserable. He attempted to speak several times, but quickly subsided into slurred muttering. Lizzy caught the phrases, "Rosings ParkÉ" and, "Lady Catherine detests the rain," several times. She grinned to herself, trusting to the rain to hide her expression. It seemed that Lady Catherine controlled even the weather at Rosings Park, and never allowed it to rain there.

Lizzy was positive that wasn't true. Yes, a powerful enough storm mage, such as Mr. Bennet, could banish the rain from an area, but there was always consequences. Besides, such strong storm mages were rare, and Mr. Bennet was regularly in touch with the other five or six within Europe. She was certain none of them were in England, and none was named Lady Catherine.

When they reached Longbourn at last, Mr. Collins was very nearly comatose, something which caused much mirth to dance in Mr. Bennet's eyes, and Lizzy was soaked through, but invigorated. She eagerly looked for Jane to share Mr. Collins' weakness for the cold, but could not find her older sister.

"Have you seen Jane?" Lizzy asked Mary.

"Why, I sent her off to Netherfield this last half hour or more," Mrs. Bennet announced. "It has been too long since Mr. Bingley saw her. He must not be allowed to forget her."

Lizzy stared at her mother in horror. There weren't words for the many disasters Mrs. Bennet had just orchestrated. For one, Jane hated to get wet, a common trait for a weather witch. When it was raining, she often used her magic to shunt the water away from her. The effort exhausted her quickly, leaving her drained, and then drenched, leading to a severe illness. Mrs. Bennet knew that; it had been Jane's pattern since she was four and first came into her magic. How she could countenance sending her daughter to become sick among strangers, Lizzy could not fathom, but even worse, she had sent Jane into the den of a werewolf!

"Mother, you know she'll be sick!" Lizzy yelled in frustration. She had been removing her wet wrap, but now secured it around her shoulders again, little good it would do her as soaked as it was.

"Of course," Mrs. Bennet crowed triumphantly. "She will get dreadfully sick, and have to stay several days at Netherfield. Mr. Bingley must make an offer for her then!"

Lizzy wanted to wring her mother's neck, but wasted no breath. She fled out the door, running for Netherfield. All she could think was that her dear, sweet Jane had been sent to her doom. Not only was she going to be very sick very soon, if she wasn't already, but Darcy would be with her. The werewolf would smell her weakness and illness; how could he keep from striking? He had already killed horses and a man, adding the tender flesh of a beautiful maiden would be no hardship to him.

She prayed that Mr. Bingley truly loved Jane, and would protect her against Darcy's incursion. She cried, the rain washing away her tears as soon as they fell. She prayed for the best, fearing the worst. What horrors would await her at Netherfield? Never was she more grateful for her hardy health, and her experience walking all the paths of Hertfordshire. She flew along the fields, splashing mud along her dress and not caring. She kept seeing that evil, pale wolf, mouth stained red with Jane's blood.

She reached Netherfield, and pounded on the door. A long eternity later, it finally opened. Darcy stood there, blinking in surprise. For an instant she was relieved to see him in human form, and spotless. He hadn't started the slaughter yet. Or he had already killed Jane, and had time to clean it up.

"Where's Jane?" she demanded, shoving past Darcy. She didn't care that she was dripping water everywhere, or that Darcy had felt warm when she put a hand on his chest and pushed him out of the way. She shuddered at having the werewolf at her back , but if he was there, then he wasn't feasting on Jane. His disapproving glare meant nothing to her. She heard him begin, "Miss Elizabeth--" but ignored him.

She heard raised voices, and saw servants hurrying down a hallway. She followed them, tracking mud in and slipping on it. She burst into a warm, well-appointed parlor. A crowd of people, including Miss Bingley, Mrs. Hurst, and several servants, stood over a fallen form.

"Jane!" Lizzy cried, running toward them. Unceremoniously she elbowed Miss Bingley aside, a talent she had learned from having four sisters. Miss Bingley must not have had four sisters growing up, because she didn't know how to dodge such a blow. She exclaimed with outrage, clutching her ribs. Lizzy didn't care. She reached the center, and saw a pale Mr. Bingley sitting on the floor, holding an even paler Jane.

For a moment Lizzy's heart stopped. She was too late! Mr. Bingley looked up at her, his face distraught. "She just collapsed!" he said with panic. "I barely caught her in time. I don't know what happened!"

Lizzy knelt by him, feeling at Jane's throat and wrists. She breathed shallowly, but her skin was icy cold. "She gets sick in weather like this," Lizzy panted. "She needs to be kept warm."

"Get the guest room ready!" Mr. Bingley barked out. The servants left to obey. "What do I do?" he pleaded with Lizzy. Now that the initial panic of making sure Jane wasn't eaten had passed, Lizzy regretted running out here without a supply of herbs to help her sister. Once she was warmed, she would begin to stir. If Lizzy could get some tea down her, it would help recover her strength. But she was far from Longbourn's gardens, and even further from the wild herbs in the Hertfordshire woods.

"Have you a garden here?" she demanded, though she had little hope it would be stocked with what she needed.

Mr. Bingley looked at her blankly. Darcy stepped forward. "There is a kitchen garden, and a flower garden out back," he supplied. His voice was surprisingly soft and gentle, without the haughty sneer she had come to expect from him. "I also have some of the herbs you gave me left. Would those help?"

She shook her head. "They're completely different," she snapped rudely. She didn't want the werewolf to have anything to do with her sister, even if it meant turning his attention to herself. Darcy subsided meekly, but Miss Bingley had had enough.

"How dare she talk to you like that, Mr. Darcy!" she said shrilly. "Just look at this hoyden! Why, her skirts are six feet deep in mud, and getting everything dirty with her filthy hands!"

Lizzy shrugged off the comments, more concerned for Jane than what a snob thought of her. Mr. Bingley looked too stunned to notice anything but the woman in his arms. An unusual defender came to her aid.
"I think Miss Elizabeth's devotion to her sister is commendable," Darcy said, a hint of asperity in his voice.
Miss Bingley's complaints cut off sharply, and her face turned red. The housekeeper came into the parlor and announced that the guest room was ready. Mr. Bingley made to stand with Jane, and staggered. Lizzy darted forward to steady him, at the same time Darcy stepped up.

"I can take her, Charles," Darcy offered.

"No!" Lizzy and Mr. Bingley exclaimed simultaneously. Lizzy placed herself firmly between the werewolf and her sister, glaring at the latter. She didn't know Mr. Bingley's reasons for keeping Jane, but she was grateful for his support. Darcy met her eyes. She was expecting a predatory gleam, or frustration at being thwarted. She wasn't prepared for the sad understanding, or the shamed resignation. It threw her off for a second. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst tittered scornfully.

Her face flamed at being caught staring at Darcy. She turned away from the company at large, focusing only on Mr. Bingley and Jane. Mr. Bingley's expression was drawn and white as he carried Jane from the room. Lizzy followed on his heels, making sure she was the first behind him. He carried Jane upstairs, which was obviously where most of the sleeping rooms were. The guest room had a slightly musty air, and showed signs of being hastily aired out.

She slipped past Jane and Mr. Bingley to pull down the covers on the bed. The sheets were cold, but dry. Mr. Bingley laid Jane on the bed. Lizzy tucked her in securely, while Mr. Bingley hovered anxiously. The entire household, with the exception of Mr. Hurst, was gathered into the room. If the situation had been less serious, Mr. Bingley's obvious clueless care would have been endearing. As it was, he was just in the way. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst were only along to watch the spectacle, and Darcy was there to watch his prey.

Any one of them would have been irritating. Darcy's presence was utterly intolerable, and all of the others combined were enough to make her spit nails. This was a sickroom, not a pantry or a pantomime! Lizzy's lips curled in anger. She kept her face down, fussing over Jane, until she could get her expression under control. She wanted to turn on all of them and shove them away from her beloved sister. Had they been outside, crows and foxes would have attacked. Brambles and briars would have risen from the ground and lashing them with thorns. Instead, she was keenly aware that this was not Longbourn, and she had little authority here.

The one whose house this was, Mr. Bingley, was so distraught as to be useless. As much as she hated him for it, it was Darcy who gave quiet orders for braziers to be brought up, and warming pans. Lizzy took a deep breath, steeling herself as the room gradually warmed. Darcy edged near the bed. "Is there anything else I can do?" he asked softly, looking at Lizzy.

She rounded on him furiously. "Get out," she hissed, so quietly only Mr. Bingley, Darcy or Jane could have heard her. "You have no right to be here. Don't you think you've brought enough pain?"

A spasm crossed Darcy's face. Mr. Bingley looked up in astonishment. He looked at her, and then at Darcy, his expression becoming even more worried.

"Excuse me," Darcy choked out, and fled the room, his fists clenched in anger. That was fine. Maybe it wasn't wise to antagonize the werewolf, but she would do anything to drive him away from Jane. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst laughed viciously. Lizzy turned to them next.

"Get out!" she snarled, keeping her voice low for Jane's sake.

Miss Bingley drew herself up. "How dare you address me as such! This is not your house--"

"It isn't yours either," Lizzy spat. "But Jane is my sister, and I will not let you disturb her!"

In an attempt to make the room more hospitable, one of the servants had placed a potted fern in the corner. It burst into life now, unfurling fronds and sending tendrils to whip toward the two women. They shrieked at the motion, and fled the room. Lizzy sighed and close her eyes, trying to get her emotions under control. She would have to take care of that fern later. In the cold of winter it would never be able to support such rampant new growth, and would have to be pruned.

Right now, though, she just wanted to get the room quiet for Jane. She looked to Mr. Bingley, staring at Jane as though heartbroken. Her own chest eased, and she touched his arm gently.

"Mr. Bingley, I'm sorry, but Jane needs rest, and quiet now. If maybe you would send some weak tea up in an hour or so, I will try to get her to take some," she said, subtly pushing him toward the door. He gave her a panicked look.

"Will she recover?" he asked, backing away reluctantly.

"She always gets very sick when she goes out in this weather," she said gravely.

Mr. Bingley paled. "My God, this is my fault! She came to see me!"

She took pity on him. "Sir, Jane knew the risks of coming here in the rain. I think it's a great testament to her feeling for you that she would come anyway. I'll try to rouse her as soon as I might, that we can return home."

"No! She must stay! You both must, until there is no danger for her! My house is yours, anything I can do for her, please tell me."

"I do not think it wise to linger here more than absolutely necessary," she replied guardedly. "There is danger in this house, no matter the weather."

Mr. Bingley tore his eyes from Jane and looked at her. She saw the knowledge in them. He was aware of Darcy. She hated him a little, at that moment. He knew what Darcy was, and yet allowed the werewolf to live in his house, allowed a killer to go free. She knew Jane loved him, but she couldn't understand how he could tolerate Darcy. Maybe the werewolf had something which he held over the man. Maybe that made him less despicable, but it also meant he would do whatever Darcy told him to. After all, he hadn't wanted Darcy to touch Jane either.

"I will let you know how she fares," Lizzy promised, and shut the door firmly against him. They couldn't linger here. Jane would be weak and sick for days, but it was imperative that they returned home as soon as possible. Who knew how long Darcy would hold back from striking. She had no illusions about the romance of her animal friends. They struck the weak, the sick, those that couldn't defend themselves. Predators did it. Even deer and horses would ostracize wounded members of their herd, that the vulnerable ones would not attract hunters to their midst. Jane made an awfully tempting target for a creature that preyed on humans.

She just hoped her own fierce, healthy presence would keep the werewolf at bay until she could get Jane to Longbourn. She sighed heavily, and looked around with despair. Despite the braziers, she was wet and cold herself. Her anxiety over Jane had kept her from feeling it, but now her teeth chattered violently. She dare not sit on the bed for fear of wetting Jane. There was a chair, but she would ruin it with the mud on her dress. Despite what Miss Bingley thought, she wasn't completely a barbarian.

With aching, clumsy fingers, she struggled with the ties of her wrap. The knot was swollen, and wouldn't come undone. She was muttering low curses at it, tears of frustration threatening, when she heard a scratching at the door. She snarled in exasperation. If it was one of the household, even Mr. Bingley, she was going to scream at them. If it was a servant, then she would demand a pair of scissors or a knife to cut the knot on her wrap.

She yanked open the door, a fierce scowl on her face. It was neither one of the household or a servant. Instead Fitz flinched from her glare. He held his head low and whined apologetically. She blinked in surprise, and then sighed. Well, that solved one mystery. Fitz must belong to one of the people here. She very much doubted Miss Bingley or Mrs. Hurst would concern themselves with a creature so close to the dirt as a dog, even if Fitz was the dog furthest from the ground that she had ever seen. Darcy was out, for obvious reasons, and Mr. Bingley had never been seen with the dog before.

Maybe Mr. Hurst? That could explain things. Mr. Hurst had the giant hunting dog for show, but was too entwined with his food and drink to bother taking him out for sport. Bored and lonely, Fitz went wandering, and found her as all animals in Hertfordshire eventually did. "Come in, boy," she said heavily. Fitz's tail wagged uncertainly, and he stepped timidly into the room.

"Are you allowed inside the house?" she wondered out loud as she closed the door. No matter, he was actually drier and cleaner than she at the moment. She tugged again at her wrap, uselessly. Fitz watched her with dark, worried eyes. "I don't suppose you have a knife on you?" she asked rhetorically. He whined softly. An idea came to her.

She knelt on the floor, stretching the ties out as far as they would go. "Think you can help me here?" She reached out with her magic, explaining what she wanted him to do. There was a moment of resistance, as though for some reason Fitz couldn't understand her. That had never happened before. Yes, she had a harder time communicating with animals she didn't know well, but then at least she'd known they had heard her. This was like her magic fell on deaf ears. The confusion lasted only an instant, and then Fitz rose to his feet and walked toward her. She tilted her head back, exposing her neck. The enormous dog could have ripped out her throat in an instant; he could have broken her neck with barely any effort at all, but she had no fear of him.

There was a werewolf in the house, but with Fitz she was safe. She needed to remember to ask Mr. Hurst what his real name was. Fitz's warm, moist breath tickled her neck and fingers, and then his mouth engulfed the errant ties. His teeth ground, and in a surprisingly short time the ribbon parted, and she was free at last.

"Thank you," she patted his head lovingly. His tail wagged happily, and he gave a goofy dog grin. She draped her wrap over a brazier, where it began to steam almost at once. Now what? She was still wet and cold, and there was no question her dress and petticoats were ruined with mud. She supposed she could go down to just her shift and lay out her dress to dry. She would be uncomfortable, but if she stayed near the braziers she wouldn't freeze while her dress dried.

She had just decided to do that when Fitz turned his head to look at the door. She hadn't been watching him, but he was so big that each motion had a ponderous weight to it, and she couldn't help but notice. A moment later there was a light knock on the door. She frowned, and glanced at Fitz. He was alert, but relaxed. That meant it couldn't be Darcy, right? She opened the door cautiously.

A maid stood there, holding a bundle of clothes. "Good afternoon, miss," the girl said, dropping a faint curtsey. "Mr. Darcy said to bring these to you, and said I was to help you undress, if you wished."

Lizzy gritted her teeth. If Mr. Bingley had sent them, she would have been grateful and blessed him. But DarcyÉ what aim could he have, doing this? Was he trying to put her off guard? Make her forget the man he had killed? Trying to buy her gratitude and silence? Whatever it was, she didn't trust him, even if she did desperately need the dry clothes and the help.

"Come in," Lizzy invited. The maid entered, then squeaked and dropped the clothes when she saw Fitz.

"It's alright, he won't hurt you," Lizzy said with a reassuring smile, sending a warning with her magic to Fitz.

"Th-that's an awfully big d-dog, miss," the girl said. She looked to about Lydia's age, perhaps a touch younger.

"But he's very kind," Lizzy insisted. For his part, Fitz just thumped his tail on the ground, and did not move. After a moment, the girl, Holly, realized she was not about to get eaten, and picked up the clothes again. Fitz retreated to the far side of the room as Lizzy began undressing. He went to the window and stared out, as if deeply interested in the rain.

"Such a gentleman," she teased when she was finished. Fitz ducked his head and wagged his tail briefly. Holly had brought her a gown and underthings of Miss Bingley. She was grateful to be out of her wet clothes and into dry, but Miss Bingley's attire didn't fit her very well.

The lady was both taller and thinner than her, making the sleeves and hems too long, and the hips and chest too tight. "Well, I suppose I shall just take care not to be seen by anyone," she said, trying unsuccessfully to stretch her arms and failing. Holly giggled slightly, then gasped as Fitz came forward. He nosed Lizzy's hand, and she petted his head. She looked into his deep, friendly eyes, and mused how strange it was that Holly could be afraid of Fitz, when there was a werewolf in the house. Then again the staff was all Hertfordshire people; they wouldn't have known about Darcy.

"Thank you, Holly," she said, and the maid dipped another curtsey.

"No problem miss, though probably it's probably Mr. Darcy you should thank, as it was his idea. Should you ring for anything, be assured I'll be right there," Holly said, and left. Lizzy grimaced. Like she needed the reminder that she owed Darcy. Fitz nudged her again, and she resumed petting him.

"What does he want, Fitz?" she wondered out loud. He put gentle pressure against her hip, and she was reassured by the solid weight of him. "You'll defend me, right? Against the werewolf?"

In answer he growled softly. It was a deep, bubbling sound, angry and vicious. She smiled down at him and scratched his ears. "That's what I thought," she said with satisfaction. She checked on her sister. A little color was coming back to Jane's face, and she thought it wouldn't be long before her sister began to stir.

There was another knock on the door. She glanced at Fitz, but he was still calm. She opened it cautiously. It was Holly again, this time with a tea tray. "Sorry to keep disturbing you, miss, but Mr. Bingley sent up this tea here, he said you'd asked for it."

"Yes, thank you," Lizzy stepped aside, letting Holly enter and place the tea on a table. The maid swallowed hard when she saw Fitz again, but made a valiant effort to ignore him.

"Is there anything else you'll be needing?"

"Not that I can think of."

"Right then, I'll try to see no one else bothers you." With a last nervous glance at Fitz, Holly left again. Lizzy examined the tea tray. As well as the usual tea, scones and biscuits, there was also a second pot of beef tea, and a plate of eggs and fish as well, typical invalid food. Well, at least Mr. Bingley was starting to think past his panic over Jane. She had to admit, if not for the fact that he knowingly harboring the werewolf, she would have enjoyed his concern over Jane.

