NOTES: Hey guys! This chapter is front Lizzy's point of view. Very fun to write, and sweet to read. If y'all enjoy it, be sure to leave a review— I always adore reading what you guys think.

~ Vinny 💕

It was really the carriage driver who was at fault.

His name was Mr. Bumpledink, and as if that weren't enough, he didn't have the sense of humor to understand why his employer's daughter kept laughing whenever she saw him.

And when Lizzy had asked to sit on the top of the carriage with him (because her head hurt), Mr. Bumpledink said no. He hadn't wanted to deal with her incessant questions about the horses, or the clouds, or why he had frown lines etched like canyons onto his face. Party pooper.

And trapped in a hot car with only her mother and a maid for company, who could blame Lizzy Bennet for wanting to escape?

So yes, it was Mr. Bumpledink's fault that at the first crossroads where both adults stepped out of the carriage, a little figure darted away towards the trees, anxious for some adventure.

Lizzy had been to see her Aunt's hometown many times; it wasn't anything new. And the whole REASON she had been sent to Lambton was to see new things— she had been laying siege to her father's book room for months now, pestering him with requests to go somewhere, do something, meet someone!

And how was she supposed to do all that cooped up in a carriage? Answer was, she couldn't. Her father would understand. So she ran off to the trees, made friends with a caterpillar, climbed a very fairy-tale-like fence, and found a very nice oak to sit in.

Lizzy felt like an ancient wild queen, like Hippolotya or Atalanta, ruling over her kingdom. She was tempted to let out a battle cry, or at least wage war or something. Unfortunately though, her kingdom was a peaceful one, inhabited by leaves and twigs and the occasional sparrow.

Then came the Prince.

He later claimed, when he was helping her walk, that he wasn't a prince, but Lizzy saw right through that. She knew a prince when she saw one.

The boy was a little taller than her, and had a crown of black curls that shot up over his head like it was surprised, then slumped back down on the other side of his face. His face was pinched, and white, and he was skinny. But he still looked like a prince.

A very stupid and rude prince, she would soon find out, because he didn't respect her claim to the land and presented some bogus arguement about 'owning it' that Lizzy didn't believe for one second.

Then she didn't have time for belief, because she was falling, and after that…

A white hot flash of pain. Eyelashes sticking to her cheeks. Firm hands on her back, grass tickling the place where her stocking ripped. Red was creeping down her leg, and smearing on everything it touched.

Lizzy was in so much pain, she couldn't stop herself from crying. She hated crying. But the Prince— William— hadn't made fun of her. He had just helped her up, and half-carried her to the castle he called a house.

Lizzy didn't remember much after that.

She must have fallen asleep (her head had felt like it was full of hot air, pulling away from her body), because she opened her eyes in an entirely different place. One she had never been before, and likely would never have seen in her lifetime. In the room she was in now, the walls were painted with sunlight, and the windows were lined with gold. Everything felt warm and shiny, and a little scary, if Lizzy was being honest.

"Where's my father?" She asked (at least thought she asked) and received no answer.

She tried again. "Where is father? Where…" Lizzy peered around her, unsuccessfully trying to dismiss the fuzziness that clung to her brain. "What happened?"

"You lost a lot of blood, missy," a woman's scratchy voice said from beside her.

Lizzy jumped in fright, and the woman chuckled. "No need to be startled, dear," she said, with a matronly smile. She reminded Lizzy of her aunt, if Aunt Gardiner was thin as a candlestick and twenty years older. But this woman seemed nice enough, for an old person.

"The doctor will be here soon," The nice old woman said, patting her hand. "I'm just keeping an eye on you until he arrives."

"Oh." Lizzy settled back against her pillows. She warily glanced at the woman without turning her head. "I'm not gonna try an' escape, you know."

The woman laughed with her mouth closed, the loose skin on her neck swinging back and forth. "I'm not worried about that, dear, don't worry."

"Well, you should be worried," Lizzy advised her, eyebrows raised. "I am.. a very good escape-r. Top of the line. World class."

The woman's eyes went to the foot of the bed, and Lizzy followed her gaze. There was her leg, wrapped in red-stained bandages and propped up in a pillow.

"Well," she amended, "I am usually."

A smile tugged at the folds of the old matron's face, but before she could say something else, her attention was stolen by a creaky door opening, and a hesitant face— pale as the moon, marred by an expression of intense burden— poked through.

Then his eyes found her, sitting up and awake, and William's cheeks exploded into a grin.

