AN: I think technically this update is late? I'm kinda off schedule since I barely wrote at all last week and have been sick a great deal of this week. But I knew I'd get an update out today if it killed me!

A lot of the Darcy stuff is going to be left hanging for a bit. Mostly Elizabeth POV next chapter (maybe even some Caroline if I need to), but very limited Darcy (if any). This is where I start to break away from the events of canon (though that's obviously a huge influence), and there will be more and more as this story progresses (i.e. if the dates and order of certain balls and other events don't line up, let's assume it's intentional!).

Also, I think the correct spelling of "Lizzy" in the books might be with a y? I prefer the spelling "Lizzie", so it's the one I'll be using.

Last note - this chapter is somewhat short, but including the next part would take too long to write and I doubt I'd be able to post anything until next week. In the interest in getting an update before the weekend, I'm ending the chapter a bit earlier than initially planned.


The parlor smells too much of lavender, an obvious attempt to cover up the musty smell of neglect. Elizabeth wrinkles her nose once again, hoping she won't sneeze, and tries not to flinch as the woman before her continues to trace the lines on her palm.

This particular room at the inn is rarely let out, yet Elizabeth is all too familiar with it. Every soothsayer, gypsy, reader, or "doctor" who claims to be an expert in affairs of the heart and has graced Meryton with their presence has made use of this room. And each and every time, Mrs. Bennet has marched her five daughters into town to consult on the matter of their soulmates.

Not that they were allowed to see the actual marks the four eldest Miss Bennets possessed. That was simply out of the question. No, these types were more about the reading of palms and the use of crystal balls to divine meaning in what Elizabeth was more and more sure was meaningless superstition.

She'd listened to countless "professionals" claim that which hand the name appeared on was of the utmost importance, whereas her own personal experience had her convinced that was anything but true. Her aunts and uncles, though never having revealed the exact nature of the names hidden behind layers of cloth and jewelry, had hinted often enough that the idea seemed preposterous. Left wrist, right wrist, it mattered not.

We must leave some things to chance, she muses while stifling a yawn.

As she continues to allow the reader to peruse each indentation on her hand, a calloused finger running along each grove and a comically large magnifying glass occasionally being put to use, Elizabeth tries to find something in the room to divert herself. While she is intimately aware with the furnishings - those have not changed these last ten years - the manner of decoration can alter drastically with each new occupant.

The last man, a gypsy who had stayed in town a solid month and who favored tarot cards and reading tea leaves, had brightly colored tapestries strewn over ever available surface. They had depicted such marvelous stories, tales of love and betrayal, that had been far more entertaining than anything the man himself had to say.

This woman, however, seems to prefer to shroud things in a sense of mystery. The heavy curtains are pulled tight, letting in no light and only muffled sounds from the street. Candles decorate each table and the mantle, no doubt the source of the inescapable lavender. Heavy robes obscure the woman's form, though do little to hide her growing age.

It is rather strange, she thinks to herself. Were it not for these marks, I doubt society would stomach the presence of such mystics.

To be sure, there are those like her father who delighted in the nonsense they spewed. The public as a whole is quite taken with the "otherworldly" air they bring with them. But high society views them more as a necessary evil. An indulgence that they are forced to endure for the sake of their sons and daughters making the most advantageous matches possible.

"Mmmm," the woman intones. Elizabeth starts slightly, but then prepares herself for the no doubt life-altering wisdom about to be imparted upon her. With a satisfied smile, she taps Elizabeth's right hand decisively. "That'll be your soulmate."

"Yes of course, I always suspected as much," she replies, hoping she looks as earnest as the woman.

She neglects to mention that the last reader they'd met with had been equally confident about the other hand. Ah well, knowing would take the fun out of it anyway.

An over abundance of predictions about her future followed by her heartfelt thank-yous pass before she's allowed to leave the room. "Your turn, Mary." The middle Miss Bennet nods tightly and enters.

There's a bench in the hallway and Elizabeth gladly takes Mary's now vacant spot.

"Poor Mary," Jane whispers. "She really does hate all this, doesn't she?"

"Aye, of course she does. This isn't as simple as books and concertos, and I'm afraid she's too serious to find any fun in it."

"Lizzie!" she scolds, but there's little bite behind it.

"Did you know," she grasps Jane's hand between her own and says very solemnly, "I'm to marry the man whose name is on my right wrist within the year. We're to be very happy and have six children and four dogs, will continue to live in Hertfordshire where we'll have a large estate. And we will travel quite extensively, as I'm told. Really, I don't know how we'll find the time to do so with six children to manage, but there you have it."

They share a laugh. "Oh Lizzie... one of these days you might actually find some of these things coming to pass. Would it bother you so, if one of these lives turns out to be your own?"

Elizabeth just barely manages to not roll her eyes. "I daresay one of them will be, eventually. But I think the life I make for myself, under my own terms and not under some reading of the stars or some other such nonsense, will be anything but a joke."

Jane doesn't look much appeased, but as always is gracious enough to change the topic.


Mrs. Bennet is waiting for them quite anxiously back at Longbourn. Their mother always expresses an interest in the events of such affairs, but often finds out very little because of the secrecy some of the daughters insist upon. (Most notably Elizabeth and Mary, who only have confided in their father. Jane's rather public reading of names at her sixteenth birthday must have scared poor Kitty as well, because though she would show their dear mama as well, she refused to let her sisters in on the secret.)

There's something different in her demeanor, though, an excess of energy that Elizabeth can't attribute to wanting to hear about their visit in town. They barely get settled in for tea when she finds out why.

"Girls, I've just heard the most exciting news! Netherfield Park has been let at last!" The sisters share a look, each with varying amounts of interest. Disappointed that her news hasn't sparked the excitement she clearly expected, Mrs. Bennet huffs. "And do you have any idea who has taken the manor?"

"There's not much point in asking," Kitty mutters. "You know we haven't."

"Mr. Bingley!" Mrs. Bennet declares gleefully, ignoring or possibly not hearing her second youngest.

A vacuum replaces all the air in the room at the announcement. Someone gasps, but all eyes turn immediately to Jane. To most, it would appear Jane is unmoved by the revelation that her beloved was moving into the neighborhood. To Elizabeth, however, she can see nothing but panic in her dear sister's eyes.

As Mrs. Bennet goes on and on about all the details of Mr. Bingleys alleged wealth, Elizabeth discreetly directs Jane to the nearest chair and motions for her to be brought a cup of tea. In tending to her sister, she almost misses the more important details.

"Now, Mr. Bingley himself will not be making an appearance until after the next ball as he is delayed in town on business." Mrs. Bennet takes a moment to scoff at the idea that a young man of vast fortune should have to do any business. "But his sisters will be in attendance, as they will come ahead of him to help prepare the house."

"His sisters?" Elizabeth asks cautiously.

"Yes, yes, what of it?" Mrs. Bennet seems to remember at that very moment why that might be an issue. "Oh dear Jane, take heart! I doubt there's anything to fear. You're such a sweet girl, and I never put much stock in the notion that someone would ever mean you ill." And then it's back to gushing over Mr. Bingley and plans for their first meeting.

Elizabeth takes every opportunity to check with her sister for signs of distress as their mother prattles on. At the moment, though, there's little support she can offer other than the occasional squeezing of her shoulder or hand. Later, when they have time alone, she promises herself that she will do what she can to ease Jane's worries.