She perched on the edge of the bed and gently stroked Jane's hair. After a few minutes, Jane's brow wrinkled, and she opened her eyes.

"Lizzy?" Jane whispered weakly. "Where am I?"

"You got sick again, you ninny," Lizzy whispered back. Her anger and frustration at her family in general boiled up, and she struggled to keep her voice even. "It was bad enough for Mother to think to send you out in the rain, but why did you have to go, Jane? You knew this would happen!"

"Don't blame Mother, Lizzy," Jane pleaded. "I wanted to see Mr. Bingley so bad, and Papa said the rain would be clear for a little while. I thought maybe I could reach Netherfield before it started again--" Jane broke off and began to cough. It was a nasty, congested sound. Lizzy set aside her anger to support her sister. She persuaded Jane to take a little beef tea and a small bit of eggs. The effort exhausted Jane, and afterwards she laid back on the bed, her eyes drooping and her breathing labored. The infection had gone straight to her lungs, as usual.

"Jane, I'm so sorry to ask this of you, but do you think you can get up?"

"Get up? But why? Oh, are we at Netherfield still? What must Mr. Bingley think of me, falling ill like this?" She began to cry.

Lizzy gritted her teeth in frustration. "No, dear, don't cry. Mr. Bingley was most concerned over you, and said we both could stay as long as we needed. But there's a--" she stopped and glanced at Fitz. He came over and rested his head on her knee. She dug her fingers into his scruff fiercely. Jane didn't know about the werewolf. No one knew, except for Mr. Bingley, and to tell more people would only increase the danger from him.

"Do you think you could rise? I'll help you, and I'll send a note to Papa for the carriage. Once we get back to Longbourn, you can rest as much as you like, but we can't stay here."

"I'll try," Jane said, and made to sit up. She was so weak she could not even throw back the covers. Lizzy knew it wasn't good for her sister to move so much, but they couldn't stay with Darcy! Together the sisters managed to get Jane's legs dangling over the edge of the bed, but she was unable to stand. She collapsed against Lizzy, sobbing and wracked by choking coughs. Her entire frame shook. Jane had always been slighter than Lizzy, and though generally healthy, lacked the robust health that Lizzy enjoyed.

Lizzy put Jane back to bed, quieting her sobs. Jane was deeply upset to not be able to move, but she could not countenance pushing her sister further. She would just have to be alert against Darcy. She tried to get more tea into Jane, but by then she was already passed out. Lizzy bent her head and prayed over Jane, begging for her health and safety against the werewolf. There was nothing else to do. They would have to stay, for at least a day.

She crawled into bed with her sister. Jane was fever hot, and whimpered restlessly. She soothed Jane, and only when her sister was calmed did she allow herself to rest. Fitz curled up on the floor by the door, guarding them. The storm raged outside, and she listened to it a long time before finally falling asleep.

In the morning, Jane was no better, and in fact much worse. Her skin was a pale color, her lips chapped and dry. Lizzy asked Holly for some lavender water to bathe Jane's temples, and lemon and ginger tea if any was to be had. She sat on Jane's bed and drizzled cool water on her sister's skin to help bring the fever down. She desperately wished she had access to her herb garden at Longbourn. She considered running home and back, but it was still raining steadily outside, and she didn't want to leave Jane along so long. Fitz left sometime during the night, and there was no one to guard Jane against Darcy.

Midmorning, Jane finally woke. She was groggy and confused, and it was all Lizzy could do to keep her calm and in bed. She still had no more strength than last night, and threatened to do herself harm by moving too much. It was during one of Jane's more lucid moments that she had visitors. There was a knock at the door, and Lizzy called, "Enter," thinking it would be Holly.

Instead Mr. Bingley timidly poked his head into the room. Lizzy suppressed a sigh. She supposed the man did deserve to check on his guest. She didn't not mind Mr. Bingley so much, as fear who else might be with him. Indeed, before he could even utter a word, there was a loud shriek from behind him, and he was pushed into the room by Mrs. Bennet, followed in short by Mary, Kitty and Lydia, Mr. Bennet--suspiciously dry while his wife and daughters were rather damp--Mr. Collins, Mr. Jones the apothecary, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, and finally the werewolf himself, Darcy.

Lizzy stared aghast at the intrusion of people into the sickroom. It was not a large room to begin with, and was now severely crowded.

"Oh, my dear Jane!" Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. "Oh, she's so ill, she just must not be moved, isn't that right, Mr. Jones?"

Mr. Jones looked at Lizzy and grimaced. They both knew his medicines were impotent compared to what Lizzy could do with herbs, but Mrs. Bennet always insisted on calling for him. He was a small, nervous man, and now anxiously held his hat in his hands as he nodded jerkily. Mrs. Bennet went on rhapsodizing about Jane's illness, making a rather panicked looking Mr. Bingley rapidly promise Jane and Lizzy could stay a month or more, until Jane was quite better. Miss Bingley rolled her eyes at Mrs. Bennet's scheming, and then saw Lizzy. Her gaze narrowed dangerously, and Lizzy thought if they had been alone, Miss Bingley would have flown at her and ripped the dress off.

Mr. Bennet pushed past everyone in the room and placed his hand on Jane's forehead. After a moment he said, "You silly girl, you know you don't have the strength to do that. You should have never tried to shunt away so much water. Why didn't you ask me to keep the rain off you as I did for Lizzy?"

Jane colored, and Lizzy exclaimed, "Papa! She shouldn't have had to ask you!" Her teeth were gritted, and tears of rage burned in her eyes. Mr. Bennet looked startled, and then a trifle guilty. "I didn't know she was going out," he said defensively, with a careless shrug. Lizzy shook her head. This entire thing was a disaster. Mrs. Bennet had thoroughly cornered Mr. Bingley, and was now asking prying questions into his wealth and status. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst watched the scene with malicious glee, tittering and whispering comments to each other behind their hands.

Kitty and Lydia fidgeted, bored in a corner, talking to each other. Mary looked around for something she could start throwing. Mr. Jones kept trying to edge out, only to be called back by Mrs. Bennet. Mr. Collins had recognized Darcy as the nephew of the great Lady Catherine, and was now bowing and scraping unctuously to him. Darcy, the tallest in the room, was watching everything with his dark eyes. Lizzy hated the werewolf even more. She hated all the people in the room, save for Jane, just a little. They were such milling sheep, unaware of the great danger looming over them.

He came striding forward now, unceremoniously bumping Mr. Collins aside. He looked at Jane briefly. Lizzy's hands clenched on the blankets, and she leaned over Jane, almost growling with fury. How she wished Fitz was with her now! Darcy gave her a startled look, and then turned to Mr. Bennet.

"Do you mean that Miss Bennet's illness is due in part to magical exhaustion?" he asked.

Mr. Bennet blinked at him, and then nodded. "Yes, my Jane is a weather witch. Like most of us, she detests being wet, and attempted to shuttle aside the rain over her head yesterday. But she is not so strong as that, and wasted herself trying to push too far."

Darcy nodded. "I think I know something that might help. Excuse me." He left the room then, to Lizzy's relief. Mr. Bennet heard his daughter's sigh, and looked at her curiously. She shook her head wearily. She couldn't explain. She was just grateful that he was gone from the room. The noisy gathering continued for several long minutes. Jane was growing weaker by the second, and Lizzy was ready to scream at everyone here. Why had her younger sisters and Mr. Collins come, for goodness sake? Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst didn't need to stand there judging everyone, and she wished her father would take her mother in hand, and save Mr. Bingley.

Darcy entered the room some time later, and looked around to see everyone in the same positions they had been in before. Much to Lizzy's shame, it was he who came to her rescue. He drew himself up, holding a cup and saucer. "For shame!" he declared in a loud voice, startling everyone to silence. "This is a sickroom! Leave this place and give the poor girl some rest."

Chapter Eight

Quietly the troops filtered out, not daring to disobey the stern Darcy. Even Mrs. Bennet sputtered to silence when he fixed her with a hard eye. Finally it was just Darcy, Lizzy and Jane in the room. He left the door open for propriety's sake, and approached her slowly.

"I thank you, Mr. Darcy," she said in a low voice, "But you are not welcome here."

He paused. "I realize that," he said softly. "But I do wish to help. This is a tea given at the University to students who exhaust themselves during magical studies. I also included a sample of the leaves, unbrewed." He placed the cup and saucer on the table, bowed briefly, then left and shut the door behind him.

Lizzy got up and examined the tea. She took a sip of it and stuck her finger in the lukewarm liquid, and then held the bundled leaved in her hand. It was hard to get information from dead plants, but she was sure nothing was dangerous in the bundle. There were several herbs she was not familiar with, and her fingers itched with the desire to handle the living plants and glean information from them.

She hesitated over the tea, warring between her wariness of the werewolf, and the help he had already given her. Finally she brought the tea and persuaded Jane to take some. Jane made a face at the bitter taste, but eventually managed to drain the cup. Within minutes color came back to her face. She smiled serenely, and drifted off to a peaceful sleep. Lizzy sighed, conflicted. She hated to owe Darcy more, but was grateful to have something that helped so much. It was going to be a very long stay at Netherfield, until Jane was well enough to move.

Darcy learned a lot about Miss Elizabeth. For example, within two days of staying at Netherfield to tend her sister, the three house cats were following her like aloof, graceful dogs. And after one visit, the mice who lived in the pantry, despite the cats, were persuaded to go elsewhere. House plants all over Netherfield began to perk up, recovering from Miss Bingley's uncaring neglect. It was like she had brought spring with her.

She was fiercely protective of her sister. He half expected her to fly at him if he so much as glanced at the invalid. Yet she didn't mind his wolf form so much. Maybe because he resembled a dog? Or because she felt secure that her magic could control his wolf form, but not his human one? He knew he shouldn't, but he kept visiting her in his wolf body. She was utterly disdainful of him as a man, so much that his wolf needed almost constant reassurance from her.

The cats had been very wary of him at first, bristling and hissing. With Lizzy's reassurance, and his own care not to harm them--cat scratches hurt, even as a wolf--they first began to ignore him, and finally to use his body as a warm cushion as they slept. He scarcely dared breathe when they curled up on his back. His wolf only rolled his eyes at them, but as a human he was filled with great wonder. Once he became a werewolf, no animal had been able to tolerate his presence. He could not ride the horse he'd had since a boy, and the groundkeeper's mastiffs trembled at the sight of him. These cats were the first creatures that had learned to tolerate him. He could only look to Elizabeth in awe of the miracle she had wrought.

He realized now that Charles had been utterly correct in thinking he was a far greater danger now than he ever had been before. He could scarcely think of Elizabeth without his wolf clamoring to get free. Sometimes he had to flee the company before he shifted right there in front of everyone. He found he had small blackouts many times a day. Inevitably, when he searched his memories, his wolf would confess to having changed and seen Elizabeth.

Sometimes he was even aware of it happening, but like he was a sleepwalker, unable to control his actions. Had it been anyone but Elizabeth, he would have been terrified of his sudden and utter loss of command over his form. But being around her, his wolf had never been more mellow, or calm. The creature that had once craved human flesh now wished to protect it. The wolf was coming to see Netherfield and all its inhabitants as under his domain, his to protect and rule. It was a good thing Charles was moping after Jane so much, or he surely would have noticed Darcy's frequent absences.

Elizabeth liked to read. He came across her sneaking out of the room, looking for the library. He directed her to the library, keeping his instructions curt because the wolf was suddenly pushing at him, and it was all he could do to remain on two legs. Sure enough, no sooner was he by himself than his control slipped, and his wolf paced back to the library. She had selected several titles, and now sat in a chair by the window to browse through them. He went in and laid down on her feet. She grunted, but bent down absently to pet his fur.

The man in him was embarrassed to be so dog-like around her, but also relieved that his wolf wasn't threatening anyone. He caught himself idly thinking of her at Pemberley, wondering how she would get along with Georgiana. The wolf was always uneasy when he thought of his sister, as if aware he had done something bad, but wasn't sure what. He caught himself, and turned his thoughts fiercely away from Elizabeth at Pemberley. She had a pleasing figure, and fine manners when she cared to show them, but her family was so vulgar! He only had to think of Mrs. Bennet's visit to shudder. Her connections were non-existent, and in any case, he wanted to be more than a mere dog to his wife. No, she was wholly unsuited, even if she was the only person to fully accept his wolf. Even Charles had not done that.

She liked to walk. When Jane was sleeping deeply, she would steal away for an hour to herself, roaming the grounds of Netherfield. Here too his wolf joined her, ambling happily at her side. They were seen together many times, but never by Charles, who would have recognized him. He overheard the servants talking, and they thought he was a dog Elizabeth had brought with her. Thank goodness no one but her and Charles knew he was a werewolf, or he would have been discovered in an instant.

All in all, he was both dreading and counting down the days until she would leave Netherfield. On the third day, Jane was finally well enough to come down after lunch. Charles was instantly at her side, anxiously solicitous of her health and comfort. Miss Elizabeth drew back from her sister, allowing Charles to take her place. He observed with amusement. Charles was falling all over Jane. He was going to have to speak to the man, soon. If a connection to the Bennets was unsuitable for him, who was already well established in society, then it was doubly so for Charles, who still needed to make his place. It would disappoint Charles of course, but it seemed to him that Jane showed no particular fondness for his friend. She was little better than a fortune hunter or social climber then.

He found himself suddenly weary of company. He missed home. He missed his sister. The wolf was so active these days he barely got any rest, and it was showing. He longed to be left alone for a time, no responsibilities, no people, no wolf. He was ashamed to realize that he didn't even know how Georgiana was doing, or what was happening at Pemberley. He had a trusted steward, but he always used to take pride in overseeing things himself. He wasn't himself anymore. He hadn't been since becoming a werewolf, of course, but for some reason Miss Elizabeth's presence was making him restless. Or perhaps it was the turning of the seasons, the wolf's instinct to migrate and prepare for the coming winter.

In any case, he was surprised to look up and discover Miss Elizabeth near him. She gave him a hard look. "I don't know what you're thinking, but my sister is not weak, and neither am I," she said in a low voice. His ears picked up her words easily.

He startled. "I have no intention of harming yourself or your sister," he responded, keeping his voice low that no one else might listen in. She scoffed lightly. His wolf wanted to reassure her. He changed the subject hastily. "How goes your reading?" After much effort, he had persuaded the wolf to look at the books she had chosen. His wolf could not read nor understand why it was important, but he hadn't let up until he'd seen which volumes had caught her attention.

It was Miss Elizabeth's turn to look startled, and she gave a careful answer. What followed was one of the liveliest discussions he had ever participated in. Contrary to automatically deferring to his opinion, she took delight in antagonizing him, as if trying to bait him. His wolf was captivated by her, sometimes making intelligent responses difficult. His wolf might not understand what was being said, but he knew he was being made fun of, and found it deeply amusing.

Caroline attempted to cut into their discussion several times, but not being a reader, she could have little to add and was soon left behind. Miss Elizabeth appeared startled to realize an hour had passed, and rose to tend to her flagging sister. She looked almost regretful to end their conversation. He could only hope he had acquitted himself well as she and Jane retreated. He was unaware that he looked after Miss Elizabeth much the same way Charles stared after Jane.

All told, Lizzy and Jane spent six days at Netherfield. Jane recovered with remarkable quickness. Some of it was probably Darcy's tea, which he promised to get her more of, and the living plants if possible, but Lizzy also hoped it was due to Mr. Bingley's attentions to her. The man was oblivious to the disapproving stares of his sisters and friend. Darcy's behavior was remarkably civil during the stay. She grudgingly had to admit that. She had not glimpsed the pale wolf anywhere, but Fitz had been a frequent and welcome visitor.

Now that they were back at Longbourn, she missed the dog. Jane missed Mr. Bingley as well, something which Lizzy gently teased her about. The moonless star days passed. Lizzy studied the night sky through her window pensively. The three days without the moon were likely the safest from the werewolf. She was relieved they were here, and yet they fled too quickly for her comfort. All too soon there was a sliver of moon in the skin again, slowly waxing towards full. She began keeping an eye out for the werewolf, and waiting to hear of attacks on animals or people again.

Nothing was forthcoming, but she was still uneasy. It was almost as though she could feel the werewolf stalking her, hiding just beyond the reach of her senses. It made her shiver at night, and led to bad dreams. An assembly was held less than a week after their return to Longbourn. Jane was determined to attend, though she still tired easily. The chance of seeing Mr. Bingley again was enough to spur her to action, though, and nothing would keep her back.

For her part, Lizzy wondered idly if Darcy would be there. He had behaved well during their stay at Netherfield. She discovered that he was bright and well-read. If not for his manners and the lycanthropy, Lizzy could have almost found herself attracted to him. It was hard to remember how poorly he had treated her while they were talking so avidly, but it was not a mistake she would be making again. He had appeared healthier. She had the pleasure of observing him during the few mealtimes they took together. He had an economy of motion that made him appear to be very precise, but the truth of it was that it limited his contact with the silverware. He never flinched or grimaced, it was clear from his quick, neat motions that the silver bothered him very much. He was such a curiosity, that man.

Lizzy went to the assembly with her family. The Netherfield party was already in attendance, to Jane's delight. Barely had they entered the door than Mr. Bingley laid claim to Jane's hand for a dance. Lizzy watched them go, smiling fondly at the pair. For her sister's sake, she could forgive Mr. Bingley's indiscretion with the werewolf. Indeed, as there had been no further attacks, she wondered if the killing had not been some sort of mistake, perhaps the work of a real wolf gone rabid. Maybe the werewolf was even the reason the wolf had not been seen again.

She turned away from the forming sets, only to find herself face to face with said werewolf. She gulped and stepped back from him. He held out his hand proudly. "Miss Elizabeth, would you honor me with a dance?" he asked stiffly, as though in great pain. So there were his infamous manners, she thought crossly. In a small party was almost polite, but in a large group he was ashamed to be seen with her.

There were a great many reasons she didn't want to dance with Darcy. A long list of replies appeared in her mind, everything from how he was hardly tolerable as a dance partner, to why would she wish to dance with a werewolf. She was opening her mouth to give any one of them, when she noticed Mr. Collins heading determinedly in her direction. Six days apart from him had only made the return to his presence that much more grueling. Her toes cringed in horror, and she grabbed Darcy's hand almost desperately.

