"Your alliance is a degradation."

"My family's expectations, the inferiority of your birth…"

It's not that she feels inferior. Or that she believes her alliance has been a degradation. She doesn't. She doesn't degrade herself, even in her own mind. No. It is the feeling that he does. That he is at her side, day after day, looking at her, feeling degraded.

That is where the grey comes from. Well, a part of it.

"I am sorry if I speak out of turn," Mrs. Reynolds says.

Elizabeth is in the autumn parlor. They are drinking tea, and going through all the weekly, necessary decisions.

"I just want to say, Mrs. Darcy, from me and the staff, that we're so happy you are… I mean, we were so worried, when that doctor was here."

Mrs. Darcy pales. For a moment, Mrs. Reynolds thinks that she is going to say something sincere, for once, something personal, something that is not amiable and polite and sensible and pleasant, but the moment passes, and Mrs. Darcy is composed again.

"Obviously, it was... a scary moment," she answers, smiling. And not my finest, I fear, Mrs. Reynolds."

"Madam, that man was out of his senses. And dangerous."

Mrs. Darcy's smile becomes weaker.

"Mrs. Darcy," Mrs. Reynolds continues, "everybody appreciates you a lot here. You are always kind, calm, and generous. We all hold you in the highest esteem."

Mrs. Darcy seems stunned. Like this is a complete surprise to her.

She smiles, a weak one, but yes, a real one. Her eyes glint. Maybe tears.

"Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds," Elizabeth whispers.

It means a lot. Thinking she is in a house full of allies. Not full of enemies, who would bear witness against her and send her to icy water and shocks. To oblivion. But then, she remembers, oblivion is off the table. Thanks to her husband.

She sees it often, that scene. She plays it in her mind. She's in his arms. He is whispering in her ear. She's clutching the shirt. (The light blue shirt.) He is... shivering with emotion, almost.

A strange man's embrace, no reason to affect her so.

She supposes it's been years since she touched another human being. No, not years. But long.

How long, since he touched someone?

Mrs. Reynolds is still talking. Elizabeth has missed a part.

"… and he was not like that before," Mrs. Reynolds says. Elizabeth raises her head. She listens. "Oh, he was never the most talkative of boys, but he smiled a lot. He was always so kind. And he laughed, when he was a young man – with Mr. Bingley and the Colonel, they could be quite wild."

"Wild?" Elizabeth smiles – another real one. "My husband was wild?"

"No, I mean, forgive me, Mrs. Darcy, that was badly expressed," Mrs. Reynolds says, amused. "I mean, comparatively. But then, you know, his sister."

Elizabeth nods.

"We all thought, this fog will lift when he gets married," Mrs. Reynolds continues. "And then you came, a pretty young bride… But clearly…"

Elizabeth wonders all day.

She wonders when they are eating lunch, she and her husband, mostly in silence (polite, not unpleasant silence.) She wonders when he is gone, all afternoon. He's taking care of his duties, she's taking care of hers.

Duties are like flies. They come, buzzing, Elizabeth swats them one by one. They are incessant. They are worthless. They make no sense.

But now the wondering is like a glue. Holding things together.

Mrs. Reynolds said "fog." She said, "we all thought the fog will lift." Elizabeth wonders.

Fog?

What does the world of her husband looks like?

Her word is grey – and red, and light blue. She looks at the red flowers in the vase. Her husband has an arrangement with Lady Harden's gardener now, and red flowers are brought regularly in Pemberley. They appear, like magic, in the rooms where she walks in, like those fairy tales where flowers just blossom on the princess' steps, but of course she knows the process is much more complicated here. It's not magic, sadly. It's money.

But. But, there is thought. Behind the money. His thoughts.

She is writing letters, in the drawing room where she spends most of the time now, because the sofa is light blue. Light blue hums like a music note.

Yes, what does the world of her husband look like? Is it foggy? Is it grey?

Does anything pierce the fog, ever?

Dinner. (She observes him. She is trying to guess the colors in his mind.)

There was despair in there, she remembers. (Black?)

Night comes.

It was a good day.

For a while, at the beginning, at Pemberley, when life was sinking into grey waters, she counted the bad days and the good days. The good days were when something good happened. Or something interesting. Or peculiar. Like, a cup of good coffee. A visit where someone uttered a clever joke. Once, she woke early, and saw the sun rise over the grounds, through her window, and it was breathtaking. A silken drape of beauty thrown over the sky – that morning, she had tears in her eyes, too.

But soon it seemed grey was all there is, so she stopped counting.

But today, the wondering. About him. It kept everything else at bay.

The next morning. Breakfast. Mostly in silence (polite, not unpleasant silence.)

The next morning. Breakfast. Mostly in silence (polite, not unpleasant silence.)

Nothing is happening. The grey is winning again.

The next morning. Breakfast. Mostly in silence (polite, not unpleasant silence.)

"Do you want to take a walk with me?" she asks. (After coffee.)

He says, "yes."

She didn't think before asking. If she had, she would not have asked. He has his flies to swat.

But soon they are outside, and she has her arm in his.

She forgets everything. She just walks, in the beautiful, cold light of the morning. Feeling his warmth near hers.

They go far. The lake (almost white, reflecting the sky.)

The lime trees, black, nude. Witches' fingers. Writing dark letters in the air.

The hills. The sky.

Everything white and silver.

She thinks about "the inferiority of her birth" and "the degradation" again, but not in a bad way.

Silver threads are connecting her to her husband, she realizes. One of the silver threads is the shared memory of that night, of what he said. It's always there, this thread, whatever happens. It doesn't matter the number of breakfasts shared, the insults stay there, their shared knowledge of them connecting them.

But there are other threads.

One silver thread is flowers appearing wherever she goes.

One silver thread is her hand clutching that shirt (while he's shivering.)

One silver thread is that she is wondering about him.

One silver thread is all those breakfasts together (after all.)

One fragile, glimmering silver thread is that he said "dearest."

(What a word to say.)

The sky is huge. And endless. And silver.