The mansion was being ransacked and Saunders had only managed to save so much; Lord Beckett's favorite little tea service with the pink roses and silver flourishes, the little elephant carved from white jade brought back from his first trip to Indochina, an original St. Isidore 1475 map of the world – a prize of Cutler's cartography collection, a straight and brown lock of brittle hair tied in a worn black velvet ribbon from his first pony, and the book full of crushed and dried flowers with well worn pages that had been the Dowager Lady Beckett's. He knew the instant the mob had killed Caesar – shrill whinnies, gnashing teeth, and failing hoofs had fallen stiff and awkward after the loud report of a blunderbuss – that there would be no reasoning with them and had moved as quickly as his swollen an throbbing joints would allow to gather the items of sentimental significance.
There was a lockbox hidden behind a hollowed out stone in the fireplace, but his clawed hands thick and trembling with arthritis lacked the dexterity to pry it lose. That was when the tears had come, looking at his useless hands Saunders saw them blur further before his vision as he was overcome with the futility of all of it. Everything was lost and even the items in his truck paced hastily with linens and blankets had been a waste. Saunders knew he would not find work anywhere else and one by one he would have to sell his precious items until everything that had a monetary value was gone. And then he would starve to death in the street; Saunders choked on a sob. Left with nothing but memories, leaning against the mantle and mason-work, he cried harder at the thought of people going through Cutler's things – breaking them up and walking off with them. Clothing - rich but not gaudy - would be ripped into scraps, precious and irreplaceable knick-knacks would be broken, and God knew what other indignities would transpire. Everything that Cutler had worked so hard for was being destroyed.
And to think he would never bring him tea again, nor nag him about missing meals, nor put him to bed when he had one of his splitting headaches ever again. Harsh sounds of sorrow hardly echoed in the cluttered room. No longer would Saunders place a cramping hand on Cutler's stubbled check to see his Cupid's bow mouth curl in a slight smile as he slept. No longer would the rich and dark curls that framed a round and seraphim face slide like silk under his fingers as he patted his charge's head; an activity allowed in youth but stolen in adulthood. And no longer would he even glare at that upstart Mercer, for the bastard was dead too. He was achingly alone now and what to do! Oh, my poor boy, Saunders cried harder at the thought, oh my poor boy, what am I to do? What am I to do now?