"I would love to dance, Mr. Darcy," she said breathlessly, and all but dragged him to the floor. He followed, his face a mask of dull indifference. His presence was only marginally more welcome than Mr. Collins, but at least he was an excellent dancer, and did not stomp on her toes or turn the wrong way. Indeed, she was so focused on making sure she did not get too close to the werewolf that several times she almost stumbled over the steps, and it was Darcy's skilled leading that saved her.

She kept waiting for him to say something, maybe about her stay at Netherfield, or about the hunting--something werewolf-y--that she couldn't relax into the dance. It was only once the dance was half over that her tension began to ease. Indeed, he scarcely looked at her, most often staring over her head as though deeply bored. She was insulted, and put more energy into her movements, until he blinked and looked down at her.

She smiled mischievously at him, and threw herself into the set as if in defiance. He met her every move as though reading her mind, and she felt him relax. For the first time, she realized she could sense his wolf. Yes, she'd had a glimpse of it in the woods with Matilda, but she hadn't realized just how much she could sense of him. She reached out timidly with her magic, and was startled at the wealth of information that flowed into her.

His wolf informed her that he was quite enjoying himself, that she moved well, and that usually Darcy was too stiff. He was positively chatty, in a way no other animal had ever been. She was charmed to meet the wolf at last, and she did so, she realized that he felt familiar. She had felt him all the time when staying at Netherfield, even when Darcy hadn't been in the room with her. Furthermore, she realized that he was not a killer. Capable of killing, yes, but he didn't have that hard edge of a creature that would kill for the fun of it, like a cat.

Darcy the man was an utter enigma to her, but Darcy the wolf was a different matter altogether. He could not have been the one who killed the horses and the man at Netherfield. She knew it as well as she knew she couldn't have killed them either. She looked up into Darcy's face as they danced, searching for the hint of the wolf. There was none, unless it was in the green flecks in his eyes. She agreed absently with the wolf, that Darcy was too stiff. Instinctively she soothed the wolf as she would a skittish horse, and under her hands she felt his muscles relax subtly. She flushed as she realized what she had done, and the wolf laughed at her.

They finished the dance without a single word spoken out loud, yet Lizzy was almost dizzy from listening so much. She felt as though she had danced with two different people, one who wanted to be there, and one that didn't. Mr. Collins quickly claimed her for the next dance, and she had to plead tiredness to avoid a second dance with him. She sat by the side to rest her bruised toes, looking for Mr. Darcy. He stood by the window, staring at her.

She started violently, suppressing a soft yelp. He was such a contrary gentleman, she thought. On one hand, Mr. Darcy, stiff, proud, commanding, and on the other hand his wolf, no less strong, and yet a happier soul to be around. How he must struggle with himself, his human part disdaining everything she was, yet his wolf not caring about titles or money and enjoying her presence. She smiled coyly at him, then turned her back deliberately on him. It would be so easy to tease him, now that she had a handle on his wolf. It was almost cruel of her to bait him so easily.

She spent the evening happily tormenting Mr. Darcy. She would give him looks, or made tiny gestures that she knew the wolf would interpret as invitation, and yet the man held himself in check. There was no magic involved, which would have been unfair. She had never been in a position of catching someone's interest before--besides Mr. Collins, who she didn't so much interest as endure--even if it was just a wolf. After the first few times, Mr. Darcy began to studiously avoid her, much to her amusement. She had made the great werewolf flee! She felt like snickering, but contained herself.

All told, that night was one of her greatest triumphs. Unfortunately, the next day was one of the most humiliating of her life. Mr. Collins proposed to her. Her cousin proposed marriage to her! It was so mortifying she couldn't bear thinking about it. More, when she had rightly refused him, he had the gall to say she was playing coy with him! A slow, simmering anger began low in her chest as he continued talking. All he could talk about was how she would serve him, without a care for her own feelings in the matter. He seemed to think that she could have no desire to refuse, when marriage to him would bring her under the wing of the great Lady Catherine.

It was a very good thing they were inside when Mr. Collins proposed to her. Had they been outside, the plants would have eaten him, and foxes and mice would have chewed on the bones. She shoved past him, opening the door and surprising her mother and younger sisters, obviously eavesdropping. Mrs. Bennet began shouting at her to accept Mr. Collins at once. She stormed out of the house, collected one of their horses, and rode off bareback, in such a fury she could scarcely see.

The horse, Bartholomew, bucked as her nerves infected him, but never unseated her. She calmed old Bart, and slowed his to a pace his aging heart could sustain. She guided him with a touch of magic only. They wound deeper and deeper into the Hertfordshire woods, until they had reached her favorite place, Oakham Mount. Oakham was so far into the woods that the only trails there were the ones she and the animals had made. It was a pretty, quiet place, one rarely disturbed by humans. She could safely stay here for days, and not see anyone. That was a reassurance, when she was weary of the company of people, and longed for the simplicity of her animal friends.

She slid off Bart's back, and sat against the truck of an ancient oak. It was too cold to linger long, especially as she had not stopped for a wrap or anything, but stubbornly she wanted to stay forever. After a few minutes of stillness, Matilda emerged from the trees, and gracefully laid down at her side. A mother fox followed, and leaned against her. The fox's three half-grown kits curled up in her lap, and she stroked their soft fur until she began to calm.

The warmth of her friends helped. Animals were easy like that, uncomplicated. What did they care for marriage proposals, or a mother's disapprobation. She knew she wasn't her mother's favorite child, but why did the brunt of Mrs. Bennet's displeasure always come down on her? How come she had to be the responsible one, and her younger sisters got away with so much? Even Jane didn't face Mrs. Bennet's wrath quite as much as she did.

She wished she could live in the forest as an animal. She wished she could clip the grass for sustenance like Bart and Matilda. She wished she had long, fleet legs as they did. She wished she had dense, soft fur like the foxes, and strong paws to carry her far away. For a moment she thought about Mr. Darcy, and his puzzling wolf. How strange it was, that she could care so very little for the arrogant man, yet like his amiable wolf. She had never seen his wolf form, she realized. He couldn't be the pale wolf she had glimpsed before, of that she was certain. Would he be long and lean, or broad and muscular? What was it like, running as a wolf? She felt faintly wistful, as though she wished she were the werewolf.

She laughed at herself, but still could not stop wondering about Mr. Darcy's wolf.

She stayed at Oakham Mount until her teeth were chattering violently, and her limbs were falling asleep. She sent the fox and her kits off, and then thanked Matilda for keeping her company. Bart was stamping his feet, even more eager to be away than she. She led him to the trunk of a fallen tree in order to mount, and they started home.

She all but dozed as she rode. She didn't need to guide Bart, as the old horse knew his way even better than she did. Instead she wondered about how much trouble she would be in, and if Papa would let her hide in the library for a time. She could always stay a week with Charlotte, if it was really bad. Surely, having been rejected, Mr. Collins would go home soon? He wouldn't keep pestering her, would he? She couldn't marry someone so obsequious. She had seen the way her parents barely tolerated each other, and had decided nothing less than love could induce her to marry. It was easy to fall in lust, but love was something you had to work on.

And she was absolutely in neither love nor lust with Mr. Collins. Just thinking of it made her feel ill. There was nothing for it but to face the storm at home. At least her mother didn't have magic. She wondered if there was any way she could arrange for Charlotte to put a mute spell on her mother. She felt a moment of guilty delight as she considered it, but knew it was impossible. Mrs. Bennet was too sharp, and as soon as the spell wore off there would be hell to pay.

They were almost home when something spooked Bart. He threw up his head and darted forward, nearly unseating her. She gulped and clutched tight to his mane. She didn't try to stop him. A feeling of dread washed over her, and her heart pounded in sudden fear. She felt as though she were being watched. Shivers crawled down her spine. Something was stalking her, something big. It was the same sort of feeling that had given her nightmares over the last few days. She stared over her shoulder, but saw nothing. If it wasn't that she had met Mr. Darcy's wolf, she might have thought that the werewolf hunted her. Instead, she wondered if she might not be safer in his presence, than with the unknown evil out there.

Bart ran into the stables. Lizzy ducked to avoid braining herself on the lintel. She saw that Bart was secure in his stall, and then darted the short distance to the house. She had never been more terrified to cross that short span. She entered the door and slammed it behind her, heart still beating too fast. Mrs. Bennet heard her arrival, and flew to the attack at once.

"You ungrateful child!" Mrs. Bennet shrieked. "You care nothing for this family, or me, my nerves, the things we put up with from you! You must accept Mr. Collins this very instant! I have already agreed to it, and you know you'll never get a better match than this."

Mr. Collins stood at her shoulder, nodding at every word. Mr. Bennet emerged from his study to see what the fuss was. He alone noticed Lizzy's pale face, and frowned slightly.

"I say, what's happening here?" he demanded, shunting his wife's attention from Lizzy to himself.

"You must make your daughter see sense!" Mrs. Bennet yelled. "If she does not marry Mr. Collins, we shall all be cast out upon your death!"

"That is what this is about?" he asked incredibly. "You wish Lizzy to marry?"

"And if she does not, I shall never speak to her again!"

Mr. Bennet fell silent. Everyone watched him with bated breath, waiting to see what he would declare. He rarely exercised his position as head of the house, and it was unfamiliar to all of them to wait on his word. Finally he turned gravely to Lizzy.

"Well, my child, I'm afraid I have to ask a difficult thing of you tonight," he began solemnly.

Mrs. Bennet cried out in triumph.

"For you must disappoint someone today. Either you shall disappoint your mother, if you do not marry Mr. Collins, or you shall disappoint me if you shall." His eyes twinkled with mischief. Mrs. Bennet's celebration turned to outrage.

Lizzy hugged her father hard, grateful that she would not be forced into marriage. "Thank you, Papa," she whispered in his ear.

"Anything for my girl," he whispered back, and released her. Lizzy slipped past her mother, heading up the stairs to her room. Mrs. Bennet railed viciously against her stoic husband, while Mr. Collins could not seem to comprehend how Lizzy had slipped from his grasp.

It was not safe for Lizzy to be seen in the house for days. At the very sight of her, Mrs. Bennet would fly into hysterics. Lydia and Kitty were both astonished and amused that Lizzy could have pushed Mrs. Bennet so far. Though they had no wish to marry Mr. Collins themselves, they did not understand how Lizzy's refusal had so enraged their mother.

The one good thing about the failed proposal was that Mr. Collins spent an increasing amount of time away from Longbourn. Lizzy didn't know and didn't care where he had gone to. She was just happy not to have to deal with his disapproval as well as her mother's. He spoke even more now, but it was all resentful, and focused on the many advantages she had lost by refusing him.

The monotonous days of complaints against her dragged on, broken only when Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy called on them one afternoon. Jane was transparently ecstatic at seeing Mr. Bingley again, but Lizzy could have done without Mr. Darcy's presence. Yet one more person who disapproved of her. At least his wolf was more welcoming. She could feel it even if Mr. Darcy did not let it show in his features.

Mrs. Bennet reluctantly left off criticizing her second daughter in favor of praising her first, something which Mr. Bingley did not need convincing of. Mr. Collins remained inconsolable though. That day his comments were particularly snide and hurtful, but she ignored them bravely. She thought the visit was going well, for a time, until Charlotte came as well.

The gentlemen and Lizzy rose as Charlotte was announced. Lizzy went to greet her old friend, but Mr. Collins beat her there. He took Charlotte's hand, and then faced the room as a whole. "I should like to make an announcement," he said in a nasally tone, his eyes narrowed maliciously toward Lizzy. "I have asked, and Miss Lucas has accepted, and we are now engaged to be married."

Posted on: 2013-04-30

Chapter Nine

Stunned silence met Mr. Collins' declaration. Mrs. Bennet trembled like a teapot ready to burst. Lizzy stared at her friend, feeling the bottom drop out of her stomach. Charlotte blushed and looked away, leaving no doubt of the truth of Mr. Collin's statement. Mr. Bingley was the first to rise and give congratulations. At that a rather disheartened murmur of praise rose from the others. Lizzy could not take a moment more. She pushed past the couple, escaping into the garden.

The air was cold, but at least it was not raining. She paced furiously. How could Charlotte marry that man? Hadn't they both made fun of him equally? And all those times Charlotte had deflected his attention to herself? She had never dreamed that her friend had had ulterior designs on him! It felt like a betrayal of their friendship. Why would she marry a man she had to cast a mute spell on to get any rest? She couldn't love him; that was impossible. She had never thought Charlotte to be soÉ mercenary.

"Lizzy, wait!" Charlotte called behind her.

Lizzy snarled to herself and walked faster. She heard Charlotte mutter something, and suddenly she tripped over an invisible block. Furiously she rounded on her former friend. Vines sprang up rampant and tangled Charlotte's limbs. She stopped, and sighed. "Please, Lizzy, it doesn't have to be like this," she said.

"No?" Lizzy asked pointedly. "You went behind my back!"

Charlotte's chin rose in defiance. "You didn't want him, so why shouldn't I have him?" Then she shook her head, and slumped. "Please, I wanted to talk to you first, but there wasn't time."

"How could you do this? You don't even like the man!"

Charlotte looked down. "He's not too bad, really, if you just let him go on."

Lizzy stared at her aghast. "But how can you stand it? You realize you'll be living under the thumb of his patroness?"

Charlotte paled a little, but put on a brave face. "I'm sure she's not so bad. Mr. Collins does have a tendency to exaggerate."

"What about love?" Lizzy asked shrewdly. It was her trump card, and she expected it to hit Charlotte deeply. Instead the other girl relaxed further.

"I'm not like you, Lizzy," she said calmly. "I'm a year older than Jane, do you realize that? And I'm not pretty like her, or smart like you. I'm not going to get another offer like this, or any offer at all. No one here even looks at me like that, and it's not like I can travel to London for the season. I never wanted to marry for love. I just wanted to marry at all, to have a house and children of my own. Mr. Collins is as good as any for that."

Lizzy stood gaping at her. "I don't understand," she said stupidly. She always thought Charlotte wanted the same things she did in life. How could she have been so wrong about the girl she'd known all her life?

"No, I didn't expect you to," Charlotte said sadly. "Lizzy, I'd like you to be my maid of honor, but I understand if you can't."

"IÉ I'm sorryÉ" Lizzy shook her head slowly, unable to collect her thoughts. The vines holding Charlotte loosened and dropped away. The girls stood in the garden for a long moment. Charlotte studied Lizzy, while Lizzy looked anywhere but at her. Finally Charlotte parted, leaving Lizzy in the garden alone. It would be the last time she would see Charlotte Lucas, for the next time they met, Charlotte would have exchanged her surname for another.

The cold invigorated Darcy. He would never admit it, but the crisp weather made him feel young and excited again. He remembered epic snowball fights at Pemberley, coming in afterwards with nose and ears half frozen, and being eager to get out there again. He remembered building snow forts with his cousin, of making sure his tiny sister was tightly bundled tightly against the chill, and setting her up on a snow throne. Even realizing that Wickham shared many of those memories did not dampen them.

It wasn't snowing yet in Hertfordshire, but there was a bite of cold in the air that made him think of the snow. A dozen pleasant memories rose up in him at the sight of his breath frosting the air. Things he had long forgotten, or set aside in the responsibilities of adulthood, came back to him in crystal focus.

And it was all that damned wolf's fault. The cold made the wolf feelÉ frisky, and it was hard to keep a grin off his face because of it. Every time he went outside he wanted to go bounding over the land, for the sheer joy of it. He found that the cold did not affect him as much as it had. It was like he had the benefit of his thick fur coat even when he was human.

It was disconcerting to have his wolf abduct his memories and emotions like this, but it was not unpleasant. In truth, for the first time since that summer, he was almost content with his transformation. Only one thing could make him happier, and that was to be able to face Georgiana and apologize to her for all the hurt he had caused her.

He felt scared and guilty every time he thought of her, and knew he wasn't ready to face her yet. He had run away, he acknowledged. Instead of staying and face the grey look on her face, he had fled as far as he could. He used the guise of leaving for her own safety, but it was a lie. He wrote a letter to her for the first time in months, and waited for its reply with his heart in his throat.

He found himself pacing the halls of Netherfield restlessly. The house often seemed too close and hot for him, and he sought refuge outside. He could not ride, but he walked the property with great vigor. He found his gaze drifting toward Longbourn often, and chastised himself for it. His wolf missed Elizabeth. He would be lying if he said he didn't miss her as well, at least a little. She was the only person he had met since coming here that could read intelligently, and then discuss the book afterwards. How strangely she had gotten under his skin! He rather thought his time in Hertfordshire was coming to a close.

He had instructed Charles in the running of the estate. Whether Charles chose to keep Netherfield or look into other properties was up to him now. Darcy had been away too long from Pemberley, and his sister. If she was willing, it was time for them to meet again. They could repair the rift between them, and start over. That was something he would forever be grateful to Elizabeth for.

He was utterly convinced that it was her which caused his wolf to so change. Maybe it would have happened eventually on its own, but there was no doubt she had greatly hastened the process, even unknowingly. Indeed, during the time she had spent at Netherfield, he had learned as much about his wolf as about her. The more time he spent in his lupine form, the easier it became to communicate with his wolf, and to arrange a peace between them.

The wolf was rather discontent now, as he was no longer let out to play so often. Secretly, Darcy missed the time he had spent as a wolf. There was something freeing about it, something that appealed to him. How nice it was to shrug off responsibilities for a while, to simply exist. There was more to it than that.

Darcy couldn't bring it up to Charles, but he was certain that the trick to being able to control his wolf was not to shunt it aside, but to acknowledge it as part of him. It was a strength. It was a weakness. It would be with him for the rest of his life, and if his wolf continued to be so well behaved, there was no reason why his life shouldn't go on for a very long time. Since being infected at Ramsgate, he had been certain his life would end with a silver bullet, sooner rather than later. He was not so sure of that anymore.

His wolf had a joy of life that was infectious, but more than that, his enthusiasm reawakened Darcy's own lust to live. He had forgotten what a simple pleasure walking was, or eating, or just sitting warm and full while a storm raged outside. In a way, the wolf had turned him into an infant again, and he was rediscovering things he had long taken for granted. After all, his wolf was not yet a year old; in human terms, he would still be learning to crawl. Perhaps it was forgivable that everything new was exciting for his wolf.