"Lizzy!" He cried, bounding into the room.

The old woman started, and clutched her hand to her chest in surprise; Lizzy didn't notice. She was too busy scrambling over the bedcovers to get closer to William, the only (sort of) familiar thing she had seen so far.

"How are you? Does your leg hurt? Are you comfortable? What can I do? Is—"

"Oh my stars, William!" Lizzy cut him off with a barking laugh, "Stoppit! You sound like my mother!"

His pale face turned a bit red, but he was smiling like everything, relief permeating every feature. "I'm just glad you're awake," he said sheepishly.

"Don't worry, don't worry," she said, pressing one of his hands between hers, "I'm good now! I can't even feel it, really."

"What?" William's nose wrinkled. "That doesn't sound good."

"It's just the.. painkiller Mr. Darcy recommended," the old woman's voice interjected. She was looking between the two children curiously, and Lizzy could see her new friend's smile abating.

He cleared his throat. "Ahem, thank you. Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds, that will be all. Leave us now."

Lizzy smacked his shoulder without even hesitating.

"Hey!" William looked at her in shocked irritation. "What!?"

"That wasn't proper," Lizzy informed him, raising an imperious eyebrow and sitting up straighter. "You hafta say please."

He glared at her for a second, then sighed through his nose. "Fine," he muttered, then turned back to the older lady. "PLEASE leave us."

"Gladly, young master," Mrs. Reynolds said, hiding a smile.

William's shoulders tensed as the door closed, as if he had just realized something. He scooted away from Lizzy, and removed his hands from hers. "So, uhm," he said quietly, and said nothing else.

Lizzy gently shoved him with the palm of her hand. "William? What is it?"

"It's just… I don't…" He gestured vaguely at her leg, then at the air between them. "I don't know you! It.. just hit me. I don't know you."

"What do you want to know?"

He raised his shoulders into an apathetic shrug. Lizzy resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Fine. I'll tell you about me, and then.. then you have to tell me some things about you. Deal?"

"...Deal."

"Alriiiight," Lizzy sighed, and knocked her fingers against the bedspread. "What do I… Oh! Okay, so, my favorite color is green—"

"Mine's brown. Like, gold brown."

She frowned at him. "Tha's weird. ALSO YOU'RE INTERRUPTING!"

"Oh, sorry." He didn't look that sorry. But a smile was starting to creep back onto his sallow little face, so Lizzy was willing to let it slide.

"Aaaand… I like cats. We have a cat at home, and it's really fluffy and sometimes lets me snuggle. Also, I like it when father reads me stories in Latin… aaaand… and I think Shakespeare's suuuper boring."

"What?" William cried in a smiling outrage, "You don't like Shakespeare?!"

"No, I don't." She folded her arms smugly. "It's dull and everyone's mean and all my favorites died at the end."

William looked like he was about to taunt her— then he stopped. "Wait. Were… Who were your favorites?"

Lizzy looked up, as if trying to peer into the back of her brain and discover the answers. "Uhhhmmm… It was.. the Lady with the spot, the King… oh! Banquo.. he was nice, I liked him…"

"Lizzy," William said, and she could tell he was fighting a laugh (at her expense), "I think you read MacBeth."

"Yeah, Shakespeare. What does that matter?"

He was losing the fight against the smile. Lizzy wanted to be mad at that smile, because it was DEFINITELY mocking her, but also.. it was a very pretty one. William had dimples.

"Lizzy," he said, "Shakespeare was the writer. He wrote other stories, not just MacBeth."

She looked at him for a second. Then two. Then she shook her head. "No, you're wrong. I.. I'm pretty sure— if Shakespeare IS a name— that the 'Shakespeare' only ever wrote one. You're wrong!"

William laughed full out now, and Lizzy wanted to be mad at him… but she just couldn't. His laugh was like a horse's whinny starting in the back of his throat and tickling up through his lungs— completely ridiculous, and entirely infectious.

Soon, her indignation was completely dried up, and she was laughing too. Her laugh was an explosive kind of giggle, and as soon William heard it, his own noises increased tenfold. They were so loud, and so completely absorbed in their own joy, they didn't hear the loud creak of the door opening behind them.

"William? Is that you?"

The boy stiffened so abruptly, it was like someone had swapped his skin for wood— a reverse Pinocchio— as soon as he heard that voice.

His head whipped around. Lizzy couldn't see his face. "F-father!" He said, in a petrified voice.