Why couldn't she get a second of peace around here? Why, when literally everybody in this house was dead, could she not find just a little calm, a little space where she would not be bothered just for a half-hour? Even up here in the attic, where few but Beau ever went, someone had still managed to come and shatter Violet's peace. And it had seemed such a lovely afternoon to curl up with a book too.

"What's that you've got, poor little Ophelia?" the book snatched out of her hands, held up high, "You know you'll never get a proper boyfriend if you sit with your nose in a book all the time"

"Give it back you skull-faced bitch!" Violet spat with all the venom she could muster. Hayden smirked, threw the book toward the hatch in the floor, widened her eyes in fake innocence

"Oops" she said. Violet rolled her eyes, climbed down the ladder. Folded the pull-out stairs back. It wouldn't stop Hayden getting down, but it might annoy her, and sometimes annoying Hayden was the only way to deal with her. She was by far the most annoying spirit in the house, forever interfering in everyone's business, always with some tart remark to make, always flirting with men who didn't want to touch her. Violet wondered what her Dad had ever seen in her – though to be fair, with his mind cleared by death, Ben wondered the same thing. It drove Hayden to even worse bitchery than ever.

The book had landed propped on its covers. Violet huffed and picked it up, straightened out a couple of crumpled pages, took it downstairs to the kitchen. It was certain to be inhabited, but at least not by the more bothersome residents. As expected, she had soon found herself with a steaming cup of tea in front of her, settling at the table to flick through the pages again.

"What are you reading today, dear?" Moira asked. Violet could never mind it when Moira interrupted her, had grown fond of the old woman, who was in turn fiercely protective of the house's children.

"It's this sort of dictionary," she showed the maid the cover, "it's got name meanings in it. Want to know yours?"

"Oh, I already know mine" a shy little smile, a sip of tea, "It's Irish, but from the Greek originally. After the Moirae, the three women who guided the hands of fate. Ironic really, since I cannot seemingly even control my own"

"But that of men seems within your remit," Nora told her, with a sly look, "And the Fates are strong women, I think it entirely appropriate for you"

"Me too" Violet smiled, flicking through, "Yours isn't here, Mrs M"

"Oh it won't be! It's a shortening." That ever present handkerchief went to her lips, "Of Eleanora"

"Cool. That means 'light'. I like that, it's pretty. Like you"

"Dear Violet, you're far too kind to me. I'm afraid my light has long been extinguished"

Trust Nora to make it a melodrama, Violet thought, carried on flicking through the pages. She loved the little socialite, and at least today she was moderately with-it, not moaning and crying for her lost baby or wandering around the rooms of the house in confusion. That was hard to watch, but there wasn't much that could be done about it sadly.

"I looked up Beau's name earlier," Violet said, "It means 'beautiful view'. I think that's nice, he's so sweet after all. I guess he does have a beautiful outlook on life"

"Afterlife, dear" Moira corrected gently, "And what about his brother? Any insight to be gleaned from his name?"

Violet looked. Frowned in puzzlement.

"It just says 'unknown meaning'"

"Well," Nora said quietly, sipped her tea, "I suppose it must be some modern coinage. I'm sure I never met a 'Tate' in my life before your young man came along"

"It says it's Middle English" Violet told her with a sardonic smile. Nora simply raised her eyebrows, made a little hmm sound, said no more.

Violet had laid the book aside, let the conversation drift away from it. It was just a dusty old book after all, from someone who had forgotten it when they moved away. Not an oracle of wisdom, just a weird book with nothing but some fun facts about names. She was just a little purple flower after all, a meaningless, pretty thing that bloomed and died and never changed a thing about the world. She drank her tea, let the ladies talk. Excused herself when she had finished and went to try to get her sought-after peace out on the gazebo. The afternoon was still warm enough to enjoy, still a few hours of daylight before she would shiver and retreat indoors with the sleeves of her shirt wrapped around her fingers.

She hesitated in the doorway, seeing the gazebo already occupied. He sat with his back against one of the supporting pillars, legs stretched out in front of him. She could see the grubby laces on his sneakers half-undone, the peeling rubber around the toes, the strands of yellow and gold and white in his hair that for once was fluffy and clean and gleaming in the sunshine. He'd washed his hair? Since when did he do a thing like that? Same old baggy, worn-out mustard sweater, the collar of his plaid shirt poking out untidily, raising a cigarette to his lips and sending a curl of blue smoke drifting into the same shaft of sunlight that played in his inexplicably clean hair. Violet caught herself thinking 'unknown meaning'….

Sure, she had no idea what he meant, or if people – not just their names – even had meanings. She suspected they didn't, especially not dead people. For some reason though, that wasn't what the phrase that clanged around her head indicated right now. What did he mean, and what didn't he? Did he mean to be so beautiful, so perfectly still and pale and lovely in the sunshine, did he know what he was doing? Did he mean to melt her heart with those eyes of his, to make her want to squeeze his cheeks when he gave her that boyish smile? She'd picked up her Dad's old DSM-IV once, looked up what the great Doctor Harmon thought of Tate, Googled a Cleckley & Hare Checklist and run down it with him in mind. All that would definitely say he meant it all. That the dimpled smile and wide eyes and frequent tears were the tools of his manipulative trade, meant to draw people in and use them to his needs.

Did he mean that though, that was the real question. If that was how he was made – born without the chemicals or brain-parts or whatever that allowed him to feel for others, to care what he did to them, to care about consequences, could she really hold him responsible? Did he mean to be the way he was? He certainly hadn't asked for it. How could he have a choice in the matter? It was all far too confusing, far too much like a dark rabbit-hole that Violet didn't want to venture down.

At last he had noticed her eyes on him. Picked himself up and sloped over to her, long fingers finding her hips, his body against her warm from the sunshine. She melted into his embrace, unable to help herself. Felt his fluffy curls against her face as he stooped to kiss her neck. Knew that though his meaning might be unknown, he meant everything to her. Stopped analysing and instead found his lips. Spent the afternoon sat between his thighs with his arms around her watching the sun fade and deciding that really, not everything had to have a meaning in the end. Some things were better undefined.

A/N : Please note that my thoughts on psychopathy are not those of Violet. Also that I don't actually think that Tate is a psychopath - diagnosable, certainly. Loony tunes, for sure. But not truly psychopathic.

Also thanks to asdfghjkl who pointed out that 'Tate' means 'cheerful' according to some sources. (a) that's completely hilarious, (b) it's undefined in the book of names I have, and I thought it worked better for the story. Thanks though!