Secretly, every third day or so, he locked himself in his room after dinner and spent an hour or two as a wolf. He did not allow himself to go out or be seen, but he practiced moving and using his senses. His wolf was more than eager to share his knowledge. Darcy fumbled, but eventually began realizing that he could equally share information with his wolf. As their connection deepened, the change became easier and swifter. It no longer hurt as such, and the headaches and hypersensitive senses from shifting back was practically non-existent. He had never dreamed he would have such a powerful body at his command.

He realized he could channel his wolf, perhaps change just the slightest bit, to greatly increase his strength and speed. The equipment in the exercise room wore out at such a rate that Darcy had to stop using it, for fear Charles would notice. And he was still growing, he realized. Every day he felt stronger, more alive. His wolf was becoming part of him, and he a part of it. Perhaps part of that was the waxing moon, and that the wolf grew stronger as the moon approached its zenith.

One night, Darcy and Charles sat in Charles' study after the ladies had retired. They sat in comfortable chairs in front of the fire, nursing glasses of brandy. Charles had already drained his cup once, and was sipping from his second slowly. Darcy's first was still nearly full. He found his tolerance of liquor had declined sharply. His wolf did not like any substance that altered his perception, and in any case it did not taste the same to him. The wolf did not care for the taste, but Darcy found that a small sip was enough to experience the full flavor.

He held his cup on his knee, more for show than because he would actually drink it. Charles sprawled boneless in his chair, utterly relaxed. "I think I love Miss Bennet, Fitzwilliam," he said suddenly. Darcy gave him a sharp look.

"I want to ask her to marry me."

Darcy put his cup aside, finding his desire for it had waned. "Do you think you're being hasty?" he began cautiously. This would not be a pleasant conversation, and he was not looking forward to it.

Charles rolled his head toward him without lifting it. He seemed to give the question due consideration, and then answered, "No, I do not think so."

"You have scarcely met her, Charles," he pointed out. "It has not yet been six weeks since we were here."
"I know, but I feel I have known her all my life. She is prefect for me."

"With all due respect, she is not."

Charles raised his head, becoming more alert. "Whatever do you mean?" he asked carefully. "Do you know something of her I do not? Has she some indiscretion in her past? Is she promised to another?"

"She is not, to my knowledge," Darcy allowed.

"Then I do not see how she is not perfect in every way."

"Charles, I ask you to think with your mind, not your heart. Have I ever led you wrong in this matter?"

"Not as yet," was the dubious reply.

"Then listen to me. Miss Bennet is a very pleasant creature, but she has no connections to speak of. One uncle in trade, another a lawyer? She cannot advance your status in society. You can only bring her up, but from your position, you need someone with the skills to navigate through social commitments. She cannot know such, living in this tiny county," he began as gently as possible.

Charles sat up, his brows starting to furrow. Darcy held up a forestalling hand.

"I know you will say that you do not desire such, but think of your sister. As much as I may not approve of her methods, she is trying to improve her situation. Miss Bennet is polite and kind, but cannot you see how she would be shredded by many ladies of our acquaintance in London? Would you expose her to such? She has no dowry to speak of, nor has her family any money beyond a bare sufferance.

"And to speak of her family. Surely you see how coarse and vulgar her mother is, to openly vilify her one daughter, and endlessly praise another whenever a suitor were present? Her younger sisters would be ruined within five minutes of entering a party in London. Would you have their mud tracked over your name? Their father is shameful in his neglect of both his estate and his family, making no move to check either his wife or his daughters. There is more, I fear."

Charles leaned back in his chair, his mouth slightly agape.

"Charles, I regret to inform you that she does not love you. I have observed her greatly when she is with you, and she does not show any particular inclination your way. I fear if she has made you feel different, is it only because she seeks your name and your fortune. I know you wish it was different, but that is what I have seen."

A heavy silence fell between them.

"Have you finished?" Charles asked at last.

"I have," Darcy replied, and braced himself for Charles' outburst. He would be upset at first, and then doubtful, and finally realize that he spoke only the truth. It had been so in the past, and would be again, until Charles found a worthy mate.

"Then with all due respect you're wrong," he said calmly.

Darcy blinked in surprise. Charles went on.

"Were I not sure you would trounce me in an instant, I would call you out this very moment. I trust you in a great many things, my friend. You have saved me from fortune hunters in the past, but in this instance you are so very wrong. Not in all things. It is true she has no dowry, and her family may be not what we're used to, but you cannot choose our families.

"Now I say to you: I have no need of dowry money. I know you might have hoped for better for me, but I have not desired to advance so very far in society. If I have a house to call my own, a wife to love and children at my knee, I shall be very content indeed. As for Jane being unable to survive society, I grant that she is not experienced, but she is smart and well-mannered. She would learn quickly.

"Moreover, the thing you are most wrong about is that she does love me. She has not said such, but I can tell, when I am near her. She does not openly express herself as you would like, but I am certain it is so. I will not be deterred from this, and I ask you to be my friend despite it. For your sake I may wait a bit, but I am set in my course."

Darcy sat back, utterly astonished. "You called her Jane," he said through numb lips. He was used to Charles being overly emotional, but this rational creature that faced him now was very different. Was it possible that Charles was truly in love this time, not just infatuated? Was that love great enough to overcome Miss Bennet's many disadvantages?

"Did I?" Charles shrugged. "We have not made an understanding yet, but I do not think it will be very long. Besides, I am surprised you would talk to me as such. What of Miss Elizabeth?"

Darcy was getting more shocked and confused by the moment. "What of her?" he demanded, with more heat than he intended. His wolf roused at the mention of her, and eyed the other man as if wondering whether it was necessary to come to her defense.

Charles smiled knowingly, but continued in his same logical tone of voice. "I know you think me a besotted fool when I am with my lovely Jane, but I have noticed that Miss Elizabeth is the only one of the family that you have spent any time speaking with. One might almost suppose that you have a preference for her."

Darcy sputtered. "It is not so," he said gruffly, thoroughly discomforted by now. "The wolf--it wants to be with her. Near her!"

"Is that so," Charles started to grin, then stopped himself. "I shall not interfere with your indiscretion, if you do not with mine," he said instead.

Darcy gaped openly at him. Who was this man that his young friend had grown into? While he had been struggling with his wolf, Charles had matured without noticing, enough to stand up to him. He could make no intelligent reply, and finally left the study. He retreated to his room, and paced the carpet wearily. What had happened this night? His perceptions were turned upside down. Was it true that Miss Bennet did actually love Charles? Would they be a good match? And what of Miss Elizabeth? He admitted that she was the only sensible one of the family--Miss Bennet was nice, but too meek for his interests--but that did not mean he preferred her!

Oh God, had he been leading her on unknowingly? If Charles had noticed, then who else might have? Was his name bandied about with Elizabeth's, as if their match already made? It was intolerable! And it didn't help that his wolf was openly sniggering at him. He stopped and queried the beast. The overwhelming impression that came to him was of puppies. The wolf showed Darcy the image of Charles, Miss Bennet, and several small children romping in the grass. Darcy was unsure if his wolf meant Charles and Miss Bennet would have puppies--children!--or if they were like puppies, both with their perpetually sunny dispositions. Perhaps both. In his current state, he did not dare ask what his wolf thought of Elizabeth.

He resumed pacing. He felt utterly restless. The moon was barely past half, but he felt as though it was already full. He wanted to go for a run. Then again, why shouldn't he? Everyone was asleep already, and he would stay away from Longbourn, he promised himself. So decided, he strode out of Netherfield. He chose a place just inside the trees, then disrobed and hid his clothes in an area that would hopefully stay dry.

The change took him quickly. His limbs flooded with power. His longed to throw back his head and howl his triumph to the sky, but restrained himself, barely. It occurred to him that he had never heard his howl before. He had been too insensible at first, and then when he began to gain control, it was too dangerous to howl. If Charles heard, he certainly would realize he was out here. Charles might not realize how much the wolf had grown, how he was both more dangerous--intelligence was a deadly weapon, and knowledge was power--and less. His wolf was no longer driven to mindlessly hunger for flesh.

So he stayed silent, but stretched his long legs in a blinding run. The wind was sharp and keen in his fur. He sprinted faster than a horse could run, and did not tire for many long minutes. He ran, not caring the direction, so long as it was not toward Longbourn. He found himself near Meryton, when he suddenly crossed a stink that made his wolf balk. He stopped and tested the air. Yes, there it was, a half-recognized scent that made his hackles bristle.

Wickham was in town. More, Wickham had been running through the woods as a wolf, spreading his scent over many trails. A thick bubbling growl rose in his throat, as he realized he could also scent Elizabeth. She had not been with Wickham, but it was clear these were her woods, her trails, and Wickham was following them. He spent the next several hours trailing Wickham's foul stench, covering it with his own. He had beaten the other wolf when he had been but a clumsy fledgling. He was so much greater now. It would be his pleasure to rip out the monster's throat.

When tales of werewolves were told late at night, around a campfire, it was creatures like Wickham they spoke about, the bloodthirsty, vicious ones. The stories of werewolves who found a truce with their wolves, like Darcy, were never spoken. He might not have felt such despair if he had realized he was not destined to become like Wickham. He obliterated Wickham's trails until the lightening sky warned him of oncoming dawn. He trotted back to Netherfield, still seething inside.

He would have to do something about Wickham, but he didn't know how to go about it in a way that wouldn't expose himself and Georgiana. Maybe Charles could help him. He had guided the younger man for so long, it was only right to see him stepping out of his shadow at last, and coming into his own. Yes, Charles would be a good consultant in this matter.

Lizzy was having bad dreams. She might have called them nightmares, but they were too formless for that. She hesitated to give them more power than they ought by naming them, but she found it difficult to sleep at night. The dreams were always the same. She was looking for something, maybe someone. And something else chased her. She could feel its hot breath on the back of her neck. She felt its malice and hunger directed at her, and she was powerless to escape it. Several times she woke from a deep sleep crying out, and feared to sleep again the rest of the night.

She did not have them all the time, but they were frequent enough that she dreaded the night time. She did not look out her window anymore. She did not long to go out into the garden at night. She scarcely dared to venture out of sight of the house during the day. No one noticed the changes in her, which was perhaps the most distressing of all. She had never felt so superfluous in her own family.

She was still in disgrace over refusing Mr. Collins, even more so now because Charlotte would be mistress of Longbourn when Mr. Bennet passed away. Her younger sisters were too caught up in their own pursuits to take notice of her, and her elder sister was happily distracted with her own courtship. Lizzy didn't know what was taking Mr. Bingley so long to declare himself. She was about ready to lock the two of them in a broom closet if he did not make up his mind soon.

And of course Charlotte was lost to her as a confidant. So that meant Lizzy was suffering alone, with no one to turn to. She only felt safe when she was in a large crowd of people. Even then, the noise sometimes shocked her, as she suffered fatigue from lack of sleep. She attended various card parties and dinners around Hertfordshire. She was too weary to deal with her younger sisters' boisterous antics and as a result their behavior was worse than usual.

The Netherfield party was in evidence at many of the same engagements. She hardly had to encourage Jane to greet them, because Mr. Bingley was always very prompt to collect her. Their names were well connected, not in the least by Mrs. Bennet. Lizzy was glad to see that Mr. Darcy appeared to be in better health than his first weeks in Hertfordshire, but he remained just as aloof and cold during gatherings. They did not dance again, and Lizzy gave up trying to have a decent conversation with him, as he always seemed to flee the second she looked in his direction. At least his wolf was in fine spirits, even if annoyed that Mr. Darcy was always removing himself from Lizzy's presence.

She became curious about the elusive creature that hid inside Mr. Darcy. Thinking about the werewolf was one of the few things that managed to drive the lurking dread out of her mind. She had never met someone who could become an animal before. It had been the fondest wish of her childhood to run as a deer, jump like a rabbit, burrow like a mouse, fly like a pigeon, and any number of things. She had been so sorely disappointed when she learned that shapeshifting was impossible. She had fantasized many hours that she could join her animal friends. They had indulged her, watching over her much as much as they would their own offspring.

She had gradually left her wish behind, but now that he had access to someone who actually became a wolf--didn't just become a wolf in body but had the mind and spirit of a wolf as well--her curiosity ran rampant. That wasn't the sort of conversation one could bring up in a dance hall though, even if Mr. Darcy was speaking with her. She considered writing him a letter, but could find no way an unmarried man and unmarried woman might exchange letters without causing a scandal. She was continually thwarted in her goal to know more about the werewolf, but she did not let that diminish her enthusiasm. All she knew was that when Mr. Darcy was near, or when she was thinking about his wolf, then the nameless fear faded, and gave her a measure of peace.

As much as Mr. Darcy avoided her, so another gentleman was only too happy to seek her out. Mr. Wickham was very careful to avoid Mr. Darcy, so much so that they never appeared in the same location. They might almost have been the same person, for one could not be present but for the other to be absent. However, in all other matters, they could not be more different from each other.

Mr. Darcy was prone to dark brooding, silent and proud even in the middle of a crowd. On the other hand, Mr. Wickham was bright and golden, his manners as pleasing in a group of people as they were when he singled out one person to converse with. He was not like Mr. Bingley, who was continually pleased by everything he met, but rather Mr. Wickham had an advanced discernment of people, in which he was adept at greeting the people who pleased him, while not encouraging the ones who did not.

He often sought Lizzy for conversation and dance. She found his company to be pleasant and flattering, but her mind was easily overwrought by his strong presence. She had never been a nervous creature before, but she found herself jumping at small noises, and frightened to be alone. She very greatly worried that she was becoming much like her mother, and strove to repress her sudden inclinations.

That Mr. Wickham knew Mr. Darcy was a werewolf, Lizzy did not doubt. It was never explicitly said, but when they were together, Mr. Wickham often intimated that Mr. Darcy was darker than even his behavior indicated. She made no move to either vilify or redeem Mr. Darcy. On the one hand, she could believe that the man was capable of at least some of the deeds of which Mr. Wickham accused. On the other hand, Mr. Wickham did not know Mr. Darcy's wolf in the slightest, and she would not hold the wolf responsible for the man's actions. She could quite clearly feel that the two were separate. The wolf was open to her magic. The man was utterly closed to it.

She got the impression that Mr. Wickham often left her presence frustrated with her. His manners would not allow him to show it as such, but sometimes there was a hint of brittleness to his expression as he excused himself. Nor did she allow herself to think Mr. Wickham was courting her. Though he was decent company for a time, he had not the qualities she would wish in a husband. She was not in love with him, nor was he with her. She observed him flirting equally with other ladies at the assemblies, including her own youngest sisters.

Eventually he appeared to gradually attach himself to one Mary King, she of the ten thousand pounds. Lizzy watched it happening, and congratulated herself on not having grown overly fond of Mr. Wickham. Instead, more and more, she came to wish to meet Mr. Darcy's wolf. She wished to actually see him, in the fur instead of locked behind flesh that wanted nothing to do with her. If Mr. Darcy was in control when he stood as a man, then reason led to the wolf controlling his time on four legs.

However, there was only one time at which she could actually guarantee seeing his true wolf form: the three nights of the full moon. She realized she knew next to nothing of the wolf's cycles, but she began to hope that the full moon might provide her the opportunity she so longed for. Mr. Darcy could avoid her all he wished, but she was certain his wolf would not do the same. Once the wolf was ascendant, he would be little different from the friends she already had in the Hertfordshire woods.

To that end, she soon concocted a plan to come upon Mr. Darcy at the full moon. Had she been more rested and in a better frame of mind, she would have realized the plan for the folly it was. She would be taking great risks, both with her reputation and with the discovery of the werewolf, but her enthusiasm pushed past such concerns with ease. She even went so far as to ask Mr. Bennet for clear weather on the nights of the full moon.

Mr. Bennet watched his favorite daughter's retreating back as she left his study. He remembered clearly the first time she had asked him for clear weather at night. She had been just four years old, and already headstrong enough to drive her mother crazy. His little Lizzy had come into her magic early. The rest of the girls had fairly exploded into their magic, Jane's tantrums causing the bath water to run out the tub, Mary constantly tossing the house, Kitty's blankets wrapping mummy-like about her, and of course Lydia making burns every time she cried.

But Lizzy had been a lot quieter. He supposed it was the ivy that was the first sign. Vines crawled up the side of the house, but around Lizzy's window they became especially thick, so that they had to be pruned back often. They hadn't realized it at the time, but their daughter used to throw the worst fits when the gardener was trimming the vines.

Next came the cats. They were always found in her crib. Mrs. Bennet fretted so much that they would smother Lizzy that the cats were banished, but most nights they still found a way in. Lizzy's first steps had been taken by clinging to the back of an old sheepdog. She had scarcely begun to crawl before she was tottering on two legs, clutching tenaciously to the dog's thick fur. Once she discovered the door to the garden, they could not keep Lizzy inside for any length of time.

One day the family held a picnic. Jane played with small air sprites Mr. Bennet called up. Mary was but a year old, not yet throwing things, and Kitty was not yet conceived. Mr. Bennet looked up from his oldest daughter to look at Lizzy. She sat in the grass with her back to all of them, talking to what he thought were imaginary friends. Then he saw motion in the grass next to her. Rather than alarm Mrs. Bennet, he stood quietly and moved to Lizzy.

Chapter Ten

A rabbit sat before her, with a family of a dozen mice surrounding it. Lizzy spoke, and it was very clear that the animals were following her lead. They all had names, and she giggled as she made a tunnel with her hands and watched the mice climb through them. They took turns as Lizzy said they must, a concept that the young girls were coming to learn about as the family grew.

"What are you doing, Lizzy?" Mr. Bennet asked.

"Playing," she said placidly, holding up one of the mice. "See? They like it. And the cats don't hurt them when I tell them not to."

"You tell the cats not to hurt the mice?" That explained why Mrs. Hill had been complaining lately.

Lizzy nodded seriously. "They can eat other mice, but these are my friends."

"And the bunny?"

"He's my friend too. He says the grass is sweeter when we have a picnic, and he likes it."

"You speak to animals often?"

Lizzy nodded, unconcerned. Light appeared in Mr. Bennet's head, and he asked, "And you speak with the plants too?"

