Set in Stone, Chapter 16.

Kitty was explaining the household’s afternoon schedule to no one in particular when Elizabeth came upon her in the morning room. This had become something of a habit in recent days, a cheerful, aimless narration of who would be where and when, delivered to whichever sister happened to be present.

“Lydia’s gone to the village again, of course,” Kitty was saying, examining the stems in a vase of somewhat tired roses. “Mary was in the—well. And Papa takes his tea at four, which means the library will be occupied until at least five, and Dr. Darcy has that appointment in the village at half-past three, so he shan’t be back until—oh, Lizzy! I didn’t hear you.”

“The roses want fresh water,” Elizabeth said.

“Do they? I suppose they do look rather sad.” Kitty touched one of the drooping heads with the absent sympathy she extended to all wounded things. “Mr. Wickham was asking yesterday where everyone took their meals. I told him we’re quite informal here—not like at home, where Mama would have fits if anyone missed dinner. Though I suppose Mama isn’t—” She stopped. “That is. Well. He seemed very interested in the household rhythms. He’s painting something, you know. He says an artist must understand the patterns of a house to capture its character properly.”

Elizabeth felt something cold settle behind her ribs.

“What else did Mr. Wickham ask about?”

“Oh, nothing of consequence. Which rooms we use, which we don’t. Whether Dr. Darcy keeps regular hours. When the servants are about. He was very charming about it—said he didn’t wish to intrude on anyone’s privacy, but that an empty room has a different quality of light than an occupied one, and one must know which is which if one is to paint honestly.”

Kitty pulled one of the roses free and frowned at its bent stem. “He’s been quite kind, really. Yesterday he walked with me in the garden and we talked about—oh, all manner of things. He has a gift for making one feel attended to. Lydia says he’s a dreadful flirt, but I think that’s uncharitable. A man may be pleasant without being designing.”

“Kitty,” Elizabeth said carefully. “When you spoke to Mr. Wickham—did he ask anything about my movements specifically?”

“Yours? Well—he did ask when you took your medication. And whether you walked in the mornings or the evenings. But that was only because he hoped to sketch you again, I think. He said your face had very good bones.” She brightened. “That’s a compliment, isn’t it? It sounded rather clinical, but he meant it kindly.”

“I’m sure he did.” Elizabeth kept her voice level. “Where did you tell him I walk?”

“The south terrace, usually. In the mornings, before it gets too warm. Why?”

“No particular reason.” Elizabeth moved to the window. The south terrace was visible from the tower. It would be visible from several vantage points in the village as well, if one knew where to look. “Has he asked about anyone else?”

“Not particularly. Though—” Kitty hesitated. “He did seem interested in Mary. That is, he asked whether she played the organ at regular hours, or only when the mood took her. I told him she keeps quite a strict schedule—or did, before—” She stopped again, and the roses trembled in her hand.

“Before she was turned to stone,” Elizabeth said. “You may say it, Kitty. We are all living with the fact.”

“Yes.” Kitty set the rose down with a care that suggested she no longer trusted her grip on it. “Before that. He seemed to think it would make a striking painting—Mary at the organ, with the light coming through the high windows. He asked whether the organ room was kept locked.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“The truth—that no rooms are locked except the one upstairs that we’re not to speak of.” Kitty looked up, and there was something uncertain in her face, as if she had only just begun to hear her own words. “Lizzy, have I said something I oughtn’t? You’re looking at me rather strangely.”

Elizabeth felt the fury arrive with a clarity that was almost cold. He had used her. He had used Kitty—sweet, trusting Kitty, who thought a man might be pleasant without being designing—to map the household’s vulnerabilities as methodically as a general surveying a fortification. Every kindness, every charming inquiry, had been reconnaissance. She opened her mouth to answer, and found she could not account for what came next.

The light changed. Or perhaps she changed in the light. There was a sensation of discontinuity, of being present in the morning room and then of surfacing back into it from some place that left no impression on her memory beyond a quality of cold swiftness, as if she had been moving very fast through dark water. She was standing in precisely the place she had been standing. Kitty was exactly where Kitty had been, beside the table with the roses.

She was also no longer speaking. The stairs creaked overhead. Not the measured tread of a person walking, but the quick, light sound of someone descending in haste.

Darcy appeared in the doorway. He looked at Kitty, then at Elizabeth.

“Where is your father?”

“The library,” Elizabeth said. “Why?”

“Fetch him. Quickly.”

But Elizabeth could not tear her eyes away from Kitty. Kitty was standing—no, not standing. Kitty was stone. She stood in the center of the room with one hand extended, as if reaching for something or someone no longer there. Her expression was not exactly frightened, more puzzled, as if she had only just realized she was in the wrong place and had not yet determined how she had arrived there. The folds of her dress were frozen mid-movement. A small clutch of roses lay scattered at her feet, dropped in the instant before she stopped.