She made a face. "Not as much. They just like growing and dirt and water. They're not as fun."

"Indeed not," Mr. Bennet agreed solemnly, but grinned with delight. He had been worried by Lizzy's apparent solitude and lack of magic compared to Jane, but now it was obvious her gift had bloomed without them noticing.

It had been almost a year later that Lizzy came to him in his study and asked, "Can you make it not rain tonight?"

They had been having a gentle spring shower for the last two days, and he was surprised by the request. "Why is that, Lizzy?" he asked, already knowing he would do it for her.

"Because Rosy is going to have babies, and I want to see them," was the indomitable answer.

"And who is Rosy?" he asked in bemusement. Lizzy had so many animal friends it was quite impossible to keep track of all of them.

"She's a fox, and she's having babies tonight. She told me so, and said I could come. But if it's raining the babies will get wet, and they'll be sick." It was a mark that she did not even think of her own health, though it was already established Jane would become deathly ill if sent into the rain.

"I'll see what I can do," Mr. Bennet promised, and his small daughter left.

Now, he thought ruefully, his daughter was not so small anymore. Where had the time gone? When had she grown into the beautiful young woman before him? Where was the little girl that had played with mice and rabbits in the garden? Wistfully, he thought it wouldn't be long before she was no longer asking him to clear the weather in order to see the animals in the forest, but to see a beau. He just hoped the time wasn't here now.

He sighed heavily, and then shook his head. He rifled the maps on his desk, pulling out a large one of Hertfordshire, and then one of the surrounding counties as well. He rested his hands on the maps, even as he unfocused his eyes and spread his senses into the wind. Air was everywhere, saw everything. Water moved in steady patterns, both under the earth and above it, a constant flow.

He studied the interaction between earth, water and air, learning much from how they swirled one another. It would not rain over the next few days, that much he was sure. Lizzy had given him four days to arrange the weather, which was better than when she used to demand it in hours as a child. The older she got, the more time she had learned to give him. It also became less frequent that she would ask him. Eventually, maybe soon, she wouldn't be his Lizzy, but someone else's wife. There would be no more asking then, so he was pleased she had thought to ask him at least one time more.

Guaranteeing no rain was easy, but what about a wind to shift the clouds? And another to warm the air a bit, so his Lizzy wouldn't get chilled. She would fuss and scold if he altered the weather too much, always fearing for his strength or the weather as a whole, but he would do as much as she allowed him. He could reach halfway through the Continent to pull weather patterns to him, though he would be upsetting many other weather witches and storm mages if he was reckless. Some were quite strong enough to pull back the weather, and he had no desire to start a conflict that could not end happily.

Instead he tried to stay as close and local as possible, to make sure if he directed certain patterns here and there, no area would get too much rain, cold, heat, or dry because of it. There were so many factors that played in, anything from the lay of the land to the people who lived upon it. It was as if a great game of chess, or perhaps three games at once, played on top of each other with pieces jumping from board to board in a complex dance. He loved that subtlety, the delicate work of it. He could lose himself in the weather, watching it for hours.

In this case, though, he had a mission. His Lizzy would have a clear full moon!

There were clouds on the morning of the first full moon, but evening time they were breaking up and blowing away. Animals shifted restlessly, and plants voiced vague complaints at the weather altered. Lizzy hoped she hadn't pushed her father too far this time. He loved the weather, but he was not a young man anymore. Was she being reckless to put her plan into action? Doubtless she was, but she was so determined to meet the wolf at last! She did not consider that she might be putting herself in danger, or that Mr. Darcy would be angry. She was too eager to obtain her goal, perhaps even obsessed with it.

As the sun sank toward the horizon, and the sky turned a deep red, Lizzy rose and announced that she wished to make peace with Charlotte. Mrs. Bennet sniffed and did not comment. No one wished to come with her, as late as it was. Jane spared a moment to worry about her traveling alone.

Lizzy's own fears rose, and she hid her trembling hands. "I'll have Reba," she said with a confidence she didn't feel. "And if all goes well, Charlotte will doubtless let me stay the night with her. She probably would, even if we argue again." She crossed her fingers, praying no one would catch her lie.

"Be safe, Lizzy," Jane wished, and returned to embroidering her handkerchief. A teasing comment about putting the wrong name on the handkerchief rose to Lizzy's lips, as surely Jane would not be a Bennet much longer, though she might still keep the B, but she refrained from making it. Instead she went to the stables and put a saddle and bridle on Reba. The black mare was much younger than Bart, not as steady, but much faster.

This night she wanted the mare's speed, to get her out of the darkness as quickly as possible. It was the only way she had convinced herself to go out, alone, at night, and even now her mouth was dry with fear. She took a bundle she had hidden days earlier and changed quickly into her oldest dress. She redid her hair and splashed a little dirt on her face, seeking to disguise herself. She would ride to Netherfield with an urgent letter to Mr. Bingley. If she could pass as a servant long enough to reach him, then she would beg to see Mr. Darcy's transformation. Mr. Bingley absolutely knew; there could be no harm in applying to him.

Such thoughts bolstered her as she mounted Reba and rode off. She took the road to Lucas Lodge if any were listening to her, but as soon as she was out of sight she took a short cut through the woods and was quickly on the path to Netherfield. The sun was sinking as she urged Reba to speed. She wished to meet with Mr. Darcy before he changed, but not give him enough time to refuse her.

Reba flew for all her worth, snorting at the oncoming darkness. Lizzy reached Netherfield and approached the servant's door confidently. She hugged a worn wrap to her tightly to disguise her form, and kept an oversized bonnet low over her face. The letter she had written, supposedly from her father, was clutched tightly in her fist. She dared not let go of it, for she had not been able to think of a single thing to put down besides an offer to play chess in his study.

The door opened. Lizzy boldly stepped into the house without an invitation, her fear of being exposed outside pushing her as much as her goal. The maid who'd opened the door squeaked in surprise. Lizzy was grateful it was not Holly or one of the other maids she'd gotten to know in her stay at Netherfield.

"Letter for Mr. Bingley!" she said gruffly, walking fast across the kitchen into the house proper. "Urgent!" she added as she heard voices call after her. She had an idea about the house's layout from her stay, but only the vaguest notion where Mr. Bingley might be at this time of night. She started to turn to the parlor, but stopped. The last thing she wanted to do was run into Miss Bingley or Mrs. Hurst. Maybe his study? She knew Mr. Bingley was not a great reader as Mr. Darcy was, but at least it was a place to start. She had a notion that it was close to the library, and directed her steps accordingly. Before she'd reached the stairs, the butler and two manservants caught up to her.

They blocked her path securely. She tried her letter excuse again, but the men would not let her through. They began herding her backwards, no matter how she tried to dodge around them. They took her under the arms to lift her out, and she began struggling in earnest. The four of them were making quite a fuss. Other servants came running to help, and Lizzy was badly outnumbered.

She thought she was quite lost, when a door opened on the first floor and Mr. Bingley came out. "What the hell is happening?" he demanded, looking deeply troubled.

"Mr. Bingley!" she shouted in her natural voice. He recognized her at once.

"Miss Elizabeth? What's going on?" he paled. "Oh my God, has something happened to Jane--Miss Bennet?"

Aha! Lizzy thought, he must be close to an offer if he calls her that! Mr. Bingley lunged at the servants holding her, pulling them off.

"Let her go!" he cried. "I know her, unhand her!"

She was released, and stood before Mr. Bingley, panting and disheveled. He grabbed her arms in panic. "Your sister, your family, are they alright?" he asked in panic.

"They're fine," she assured him automatically. Now that she with Mr. Bingley, all thoughts discarded her. That so many people stood around, clearly disapproving and obviously listening in, words quite deserted her. What could she say that would not reveal her purpose to all?

Mr. Bingley was clearly confused. "Then whyÉ?" he began, and blinked as he took in her unorthodox appearance.

"I wanted to--to," she blurted out, and froze. "To see--I thought to discuss a matter with yourself and Mr. Darcy."
Comprehension and horror dawned on Mr. Bingley's face at Mr. Darcy's name. He looked around, noticed the crowd, and snapped, "That is enough. Be away with you!"

The servants began dispersing reluctantly. Mr. Bingley gripped her arm tightly, and he looked quite furious. "I understand your concerns, Miss Elizabeth, but I assure you we have the situation well under control. I must ask you to leave now, I'm sure you understand why."

He began to pull her towards the front doors. Realizing he was going to put her out in the darkness again, she clawed at his hand. "No!" she shouted, forgetting her purpose here. She just knew if she left now, something terrible would happen to her. The sleepless nights and constant fear made her wild. She tore away from Mr. Bingley and sank against the wall, panting and looking everywhere from the sudden threat she felt.

"My God, you really are afraid of something out there, aren't you?" Mr. Bingley asked. He crouched down in front of her but did not touch her. "You understand that he is locked away inside, that he cannot harm anyone?"

She couldn't explain that it wasn't Mr. Darcy she was afraid of. Her heart hammered in her throat, and she felt tears threaten her eyes. She usually wasn't this mindlessly afraid! "P-please, m-may I see him?" she stammered, unable to look at Mr. Bingley. He sighed, muttered to himself, then stood and offered her a hand. "I suppose you have a right to know, for keeping our secret, but Darcy won't like it. A quick glance is all I can give you, do you understand?"

She nodded, and let him pull her to her feet. They went back to the room he had come out of. He stopped her. "Let me go first. What you see might not be pleasant, do you understand?"

Before she could reply, the door was suddenly jerked open. Mr. Darcy stood there, half undressed in just breeches and shirt open almost to his waist, barefoot.

"Who are you talking to--" he began, and his eyes fell on Lizzy. An incandescent rage suddenly lit his features.

"WHAT IS SHE DOING HERE?" he roared, and turned viciously on Mr. Bingley. He grabbed the smaller man and yanked him inside the room. Lizzy followed automatically. Mr. Darcy slammed Mr. Bingley into the wall, eliciting a grunt of pain from Mr. Bingley.

"HOW DARE YOU BRING HER INTO THIS!" Mr. Darcy shouted, slamming Mr. Bingley again. Mr. Bingley looked to be in serious danger of being murdered by his friend.

"Stop it!" she shouted, instinctively throwing magic at Mr. Darcy. He shrugged it off. Not just the man, but the wolf shed her magic like water off a duck's back. But it was enough to make him pause. And turn toward her.

She took a step back and he was instantly in front of her, moving so fast he was just there, seemed to have hardly moved at all. He took her shoulders in his hands and pushed her against the wall as well. He was gentler than he had been with Mr. Bingley, but it still made her gasp.

"Damn you for coming," he whispered, glaring at her. He trapped her, the heat of his body washing over her. She was acutely aware of his state of undress, of the quivering tension in every line of muscle. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe as he stared at her. His eyes were wild and uncontrolled. He was dangerous. She had never realized that before. She had been too caught up in the wonder of the wolf, and failed to realize that he was also a man, and one who was very angry with her.

She didn't know what might have happened, but suddenly he cried out and arched back from her. He fell, and Mr. Bingley stood behind him, bleeding from the nose and looking apologetic. "Flee," he told her in a choked voice, holding a dull silver butter knife. She grew dizzy as she realized the edge of the knife was red. Then with a growl Mr. Darcy was upon him. The werewolf moved impossibly fast. Mr. Bingley never had a chance to defend himself. He didn't even try, just went down under the furious werewolf.

"Please, Fitzwilliam!" Mr. Bingley cried, squeezing his eyes shut and tilting his head back. The gesture of surrender made Mr. Darcy hesitate. He stood again. The back of his shirt was ripped and seeping blood faintly. He staggered to a huge iron cage that dominated half the room and dived into it. He pulled the door shut behind him with a hideous clang, and a surge of pain from the wolf that made Lizzy cry out.

Mr. Bingley rolled to his feet and lunged for the cage. He clicked a lock on the cage and backed away from it. He came to stand beside Lizzy. Both of them were breathing hard, staring at Mr. Darcy. The werewolf crouched in the middle of the cage, back to them and arms wrapped around himself. He rocked back and forth, growling and whimpering in agony. Lizzy could feel it with her magic. The wolf could shrug off her commands with no effort when he chose, but she could still feel him.

"Are you alright?" Mr. Bingley asked.

She nodded, and then answered hoarsely, "He didn't hurt me."

"No, and you're lucky," he wiped at the blood on his nose, and then winced as his muscles pulled. "I think you should leave now."

"Please, I'd like to see him change," she felt selfish saying it, knowing how much Mr. Darcy was suffering.

"Then for God's sake at least turn away!" Mr. Bingley snapped. "He's fighting it because you're here. Nothing goes with him when he changes, do you understand that?"

Lizzy flushed brilliantly as she realized Mr. Darcy would lose what was left of his clothes as he shifted. She turned her back immediately. She would have left the room, but just then he gave a groan, and she heard him collapse to the floor. Cloth ripped. His growls deepened and became resonate. Then silence. She heard a soft snort. Mr. Bingley said quietly, "You may face him now."

She turned slowly, wondering what creature would face her inside the cage. She was expecting something huge and fearful, perhaps some nightmare from the netherworld. She was suddenly apprehensive about meeting the wolf, knowing that he was far stronger than she had ever guessed. She wasn't expecting what she saw. She stared dumbly at him. He stared back, silently watching her.

"Oh, Fitz," she whispered, and her legs gave out. She fell. With a roar Mr. Darcy lunged at the bars, as if they weren't there, only to be brought short with a deafening crash. Then there was only blackness.

Lizzy woke to the reek of vinegar in her nose and the sound of thunder in her ears. She twitched violently away from the stench, swatting at the air in front of her face and hitting someone's hand. "Thank God you're alright!" Mr. Bingley swore fervently.

She coughed, her eyes watering. "Get that away from me," she choked, "And hush!"

The thunder lowered in volume, but did not go away. She tried to sit up, but became dizzy and laid back. She was on the floor in the same room as before, her feet propped up on cushions while Mr. Bingley hovered over her with a stopper of vinegar. He set the sharp smelling liquid aside and knelt by her side.

"Don't try to move," he instructed. "You hit your head pretty hard. Good thing there's carpet in here, though it'll never be the same again."

She didn't reply. She blinked at him, and then at the ceiling. She tried to look everywhere but in one direction. There was a soft whine, and finally she had no choice but to turn her head toward it. She had hoped she had just imagined it, but no. There stood Fitz, her dog friend, in the cage. Mr. Darcy's wolf. The werewolf. He just looked at her. No tail wagging, no happy grin, no growls or whines. It was as though he recognized the solemnity of the moment.

She felt a tremendous sadness overtake her. It was as though a friend had died. In a way he had, because she'd learned that the dog that had been her friend was neither. She could not look over their interactions without regret. She had allowed a werewolf in her house. All the times he was with her when Jane was ill at Netherfield. It had been Mr. Darcy all along. What could he have been thinking, to allow himself such liberties? The man knew how dangerous his wolf form was. How could he not have been more careful to keep contained?

Even as she thought that, she knew the answer, and sighed. She reached a hand toward Mr. Darcy. He stretched a paw through the bars, but could not reach her. She felt his pain at being locked away. It wasn't just a wild animal's anxiety at being caged, but actual, physical ache at not being free. The werewolf literally could not exist as a caged animal. She supposed it could have been worse. He could have been a monster in truth, vicious and out of control. She had trusted Fitz when she thought he was just a dog. She was just hurt that she had been so thoroughly deceived.

She stirred and tried to sit again. Mr. Bingley helped her, and Mr. Darcy growled again, baring huge fangs. "He's not hurting me," she told Mr. Darcy, and he subsided reluctantly.

"Are you alright?" Mr. Bingley asked, hovering just out of arms' reach to appease Mr. Darcy. "You seemedÉ surprised. You've seen him before."

"I was. I have," she answered, tearing her eyes from Mr. Darcy to look at Mr. Bingley. A flare of anger took her. "You've been lying to me," she accused.

Mr. Bingley blinked. "I have?"

"Both of you have! If not by words, then by holding back information!" She struggled to her feet, refusing Mr. Bingley's help. She swayed woozily for a moment, then steadied herself. "You could have told me who he was!"

"Who--who he was? I don't understand. You knew he was a werewolf. You've seen him in wolf form before."

"I didn't know it was him!" she shouted. "I thought he was a dog! I thought he belonged to you or Mr. Hurst! The entire time Jane was here, he was with me nearly every second!" She recalled with mortification that she had changed her clothes in front of Fitz. He had looked out the window, and now she knew why. She felt betrayed and sullied.

"He was?" Mr. Bingley turned suddenly and looked at Mr. Darcy. The werewolf looked away, and a good portion of Lizzy's anger transferred to him. It seems there had been a lot more deceiving in this house than she'd guessed. She marched up to the cage. He leaned against the bars, trying to get nearer.

"How dare you!" she snarled at him. If the cage hadn't been in the way, she'd have slapped him, wolf or not. Now that she was looking, she saw the unmistakable lines of wolf under his thick coat. He still appeared dog-like, but clearly he was wolf, not dog. She should have known. There had always been something about him that was a little different, a portion that her magic couldn't touch. She realized now it was the part of him that was human.

"Wait, Miss Elizabeth, what do you mean you didn't know who he was? You called him Fitz!" Mr. Bingley asked in confusion.

She turned back to him, her face still hot. "I've always done that. Stray animals, I call them Fitz until I can think of a name for them. But he seemed to respond to it. What does that have to do with anything?"

"His name is Fitzwilliam Darcy! Oh my God, you really didn't know? How did you find out? You knew when you came here tonight."

"I found outÉ" she paused, then sighed. "At the picnic. I gave him a salve for his burns, from the silver?"
Mr. Bingley nodded impatiently, and she went on. "And when we were in the forest, a deer told me."

"Do you go into the forest often?" he seemed to have a knack for picking out the insignificant part of her story. Fitz huffed a sigh as though in agreement. She looked down at the wolf and realized she'd slipped back into thinking of him as Fitz. No matter how much she would like the blame Mr. Darcy for what happened, she had to acknowledge that the man was not currently present, and the wolf could not be held to the same standards.

"Could you let him out?" she asked plaintively.

"Uh, I don't think that's a good idea," Mr. Bingley began.

"Why not?"

"He'sÉ um, dangerous," he trailed off as he realized that the utterly calm wolf sitting in the cage did not act in the least dangerous. He frowned at the werewolf. "Damn me, that's the strangest thing I've ever seen! He's never that calm!"

"I can assure you, he means no harm, and he is as much in control as is possible for him."

"Control? Do you mean Darcy directs the wolf?"

She hesitated. "Not as such. Say rather, Fitz is paying attention to us, because he knows Mr. Darcy will have an interest in it later." She flushed as she realized she had addressed the werewolf partly by his Christian name. "I'm sorry, I just can't think of him as Mr. Darcy. It's because I can feel him with my magic. I know they share the same body, but the wolf isn't Mr. Darcy. They're completely separate."

Mr. Bingley nodded. "It fits him. He is like Darcy in some matters, but not completely. Fitz. And are you sure he will not run amok?"

She nodded. "Yes. Being in there like that, you don't know how it feels to him. It's like this great pressure in your chest, and you can't breathe. It hurts."

Mr. Bingley eyed her speculatively. "You can communicate with him?"

Fitz let out a yawn that ended in a whine, and she sighed. "I'm sure we both have a lot of questions, but if you could let him out firstÉ?"

"Oh, right," Mr. Bingley pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked the cage. Instantly Fitz bounded to the cage door. He shouldered it aside, deliberately bumping Mr. Bingley hard enough to make him stagger. He flashed his fangs silently, then planted himself in front of Lizzy firmly, glaring balefully at the other man. She was about to chastise the wolf when he relaxed, shook his fur, and then padded to her side. He sat down and leaned gently against her hip. She braced herself in the way that had grown familiar, but hesitated to touch him.

He looked up at her, clearly begging for attention. Tentatively she stroked his head, and then dug her fingers into his fur when he leaned harder and groaned. He didn't feel like Mr. Darcy. He felt like Fitz, the same as he always had. She knew they were the same, but it was hard to join them when they reacted to her so differently.

"Wow," Mr. Bingley whispered. "That is amazing. You know he has been my patient since becoming a werewolf, and he has never been soÉ docile before."

He reached a hand for Fitz. The wolf curled his lips and growled warningly. Mr. Bingley wisely dropped his hand.

"He, er, thinks you might have hurt me before," Lizzy explained apologetically. "And he associates you with pain."

Mr. Bingley nodded sadly. "Yes, I suppose that's not entirely surprising. I've tried to help him, but so few things are known about werewolves. In general they are just rabid beasts, killed within the first month or two of being infected. Those that live past that disappear. We assume they are killed and no one reports a body, but no one knows. Darcy isn't the first werewolf I've worked with, you know. The others have all died, or killed themselves. In the beginning, I thought he would go that route too. You didn't see what he was like in the beginning. He really was a monster." He rolled back his sleeve to reveal a recent scar on his arm, still fresh and red.

Lizzy winced. Fitz looked up at her, trusting. He had the same eyes as Mr. Darcy, dark blue with flecks of light green. How had she not seen that before? It had to have been willful ignorance.

"When we came to Hertfordshire, he started changing. We had no idea he could shift without the full moon, or in daylight. That he could control it at all, or that the wolf could be reasoned with." Mr. Bingley squatted on his haunches, head level with Fitz. "I'm sorry for all we put you through, old man," he said softly. Fitz glanced at him briefly, then away. The wolf relaxed slightly.

"He knows you didn't mean to hurt him, but it's going to take time," she translated.

"You're amazing," Mr. Bingley breathed fervently. She thought he was talking to Fitz, and then realized he was looking at her. Fitz growled softly. She flushed and leaned down to hug him. It was just her magic. She couldn't control it. It was a part of her, like her hair and eyes. She knew she was blessed with an incredible gift, but it seemed strange when people praised her for it. It was almost like praising the water for being wet, or a rock for being hard.

Fitz wagged his tail slowly, and she felt his warm reassurance. Just as she had learned to feel the wolf inside the man, so she now found Mr. Darcy inside Fitz. It was a blank spot, an area she couldn't reach or feel. It made her shiver, to think that her wolf friend had a whole person hidden inside him. How could she have never suspected before?

Posted on: 2013-05-06

A/N: There's a bit of blood in this chapter, and some grim tales, including some discussion of torture. I don't think it's too bad, but I'm warning you ahead of time.

Chapter Eleven

Mr. Bingley cleared his throat. "I was wondering, since things seemed to be going rather well, if you would not mind going somewhere more comfortable?"

Lizzy felt a moment of anxiety. Taking a werewolf for a walk? What kind of insanity was that? Fitz nudged her, and she remembered all the many times she had walked with him before. So long as she forgot Mr. Darcy, she felt confident with Fitz. She did wonder how much Mr. Darcy remembered in the morning though. No, maybe she better not think about it. If she did, she would get nervous, and she rather thought Fitz might become defensive. She nodded cautiously, straightening up.

Mr. Bingley opened the door and peered out with exaggerated care. He moved with such obvious stealth that she wondered how they had gone undiscovered thus far. Fitz made a quiet snort that was unmistakable laughter. He was genuinely fond of the man, she realized, and not just because of Mr. Darcy. But there was an air about him--Fitz considered him a lesser member of the pack, one who needed some management for his own benefit.

Lizzy paused at that. It was exactly the same as Mr. Darcy treated Mr. Bingley, she recalled. Which had come first? Had Mr. Darcy always looked after Mr. Bingley, or had it only emerged after he had become a werewolf? How much of Fitz was affected by Mr. Darcy, and how much of Mr. Darcy was affected by Fitz? Like earlier, when Mr. Darcy had discovered her here. She had been terrified of him. His strength and brutality was unimaginable. She'd felt how fragile her life was when he pinned her to the wall.

They had been angry, both Fitz and Mr. Darcy. The wolf's strength had bolstered the man's actions. What would have happened if she hadn't been there? What if he had gotten angry at Mr. Bingley for some other reason? How much control did one side actually have over the other? How long had he been a werewolf, anyway? That was going to be the first question she asked, for sure.

Mr. Bingley gestured them forward. Lizzy gripped Fitz's scruff for support, and walked out of the room. She felt a momentary fear of discovery, and then relaxed. If any questioned, many of the servants here thought Fitz was her dog already. Holly could vouch for them. Now that she had Fitz at her side, she no longer felt she was being stalked. She should have realized that was significant, that being near Mr. Darcy had made her feel as safe as when Fitz was at her side.

Mr. Bingley led them to the second story, and to his study. He stirred the coals, and quickly got a fire going. He was about to offer her a seat, when Fit demonstrated his uncanny intelligence. He went to one of the chairs, and shoved it effortlessly nearer the fire. Then he sat by it, and looked to her. She was grateful, as she felt rather cold, but at the same time it made her shiver. How much of his actions were guided by Fitz, and how much by Mr. Darcy? No dog or wolf would have thought to push the chair closer to the source of warmth.

Mr. Bingley thought so as well. He shook his head in wonder, and then gestured for her to take the seat. Fitz positioned himself between them, laying on her feet. She scratched his back absently, just as she had when he kept her feet warm in the library. He stretched out on his side, and managed to take up nearly all the room between the chairs and the fire.

Mr. Bingley sat, and for a moment Lizzy and he watched each other with anticipation. "I guess we both wish to learn from each other," he spoke first. "You ask what you want, and I'll answer to the best of my ability. If Mr. Darcy is feeling accommodating, he might answer more fully in the morning. The earliest he's ever changed back is at dawn. Why don't you go first?"

Lizzy made a face, thinking that the likelihood of Mr. Darcy being accommodating was very low. "How long has he been a werewolf?" she asked promptly, wondering if her question was too forward.

"Since this summer," Mr. Bingley answered. "So this is his fifth full moon."

For some reason the date stuck in her head. What else had happened this summer, in connection to Mr. Darcy? The memory wouldn't come, and she gave up trying to find it. "How did he become one?" she asked instead.

Fitz rolled to his chest and growled warningly at Mr. Bingley. That he understood their words was unmistakable. It was absolutely unnerving. She was used to her animal friends being very loyal, but rather stupid and not given to conversation beyond the moment. She had the feeling she could read out loud to Fitz, and Mr. Darcy would intelligently discuss it with her in the morning. Not that Mr. Darcy would actually stoop to have a conversation with her. She was glad Fitz was a good deal friendlier than his human counterpart.

Mr. Bingley stared at Fitz in shock. "I'm afraid that's a rather personal tale, Miss Elizabeth, one that involves others. You may ask Mr. Darcy should you wish, but it is not my story to divulge."

Fitz appeared mollified, and sank back to his side again.

"Do you mind if I take some notes?" Mr. Bingley asked. When Lizzy shook her head, he got up and retrieved a notebook and pen from the desk. "May I ask, how does your magic work?" he began. She answered hesitantly, having never described it to another person before. They traded questions back and forth. Lizzy learned much about werewolves in general, and Fitz in specific. Mr. Bingley held her in a kind of awe, using her to gage the werewolf's reactions.

He revealed that he had met Mr. Darcy at school, that they had been decent friends, and parted ways amiably as their studies separated them. When Mr. Darcy had suddenly come begging for his help years later, it had been something of a shock. He had studied werewolves before, though none he had known personally. Even though he grieved and worried for his friend, Mr. Darcy had provided him with a unique opportunity to know him before and after the infection, and document the changes that occurred.

Mr. Darcy allowed it, so long as his identity was kept secret. Mr. Bingley readily agreed, to the point that he hadn't even revealed his studies yet. He regarded Lizzy as yet another tool and opening to learn more. He did apologize for his enthusiasm, and begged her to say if she tired of his questions. After her initial uncertainty of not knowing him well, she found she did not mind answering him. Fitz was ever keen to her reactions, and quick to leap to her defense if she in the least felt the question improper.

Mr. Bingley scrawled pages of notes messily, getting ink over his fingers. After a few basic questions about Fitz and how her magic perceived him, both in the fur and within Mr. Darcy, most of his questions were asked about other animals and plants. She got the idea that he was collecting information about her talent, that he might best learn how to put it to use.

Hours passed without them noticing. Both were yawning, but neither wished to stop. Fitz dozed lightly on her feet, snoring gently. She would have teased him about it, but she worried what Mr. Darcy would say when he regained his tongue. Abruptly, as Lizzy was explaining how she gleaned information from plants, Fitz sat bolt upright and whined. Mr. Bingley started and looked at the time.

"It's almost dawn," he wondered, then yawned. "Strange to think we've been here all night." He rose stiffly and went to the door. He opened it, and Fitz left the room. Mr. Bingley looked back to Lizzy. She shook her head. "He'll be alright," she assured him.

"So strange," Mr. Bingley murmured. "Well, I can offer you the same room you stayed in last time, but I admit, I'm at a loss to explain why you're here."

"I came with a letter from Papa?" she suggested, feeling how flimsy her excuse was.

He shrugged. "Maybe Darcy'll have an idea. He's good with that sort of thing."

She said nothing. She wasn't as convinced as Mr. Bingley that everything would be forgiven with Mr. Darcy. "You're welcome to do whatever you wish," he said with another yawn, and then left her alone. For a moment she was at a loss. She felt so tired, she nearly fell asleep in the chair right there. The thought of what would happen if she were found there was enough to propel her out of the chair. She was half-asleep as she left the study. She was grateful to meet no one on the way to the room she had shared with Jane before.

She didn't want to linger at Netherfield. She feared to meet Mr. Darcy without the comforting presence of Fitz. More, she wanted to be able to rest at Longbourn, in her own room where she belonged. The room had obviously not been occupied since the last time she had been there. The bed looked inviting, but instead she sat in the small, uncomfortable chair beside the bed. She didn't want to risk falling into a deep sleep. She curled up as best she could on the chair, and allowed herself to catnap for perhaps half an hour.

She was woken by the sound of Miss Bingley screaming down the hallway. Having grown up with four sisters and an over-excitable mother, the noise wouldn't have disturbed her if she hadn't already been starting to stir. She jumped guiltily at the shrill sound, thinking for a moment she had been discovered. But no, after listening for a time, it became clear that one of the maids had taken an unexpected holiday, much to Miss Bingley's ire.

She suppressed a grin, and went to the pitcher on the table. It still had some water in it, stale but serviceable. She splashed water on her face and hands. It was cold enough to wake herself up. Thus invigorated, she left the room and sought the way to the stables. It was inevitable that she should be seen, but she attempted to stand to the side and lower her head discreetly when a servant passed by. She did not see any members of the household, for which she was most grateful.

She had very nearly made her escape complete, and feeling the relief of it, when she rounded a corner and came upon the person she most wished to avoid. She drew up short, staring in dismay. Mr. Darcy was fully dressed, unlike their last encounter, but there was still an air of restrained wildness about him. Fitz was sleeping very deeply within him, she sensed, but the wolf had not wholly removed from his muscles.

He stood still and silent, yet with a fluidity that would have been more at home in a winter wood than the halls of Netherfield. His skin was pale, his face drawn as though suffering illness again. His eyes were as dark and sunken as hers felt. They studied each other for a moment, neither speaking. She became aware of her old dress and wrap, and that she could not have wholly removed the dirt from her face with her brief refreshing. Wryly, she thought if she had been hardly tolerable that night at the dance, then now she must be rather painful to the senses.

Certainly his gaze traveled slowly from feature to feature, as though cataloging each flaw carefully. The scrutiny was unnerving, but it gave her the strength to hold her chin up and brush past him. The wolf's spirit might have been resting, but the predatory instinct was something he could never escape. She did not bow her head and creep past as a field mouse; such would only provoke him, especially as he was already inclined not to feel kindly toward her.

Instead, though the hallway was broad enough to pass without touching, she walked close to him, moving with measured, bold strides. She bumped him with her shoulder hard enough to make him step back, out of her way, and did not look back at him as she left. He did not follow her. She did not relax until she was in the stables, and readying Reba. Then she let out her breath in a rush, and her hands began trembling.

She had so desperately wished to meet Mr. Darcy's wolf. Finding out she already knew him had left her both relieved and infuriated. It gave her greater insight into her dealings with him, but it also made things more complicated. He was a conflicted man. The human side of him wished nothing to do with her; she was beneath him in every way. But Fitz was a different matter. And no matter how he might adjust to living as beast and man, he would never be fully human again. That was something he had to live with, something she instinctively knew he still struggled with.

Tempting him, provoking him, was a dangerous pastime, yet if she did not, he could very easily fall upon her as his rightful prey. She had to make him see that she was not weak or frightened, though compared to him she was both. That was one of the reasons she was so eager to return to Longbourn. She did not think she could bear to stay long in a house with a volatile werewolf.

She mounted Reba, and sent the little black mare towards home. She sighed in relief as she left the shadow of Netherfield. She felt eyes on her back, but refused to glance around. She briefly thought of her fearful stalker, but dismissed her concerns. Currently, she was on the territory of a very powerful werewolf indeed. She doubted any would dare to cross him while still in sight of the house. Still, a chill swept over her when Netherfield was out of sight, and she let Reba pick up into a light canter as they sped home.

She felt the pack at Longbourn before she saw them. She rounded the road to Longbourn to see more than a dozen of Sir William Lucas's foxhounds milling in the garden and stables. Reba balked with a snort, instantly alarmed at the dogs. They saw her and started to run toward them, beginning their bays. She shushed them with her magic, and then asked them to make a path for her. They did--dogs were much more accommodating than werewolves, she sniggered at the comparison--and she persuaded Reba to walk into the stables.

Once the mare was taken care of, she thought to sneak into Longbourn and retire to her own room. That was not to be the case. No sooner had she opened the back door than Mrs. Hill, their housekeeper, let out a scream and enveloped her in a hug. She had no time to extract herself before Mrs. Hill had her arm and was dragging her into the parlor. Mrs. Hill was sobbing incoherently, and the noise caused the rest of the household to come running.

Lizzy found herself attacked on all sides by her sisters, who each seemed intent on squeezing her to death. Jane and Mary spoke over each other, and Lydia and Kitty cried so much as to rend everything unintelligible. Then they were bowled aside by Mrs. Bennet, who seized Lizzy and sobbed into her shoulder, so great were her hysterics. Sir William was there was well, looking pale but relieved, and even Mr. Bennet reached around his wife to grip her arm in reassurance. There were tears in his eyes, and that shocked her more than anything.

"Oh my darling girl!" Mrs. Bennet was crying--screaming was more accurate--into Lizzy's ear. "My dear girl, brought back to us safe!"

She patted her mother awkwardly, looking to her father and Sir William for an explanation. Mr. Bennet finally took it upon himself to calm his wife. He managed to pry her off Lizzy, but her mother kept such a tight grip upon her wrist that she had no choice but to follow. She was made to sit at Mrs. Bennet's side, where she was made much of by all present.

"What is going on?" she asked when the volume calmed to a reasonable level.

Sir William answered. "A girl was found dead just off the road to Meryton," he said grimly. Her stomach lurched in horror. "A werewolf did it."

The air left her lungs. She fell back against the couch, her vision going grey. There was a dull rushing in her ears. She shook her head, desperately trying to fight off the swoon. All she could think was that it hadn't been Fitz--he had never left her sight all night. And hard on those heels came another realization: there was another werewolf in Hertfordshire. She thought instantly of the missing pale wolf, and the invisible stalker that had been plaguing her for weeks.

"How do you know?" she asked faintly. "How are you sure that it was a werewolf?" All she could think was that she had to get back to Netherfield, to warn Mr. Darcy.

"No, don't--" Mr. Bennet began, but Sir William cut him off.

"There is evidence that the young woman was attacked by both a man and a wolf," he answered curtly. Kitty and Lydia screamed. Her stomach heaved, and she tasted bile in the back of her throat. Part of her wanted to say, not possible, not possible, but she knew only too well that it was. She pictured Fitz clearly in her mind, seeing him for once not as the friendly wolf he was, but as the powerful and dangerous creature that was the truth of him. Had he not been friendly, had he truly been a being of rage and uncontrolled fury, she shuddered to think of all the damage he could do. She might not like Mr. Darcy, but she was grateful he was a man of principles, and that Mr. Bingley was equally a worthy soul. She shuddered to realize what an unscrupulous person could do with the strength of a werewolf. What someone had already done.

"I have to ask you, where were you last night?" Sir William asked.

The room fell suddenly silent. Every eye turned to her. Desperately she looked to her father, who knew she wanted the weather clear for a reason, and Jane. She couldn't reveal she was at Netherfield all night, unchaperoned with the man her sister loved, and another man who carried a devastating secret. "I was--I was out," she said desperately, her mind racing futilely. If only she wasn't so tired, so worn out from weeks of not sleeping well and jumping at every shadow!

"In the woods?" Sir William demanded.

"I went to Oakham Mount!" she blurted. She was confused. Was she being accused of being the werewolf? But Sir William had said the girl had been attacked by a manÉ she blanched at the thought of what that meant.

"And you saw or heard nothing?"

She shook her head, then remembered, "The animals were nervous." At the time she'd thought it was because of her father's weather casting. The plants had picked up the disturbance too, after all. But what if the animals had been more nervous, because of the monster in their midst? She remembered that Mr. Darcy had not changed until after her arrival at Netherfield. But he was very new to being a werewolf. What if the other had more experience, and changed sooner? She was lucky to have made it to Netherfield alive!

"Do you think you could come with my hounds to the scene of the attack, and tell them to track the vile beast?" Sir William asked.

"Certainly not!" Mr. Bennet roared.

"She wouldn't have to see the body," Sir William said weakly, but at that point Mrs. Bennet verbally flew at him, berating him so fiercely that he quickly retreated. Just before he left, she stopped him. "Sir William," she called. He paused. "Who was it? Who was the girl who was killed?"

He shrugged. "Some maid from Netherfield, I think. What was her name? Dolly? Molly?"

Holly. Lizzy thought of the polite, happy maid, the same age as Lydia. She had been nice. The terror and horror of the situation suddenly rose up inside her, and came out as a long, drawn out scream. Her family swarmed her, and she remembered nothing.

Lizzy woke with the sickeningly bitter taste of laudanum in her mouth. She rolled over and grabbed the chamber pot to retch in. She got water from the pitcher and rinsed out her mouth. Her hands were shaking so hard she nearly dropped the pitcher. What time was it? She looked out the window, to see that it was full evening. She had to get to Netherfield, and warn them! Given that her family had drugged her with laudanum to finally calm her--she vaguely remembered screaming and fighting with them--they wouldn't allow her out. Her head was still weirdly muzzy from the medicine, but she was determined to escape.

She opened her window and looked out. It had been a very long time since she had climbed down the trellis outside her window, but the vines growing on that side of the house had only become stronger with her presence. She was sure they would still hold her weight. She changed quickly into her sturdiest, warmth dress, and climbed down from her window. Reba complained about being asked to go out two nights in a row, but she quieted the mare with a stroke of her magic, and led her out of the stable.

Only once they were out of sight of Longbourn did Lizzy mount up, and rode like the devil toward Netherfield. Knowing there was another werewolf on the loose, and that he could very well be coming after her, she pushed Reba to her limits. She opened a link to the mare, and her magic flowed into her, speeding her feet more. When Lizzy reached Netherfield, she was so exhausted she could barely see. She sat a moment on Reba's back, blinking stupidly. Reba dripped sweat and her breath rocked Lizzy on her back.

One of the stables boys approached cautiously. She smiled gratefully at him, gathered her strength, and slid off Reba. Her legs threatened to give out under her, but she caught herself on Reba's mane, and steadied. She knocked on Netherfield's doors. She had come to the main entrance rather than the back. She didn't have a plausible excuse to be here, just before sundown, but she didn't care.

The butler opened the door.

"Please, I need to see Mr. Bingley!" she blurted desperately. His eyes widened in surprise for an instant, but he masked it quickly.

"Yes," he said in a polished, somewhat disapproving tone, "The master left word that were you to come, I should show you to the library." He stepped aside, and led her through the house. She already knew the way to the library, but she followed at a demure pace, trying to get her breath back. She kept wondering where Mr. Darcy was. Had he become Fitz already? Were they in that caged room? Why go to the library?

"Miss Elizabeth Bennet," the butler announced, opening the door to the library. She stepped through at once. The door was shut behind her. The room was uncommonly dim, only a fire in the grate and a couple candles on a desk illuminating it. The curtains were drawn, blocking the rapidly darkening sky.

She blinked, adjusting to the shadows. Mr. Darcy had been leaning against the fireplace when she entered, but when her name was announced he spun to face her. He was fully dressed still, much as he had been that morning. His expression was only what she could call tortured. Deep lines were drawn on his face, and his eyes were dark and wild. He crossed to her in two strides and grabbed her arm in a tight grip. She swayed on her feet as his presence, hot and untempered, swept over her. Her exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her, and though she tried to stand on her own, it was likely only his hand was keeping her upright.

"Miss Elizabeth," he said her name like a low oath. "Thank God you're alright." His eyes caught the firelight from certain angles. Instead of reflecting ruddy-orange as she might expect, they were bright green.

"There's another werewolf!" she squeaked, leaning too heavily on his hand. He didn't seem to notice.
"We know," Mr. Bingley said, and for the first time she realized he was in the room with them. He stood from behind a desk, moving forward cautiously. Mr. Darcy did not look at him, never tearing his eyes from her, but she saw his face tighten. She felt, rather than saw, his body coiling. She waved Mr. Bingley back urgently. He might look more like himself than he had last night, before the change, but clearly he was just as strongly affected.

"You know?" she repeated dumbly. She stared at Mr. Darcy's hard face, feeling the fury come off him in waves. "You know who it is." It wasn't a question. Their lack of surprise at her announcement had already confirmed it. Looking at Mr. Darcy, she realized something else. "You're hunting him."

This time Fitz answered her. She felt him supersede Mr. Darcy, and it was he who pulled back lips to snarl with blunt human teeth. The rage from both of them was overwhelming, and utterly terrifying. She didn't need her magic to sense Mr. Darcy's anger, and was grateful her magic never worked with people. Feeling Fitz's fury was bad enough. It made her want to cower in the corner, and it wasn't even directed at her! Volcanoes did not contain so much seething power as was locked inside the two of them at that moment.

Mr. Darcy shuddered and released her arm. She staggered and barely managed to keep her balance. He withdrew, closing his eyes and shaking. She felt Fitz being forced back. The struggle inside him was like nothing she had ever seen, vicious and brutal. She could not sense what Mr. Darcy did, but she could almost see Fitz pacing inside him. The wolf bit and tore at something beyond her senses, and winced as he was attacked in return. She had long ago realized that Mr. Darcy was a conflicted man, struggling against his wolf, but never had she guessed how bad it was.

They were tearing each other apart. She stepped forward without thinking. Mr. Bingley raised a hand to caution her, but did not dare approach himself. For some reason Lizzy could get close to Fitz and Mr. Darcy where Mr. Bingley could not. "Mr. Darcy," she whispered, "I might be able to help, but you have to let me." She could still remember how easily Fitz had thrown off her magic; she could do nothing without their consent.

He made a choking noise, shaking visibly, and then nodded. She extended her magic toward him slowly, not wishing to cause more harm. It was no good. Fitz was in a berserker rage, and not listening to anything. Worse, she could feel the change drawing nearer. Should he change in this state, it could be a disaster for them all.

She leaned forward and grabbed his shoulder, seeking contact with him. Instantly she felt Fitz, hotter and closer. He paused in his attack on Mr. Darcy's spirit. She was unable to calm him, but she did feel him rein in his fury. It wasn't truly Mr. Darcy that he wished to tear apart. She gulped as she realized she could almost feel flesh rending under her nails, parting between her teeth. His desire for it was so great it swamped her. He realized it and withdrew again with a silent apology.

Mr. Darcy let out a breath of relief and relaxed slightly. "Thank you," he breathed. In the next instant pain shot through Fitz, and Mr. Darcy and Lizzy cried out with it. She jerked her hand back from them, severing the connection. "Charles," he choked out.

Lizzy backed away as Mr. Bingley came forward. Mr. Darcy made another pained sound and bent over. Mr. Bingley put Mr. Darcy's arm around his shoulders and began helping him toward the back of the library. Lizzy went to the door, thinking she shouldn't be here for the transformation, but as her hand reached for the handle Mr. Darcy suddenly stopped and turned toward her.

"No!" he shouted. She gasped and stared at him. His face rippled as the wolf fought to break free. It was simultaneously the most terrifying and fascinating thing she had ever seen.

"Please stay, Miss Elizabeth," Mr. Bingley panted.

Her hand fell away, the door untouched. Only then was Mr. Bingley able to coax Mr. Darcy away from her. The shelves in Netherfield's library were mostly empty, but there were enough of them to form two reading coves in the back. It was towards one of these that Mr. Bingley directed Mr. Darcy. They disappeared, and she heard them panting and struggling to bare Mr. Darcy for the change. Why had he waited so long? It was clear he had been holding off the shift even before she had arrived. From what she understood, the more he fought it, the more painful it became for him. It certainly wasn't pleasant for Fitz, she could feel that much, and imagined it was no better for Mr. Darcy.

At last the library fell silent except for the sound of Mr. Bingley's panting. Then he suddenly grunted. One of the sadly empty shelves wobbled precariously as it was shoved, and then Fitz stood in the middle of the library, his claws digging into the carpet. She gulped and backed away fearfully. Always before Fitz had taken care to appear harmless and non-threatening, fully knowing that his size alone made him a frightening prospect. He had no such caution tonight.

His head was up, glaring right at her. His tail was arched over his back, and he moved with powerful deliberation. Her back hit the wall and he sprang at her. She had no time to shriek before he was on her. He rose on his hind legs, his front paws landing heavily on her shoulders. She was crushed to the wall by his weight, the breath knocked out of her. He completely engulfed her. Mr. Bingley emerged, disheveled, from the alcove and panicked to see her pinned.

He started forward, though what he could do to the massive werewolf barehanded was a mystery. Fitz's head whipped toward him and he growled menacingly. She reached up and grabbed his fur. She could not hope to restrain him, but perhaps she could distract him. His paws were leaving bruises on her shoulders, but other than that she was not being harmed. He had never hurt her, she realized. Never intentionally. She had to believe that counted for something.

He looked back at her, his eyes catching the firelight balefully. He placed his nose at the base of her throat and inhaled deeply. She felt the cool air sweep over her exposed skin, and then the warmth as he exhaled. She shivered, trying to hide her reaction. Fitz pressed his head to hers, cheek to jowl, and then repeated his action on the other side.

He was marking her with his scent, she realized, and didn't know whether to be furious or frightened. Certainly she would have never allowed a normal animal to mark her like this. But Fitz was neither normal, nor in a frame of mind to listen to her. His task done, he dropped to the floor. She let out a breath of relief that nothing more had happened. Fitz licked her hand once, as if in apology.

Then he went to the door, nudged the handle, and looked imperiously at them.

"He wants out," she translated unnecessarily. Neither of them moved to open the door.

"Is it safe?" Mr. Bingley wondered, frowning at Fitz. The wolf growled, let out a soft bark that made dust fall from the ceiling, and scratched at the door. His claws left rake marks broader than Lizzy's outspread fingers.

"I don't think we have a choice," she answered quietly. Mr. Bingley approached the door. Fitz stepped to the side to allow him access. Mr. Bingley opened the door, but Fitz did not immediately bound through. He bumped the man with his shoulder gently, which meant Mr. Bingley staggered back two steps instead of being thrown across the room. It was a friendly gesture, one that meant the same as scent-marking Lizzy: they were under his protection.

Lizzy and Mr. Bingley followed Fitz to the front door, which Mr. Bingley hastened to open before Fitz could leave more claw marks. The cold night air streamed in. Lizzy shivered, not with cold. She thought of the other werewolf out there, doubtless already claiming the darkness. Had he marked a victim, the same way Fitz had marked herself and Mr. Bingley? Was he even now killing another girl like Lydia or Kitty? Did he realize that a rival had entered the scene?

Fitz stood in the threshold, taking deep breaths of fresh air. She felt his joy at being free. He reveled in the night; it was not a barrier to his senses but an open invitation. He turned his head to look at Mr. Bingley and Lizzy. He licked Lizzy's hand again, and set off in the night. She wanted to tell him to wait. She wanted to beg him not to go, to stay with them and be safe. But he had been challenged. A girl had been taken from his own household. Even if Mr. Bingley was the technical master of Netherfield, the fact was that Fitz had laid a claim to everyone within its walls. For one to be taken by another werewolf was the worst grievance, and he would not let that stand. She understood that for once Mr. Darcy agreed with Fitz. Fitz saw the challenge, but Mr. Darcy understood the true horror of a creature murdering people in Hertfordshire. They would stop it, or die trying. It was the last she was afraid of.

Fitz loped out of sight, remaining silent as he began his hunt. His dark fur blended into the shadows, and he was gone.
?

Chapter Twelve

Mr. Bingley shut the door, looking as troubled as she felt. "Shall we retire to the library?" he suggested. "It has a window overlooking the lawn, where we might see him return."

She nodded, and once again they traveled to the library. Mr. Bingley clucked over the shallow scratches on the door. He ran his hand over them, and they disappeared.

"It must be very handy to have magic like that," Lizzy commented nervously.

Mr. Bingley looked up. "I don't know, I think I would have rather had magic like yours. To be able to talk with plants or animalsÉ I think I would have become a circus performer, or a famous botanist."

She forced a wan laugh. "But when your werewolf friend comes to call, you could not repair the damage he does to your door."

"But I would be able to talk with him, perhaps," he pointed out. "And I didn't actually repair the door. He did little more than scratch the varnish. I did what any basic handyman could do, namely warm the varnish, making it more pliable, and then rearrange it so the lighter wood does not show. Darcy could have done it better than I. He was always much stronger in magic than me, until he was infected."
A heavy silence fell, as they both thought about the werewolves running the night.

"I'm afraid, Mr. Bingley," she said suddenly. She gripped the arms of her chair and hoped she was not being facetious, or suffering womanly emotions. She waited for Mr. Bingley to brush aside her concerns with meaningless reassurance.

Instead he said casually, "I believe I mentioned briefly to you that Darcy is the fourth werewolf I have studied? I did not talk about the others because they were not happy cases. The life of a werewolf is short and brutal. Anyone can be infected if they are attacked sufficiently, and there is no cure. A werewolf is always a nasty creature, without even the natural control and instincts of a true animal. Should a person be found as a werewolf, a public demonstration is made of them. Their property and capital are seized, their family cast out and denounced. They are then beheaded in front of a crowd. It is not a pleasant fate.

"The first time I saw a werewolf was when I was in school. The police had arrested a villain that happened to be a werewolf. During the full moon, well you can guess what happened. Only one of his cellmate, a fellow robber, survived the attack. He was given to the university to study, with the understanding that he would be put down when his use was through.

"The students were encouraged to try experiments on him. You can imagine wolfsbane and silver was applied liberally. I believe we were quite cruel to him. I didn't participate, but I watched and recorded his reactions. He changed in a specially prepared cell. A few of the boys passed out, and some of them vomited upon watching the change. The first time a werewolf changesÉ is very painful. What Darcy had suffered, I cannot imagine.

"Seeing the poor man, criminal and condemned or not, go through that left me with little taste for continuing the study. After the three nights of the full moon, he was put to the death. I overheard more than one student regretting that they could not keep him longer, but I was glad his torment was over."
Lizzy shuddered, imagining Fitz in such a horrible state. No matter how much she might detest Mr. Darcy, and he looked down at her, he didn't deserve to be treated as an animal for experimentation. She listened in mute horror as Mr. Bingley kept talking.

"The next one was after university," he said. "I had graduated some months before, and was working to build my own practice. I was contacted by another former student, and asked if I wished to participate in a research group dedicated to my field. I was delighted to have been invited, and joined readily. I had never been surrounded by such a bright, daring group of minds. I dare say I was the dullest of the lot, but they tolerated me well enough. The advances of medicine and magic they were makingÉ it was an honor to be included with them.

"Perhaps inevitably, they kept a werewolf in secret. The first time I learned of it, I had been with them six weeks, and I was invited to a special sub-division, because of my unique experience, they said. I later found out they meant because of the werewolf from school. When I saw the wolf, I was at first dismayed. But they did not treat it the same as the poor wretch from school. They were more focused on how to contain the wolf, repel it, make it harmless.

"I told myself they were not as cruel as the boys at school had been. The entire thing left a foul taste in my mouth, but I saw that the wolf was not needlessly prodded and exposed to harmful substances, as was the first. The others in the group were disappointed in me that I did not share their passion for subduing the beast. Little of it was spoken of, but I was invited back for the second full moon. Imagine my shock and horror when I found out the wolf they were treating was female."

Lizzy let out a cry, clapping a hand over her mouth. Her stomach twisted, thinking of poor dead Holly and her own sisters. She would not wish any of them to be a werewolf, let alone to have been trapped for medical experiments. Even the finest luxury appointments were still a cage. She had felt that clearly for with Fitz, how much it hurt him to be restrained. And that was only so that he would not harm another. To be caged and used for another's gain, how much worse would that be?

Mr. Bingley nodded, not looking at her. His face looked sick as well. "I could not stay. I could not allow this to go on. I informed the police on them. I learned that much of what they were doing was sub-legal, and charges were laid all around. Because I had not been trusted enough to be involved with the worst offenses, and I had put a stop to it, I was let go without being charged. I went my own way, distancing myself from the group as much as possible.

"In time, I found work under the tutelage of another doctor. I learned more from him than from the university, but the most important thing I learned from him was the treat the person, not the disease. When he passed suddenly, his family closed his practice. I established my own little building, and soon had a passable following of my own. I was happy for a time. A couple years passed.

"And then one day a young man walked into my office. He begged for my help, but was reluctant to tell me his symptoms. I had often had people embarrassed to admit their afflictions, and set to reassuring him. Instead of being calmed, he became more agitated, until he broke down and admitted that he had been attacked by a werewolf. He had come to me, because though I had rumored connections to that dark ring of illegal medical practice, I had since built my reputation as a generous and caring physician.

"Here, I thought I had a chance to help him. In my arrogance, I thought I was different from those who had come before me. While the last two werewolves had been horrific and doomed, here was this young man, a worker with a family, no less, who had come to me of his own accord. Surely I could help him. He need only be contained on the full moon, and otherwise live his life. Having seen personally how other wolves reacted, surely I could help him control his urges?

"I had a special cage built for him in the cellar of my practice. He changed there. I shall not describe the fury of his wolf, but it was great. He was wan, but otherwise normal in the morning. I released him from the cage, and broke my fast with him. It was important that I treated him no different from another person. Apart for three days a month, he was human like any other. I wonder if my kindness to him was not worse than the cruelties inflicted on the others.

"He lived through a second full moon with me. He worried he was losing control of himself even while not a wolf. His temper was very short, and he was prone to sudden bursts of violence. He was afraid he would hurt his family. His wife suspected him of cheating, but he couldn't tell her the truth.

"The next star day after his second transformation, he killed himself. He cut his wrists with a silver knife, and hung himself. Whether he bled out or strangled, he was dead just the same. He left a note saying that he didn't want to be a monster any longer. I vowed I would never have anything to do with werewolves again."

He fell silent a moment, staring out the window. Lizzy was trembling from his awful tale. Was there never a happy ending for a werewolf? Was Fitz doomed to die? Why would Mr. Bingley tell her this now? It did nothing to alleviate her fears, and only greatly increased them! "Mr. Darcy?" she whispered, not wanting the story, but needing to hear it.

Mr. Bingley sighed. "Yes, Darcy. Years passed, and I even prospered. I put all darkness behind me, and was content. I was doing good. The hardest lesson for a doctor to learn was that not everyone could be saved. But everyone could be helped, even if it was nothing more than holding their hand as incredible pain sent them to their deaths.

"I had known Darcy in school, and though we had initially fallen out of contact, we reestablished our friendship through a chance meeting. His cousin was injured by magic in the war, and eventually ended up on my doorstep. I was surprised the son of an earl, even the second son, should come to me, but my reputation was such that he was willing to try anything when other doctors could not help him. There was little I could do, but I hoped I brought him some measure of relief. His surname was also the same as Darcy's Christian name, and I commented on the similarity. We realized that we knew the same person, and a meeting was arranged to reacquaint us to each other.

"We quickly became close friends. I thought he seemed more troubled and grave than before, when we were in school. I think I reminded him of happier times. Whatever the reason, he was soon my closest friend. That was four years ago now, and we have never lost contact since. Then this summerÉ I cannot tell you how it happened, just that Darcy wrote me an urgent letter requesting my presence at Pemberley, his home.

"I went, and what I foundÉ You have to understand Darcy to know how I felt. He was very much above me when we were in school together. My father was in trade, and I was studying a field not altogether acceptable for a gentleman. The other boys did not tolerate me as an interloper. Then Darcy took me under his wing. His family was easily as rich and old as anyone else's, and indeed, surpassed many families in both regards. If he accepted me, they could not but do likewise.

"I had always known him to be sober, but quick minded and generous. He had tragedy in his life that made him perhaps too grim at times, but he always kept his word, and saw to his responsibilities with utmost exactness. So then think what I felt when I saw the very best of men struck with the very worst of diseases, and his household shattered because of it.

"I had promised myself I would never do this again, but how could I not when it was Darcy? It was not an option for me to not aid him. I do not think he knew what he was asking for himself when he wrote to me. In the early days, he was often insensible, worse even than the young man from many years ago. But he knew he was hurting the people around him, and wanted it to stop.

"I was provided with a unique opportunity here. Not only had Darcy come to me of his own accord, but he was someone I had known well before he was infected. Fear not, I did not think to use him for my own gain. I thought rather that I would know the changes in him, and be able to act accordingly. I became his touchstone, almost his conscious. I reminded him that he once had been human, but I did not treat him as I had before. I was still his friend, but he was no longer what he was.

"And so I began again. It was Darcy who discovered that silver forced the wolf into a sort of coma, and prevented it from wholly controlling him. However, he could not wear silver during the full moon, for it enraged his beast, and caused terrible infection where it touched him. Darcy has always been a man of strict control and discipline. It was what let him excel so much as a spell mage. But the wolf took that all away from him. He was quite devastated, but also determined his disease would not define him.

"He has lived longer than any werewolf I have heard of," he said with conviction. "I know my stories are not happy, but I told you to assure you that he is the strongest man I know, both as a wolf and human. His intelligence and control are unparalleled. Since coming here, his wolf is no longer the brute it was. I could have never trusted him outside the cage before. That your presence has something to do with it I do not doubt. Maybe it would have happened anyway, but you have sped the process. I have never met the werewolf he hunts, but I do not believe it can be stronger than him. The other wolves I have met could not begin to come to his power and size. That alone gives me hope. And I believe that you give him hope."

She started in surprise. "I don't know what you mean, Mr. Bingley. I think you mistake Mr. Darcy's regard for me." She just had to think of his haughty actions--outside of the full moon, when Fitz clearly had an undue influence on him--to confirm it.

But Mr. Bingley shook his head. "I am sure I do not. In taming his wolf, you have given him back his humanity. That is something I could never have done."

It was time for Lizzy to shake her head. "You overestimate me. Fitz was the one who has done it all along. I could not touch him if he did not will it."

"Perhaps we will disagree on this," he said amicably, and changed the subject. She tried to attend to the conversation, but neither of them put much effort into it, and soon they fell silent.

Fitz did not return until half an hour before sunrise. Mr. Bingley saw him first, and his startled exclamation rouse Lizzy, who had fallen into a doze by then. She sat up, blinking her eyes stupidly. A great, terrible rage suddenly overcame her, and she sank into the chair in fear. "Fitz," she whispered, and in the next instant she flew out of her chair. She raced down the hallways of Netherfield, Mr. Bingley on her heels.

They made the entrance hall in seconds, and Mr. Bingley flung open the door. Fitz bounded into the house from a dozen paces away. He landed and growled viciously. Lizzy did not dare touch him. His fury washed over her in waves. He was covered in blood, and his fur bristled dangerously. Thankfully the dewy grass had washed his paws clean, and so he did not leave bloody paw prints on the floor.

Neither Mr. Bingley or Lizzy spoke, wary of this monster in their midst. Fitz seemed bigger than ever as he growled and paced. She saw that he had several deep lacerations on his back and chest, and his muzzle was also scored. She timidly reached her magic out to him. His head whipped toward her, and she shrank under his glare.

He moved to stand before her. She stood her ground, trembling, not knowing what he would do. He had to sense her fear; it had to be telling him to hunt. She didn't know what had happened to him, save that he seemed to have been in a very great battle. She wanted to comfort him, at least tend his wounds, but she didn't dare move lest he take umbrage. At last he sighed, and the great fury eased somewhat.
He leaned forward and lightly touched her hand with his nose. He left a red smear there, and pulled away quickly. His tongue swiped over his nose to contain the leak.

Fitz turned away from them, and began climbing the stairs. Mr. Bingley and Lizzy followed helplessly, unable to do anything else. As they walked, Lizzy whispered to Mr. Bingley to collect a jug of water. She opened a linen closet, silently apologizing to the cat that had just given birth there. It was out of season for kittens, but it happened at times. She took clean towels, on the chance that Fitz was now calm enough to allow himself to be touched.

The door to the library had been left ajar in their flight, and now Fitz entered. He was limping heavily, and his head drooped in weariness. When Mr. Bingley entered with a stout picture of water and a bowl, he locked the door behind him. Fitz looked from one of them to the other, and seemed uncertain what to do.
Lizzy could stand his pain no longer. She knelt to the ground, taking the bowl from Mr. Bingley. Fitz approached her slowly, like a moth to flame, until he stood before her. Their heads were on the level. Mr. Bingley poured water into the bowl. Fitz leaned down and began lapping slowly. Lizzy took a towel, cautiously dipped it in the water, and began sponging the abrasions on his face. He winced once, but made no other complaint.

When she had cleaned his head as best she could, she delicately put her hand on his muzzle, and called on her magic. She frowned in surprise. "I cannot heal you," she whispered. Mr. Bingley cleared his throat, standing a cautious distance back in case Fitz should object to his presence.

"Darcy heals quickly from almost any injury now," he said. "Save when he is injured by silver, or by himself. If those wounds were indeed caused by another werewolf, it might be the same."

Fitz rumbled with what seemed like agreement. She stared at him sadly. "Then I cannot help you," she murmured. He only looked at her, his eyes seeming very soulful. She gestured for Mr. Bingley to lay a sheet on the floor. He did so, moving slowly to not surprise Fitz. She could have told him that Fitz was calmer now. Still angry, but not at them. Being with the ones he trusted had relaxed him.

He laid stiffly on the towel, careful of his injuries. She cleaned the cuts as best she could. Several were very messy. If she had not spent her life healing other injuries to animals, she might have been sick from the quantity of blood, and the deepness of the slashes. It looked as though he had fought a tiger, not another werewolf.

She held back tears as she worked, but as his muscles gradually lost tension, she couldn't contain them. She bowed her head, wondering what Mr. Bingley thought of her, crying over Fitz when Mr. Darcy couldn't stand her. She felt a great loneliness in Fitz, a need to be comforted. That he had chosen them, herself and Mr. Bingley, to provide it meant more than she could say. She remembered Mr. Bingley's tales of the other werewolves, and even what Fitz had been like in the very beginning. He was not the same. He was stronger, more intelligent, more caring than any of them.

He was not a savage beast. Fitz was not human, but he also craved the same company that Mr. Darcy did, herself perhaps being the only oddity. After all, it wasn't Miss Bingley kneeling here cleaning his wounds. Was that significant? Or was it only her magic that had allowed her into the house? She didn't want to think about it. Gently she touched the whole patches of his fur, feeling the way he appreciated her contact.

She looked up at Mr. Bingley. He looked gravely concerned for his friend. "It's alright," she told him quietly. "He doesn't mind you being here."

"May IÉ?" he asked hesitantly. She didn't have to consult with Fitz to know the answer. She nodded. Mr. Bingley knelt a little ways from her, and then reached out his hand for his friend. He hesitated before placing his hand on the wolf's head. Fitz did not object, and Mr. Bingley let out a shaky breath.

"Do you know, in all the time I have tried to help him, I have not touched him once?" he said once, his voice full of wonder. Mr. Bingley felt he had pressed his luck enough, and withdrew. He smiled at her in such a way that made her feel uncomfortable. He seemed to regard her as having single-handedly saved Mr. Darcy, but that was not true! She had only befriended Fitz; truly it was Fitz who had decided to save himself.

Abruptly Fitz stood. He walked over to Mr. Bingley, opened his mouth, and engulfed the man's knee in his jaws. He gave a definite tug, then released Mr. Bingley and grabbed the towels that had not yet been used. He headed toward the back of the library. Mr. Bingley had gone quite pale when the werewolf had seized his leg, and now looked apprehensive of following him. He glanced at the time piece, and realized the cause of the curt summons: dawn had arrived.

Mr. Bingley entered the hidden alcove with Fitz. Lizzy remained where she was, listening nervously to the sounds of changes coming from the back of the library. She heard Fitz whine briefly, and then a very human hiss of pain. Mr. Bingley gave a low oath, and then there was only the indiscernible whisper of voices for a time.

Lizzy began to get very anxious. She could feel that Fitz had gone quite to sleep the moment the change hit him. She didn't know how Mr. Darcy would react to her being here. He had been too unpredictable of late. Furthermore, would the injuries to Fitz follow Mr. Darcy? That was cause for concern. They had been bad on a large wolf. What would they be like on a smaller human frame? She understood it was impossible to stitch up Fitz, as his change had been eminent, and there was no trustworthy veterinarian to attend the wolf. But what about Mr. Darcy? Would a physician see him? Were stitches possible, given that he still had one more night of the full moon to endure?

She stood and went to the door. She didn't wish to leave, but sensed it might be prudent to be near an exit, just in case. At very long last, Mr. Darcy emerged from the alcove, Mr. Bingley close behind. She looked at him, and noticed the long, shallow scratches that went right across the bridge of his nose and down one cheek. She winced. How bad were his other cuts then? Some of them had been very deep. No doubt Mr. Bingley had had to play physician to him, and bind the many wounds. It comforted her to think that Mr. Bingley was a physician, even if his field of study was magical ailments, not mechanical injuries.

Mr. Darcy's eyes darted between the door and Lizzy. She stepped away from it, and he relaxed mutely. He wasn't fully dressed, having only a shirt and trousers, but his neck cloth was loosely tied, as though he'd made an effort to be presentable. She didn't know what to say to him. He was so much easier to deal with as Fitz.

Mr. Bingley stood next to Mr. Darcy. "What happened?" he asked.

Mr. Darcy sighed, looked away from Lizzy. He went to a chair and sat gingerly, obviously favoring his wounds. "I found him," he said quietly. He looked at her again.

Lizzy's breath caught in her throat. Mr. Bingley leaned forward eagerly. "You did?"

Mr. Darcy nodded. "He was near Longbourn."

"My family--"

"Jane--"

Both Mr. Bingley and Lizzy spoke at the same time. Mr. Darcy shook his head. "Everyone is sleeping safe with the walls," he assured them, though his eyes lingered on Lizzy as if to ask why she too wasn't at Longbourn where she belonged. She refused to be intimidated by him. No matter how superior he thought himself, he would have still been locked in a cage without her.

"Don't stop there, what happened?" Mr. Bingley demanded.

Mr. Darcy glanced at him. "I found him. We fought. I was stronger, he was faster." He spoke in clipped tones. His lips drew back from his teeth in an involuntary snarl. With the scratches on his nose, it made him look unexpectedly savage. Lizzy suppressed a shudder. Her mind was still at Longbourn. What had the other werewolf been doing at her home? That he was hunting her was an easy leap to make, but she didn't know why. What might he have done if Mr. Darcy--Fitz--hadn't been there to stop him?

"In the end I drove him off. He won't be back." Mr. Darcy sat back with an air of satisfaction about him. Mr. Bingley looked frustrated with his friend's short, unimaginative narration. He began to press further, but Lizzy blurted, "I need to get home."

Mr. Bingley was instantly all concern. "Of course, Miss Elizabeth. You want to check on your family, the same as I would. May we call on you later?"

She nodded, though sneaking a look at Mr. Darcy, she wasn't sure Mr. Bingley would have company when he visited. Mr. Darcy's expression was disgruntled, as though he was irked that she did not trust his word that her family was safe. She trusted him, or trusted Fitz at least, but nothing was better reassurance than seeing with her own eyes. More, now that she had snuck out, her family needed to know she was safe as well. If any had checked on her to find her missing, she could guess the panic caused.

Mr. Darcy did not frighten her, but he did make her uncomfortable. She was ironically eager to escape his presence, and yet reluctant to part with Fitz. There was still one more clear night of the full moon, she remembered, if Mr. Bennet did not throw a fit and cause a storm to brew up because of her absences. And yetÉ she couldn't do it. Hadn't she put her family through enough, disappearing two nights in a row? If she went out again, people might suspect she was the werewolf!

She had already taken enough risks with her reputation as well. If word got out that she had been visiting two bachelors and staying the night with them, she would be utterly ruined. It had been some kind of miracle that she had not run into anyone besides Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy. Miss Bingley certainly would not hesitate to condemn her as a fallen woman. She could only wonder and dread what the servants would spread about her. Enough had seen her the first night to shred any good standing she had in Hertfordshire. She remembered uneasily that she had been drugged into sleeping all day. She could already be ruined from the gossips, and she wouldn't know it. Yes, it was certainly time to go home, and repair what damage she could.

Mr. Bingley was eagerly waiting to escort her to the door. She stood and made her way out of the library. At the last moment, Mr. Darcy rose with effort and followed them. Perhaps due to the earliness of the hour--just past dawn--they met no one else going downstairs. She realized she had comment aloud on it when Mr. Bingley colored and confessed, "I'm afraid I lay a bit of a sleep spell on the house during the full moon nights. I can't do it nearly so strong as Darcy could, but I dare say mine is serviceable enough."

She nodded, and her spirits lifted as she wondered if the spell might have helped her avoid ruination on the first night of the full moon. They reached the front door, and Mr. Bingley opened it for her. He glanced out automatically, and frowned. Instead of stepping aside for Lizzy to pass, he strode out, demanding loudly, "What is the meaning of this?"

Lizzy exchanged an astonished glance with Mr. Darcy. They both acted together, reaching for the door. She was nearer, but he was quicker. They arrived at the same time, dangerously close to occupying the same space. Had he been one of her sisters, she would have elbowed him to give her more room. Instead she tried simultaneously to stand her ground and recoil from actually touching him.

The sight of a dozen members of the militia approaching Netherfield's front door stopped her cold. She understood why Mr. Bingley had spoken; she wished she had not been so impetuous to see for herself. Colonel Forster's eyes widened in shock at the sight of Lizzy, and then narrowed dangerously when he saw Mr. Darcy. It was never a good sign when the militia showed up at one's doorstep, especially when some of the soldiers showed signs of hasty dressing.

She had hoped Mr. Bingley's spell would have kept her presence at Netherfield quiet, but that was clearly impossible now. In a nervous, hard voice, Col Forster announced, "Rouse the household, Mr. Bingley. We are performing our duty. I have it on good evidence that at least one among your number is a werewolf, and guilty of the attacks. Everyone must be tested by silver and wolfsbane."

The entire side of Lizzy's body closest to Mr. Darcy sudden itched like mad. Her eyes twitched in their sockets, and it was only with great will did she avoid looking at him. Had Col Forster been watching her, he would have known instantly that Lizzy knew everything. But his gaze was fixed on Mr. Darcy. He knew. He didn't come looking for a werewolf--he came to convict one.

"Preposterous," Mr. Bingley muttered, but he had gone unfortunately pale.

Lizzy's head swam and her stomach sank. She felt suddenly protective of Fitz. In a way, she had met him--the calm, rational side of him--even before Mr. Darcy. Neither Mr. Bingley nor Mr. Darcy would have known how genteel Fitz could be without her. For him to be taken away, when he was just discovering the advantages of his transformation, was unconscionable. How dare they do this to him! Who could have told? The other werewolf? Mr. Darcy and Fitz had been very certain of their victory this morning, but who else knew of Mr. Darcy's condition?

Of all of them, Mr. Darcy remained the calmest. He did not flinch, or look away, or show any signs of discomfort. She was acutely aware of the picture he presented, waistcoat and jacket missing, hair disheveled, scratches across his face. Everything about him, even the coiled ease with which he stood, screamed what he was. She felt Fitz rouse from his slumber and take a solid stance within Mr. Darcy. They would face this together.