Thomas sat on the hotel bed with his head in his hands, a mixture of fear and regret gripping his heart. For the first time, he thought there had been hope, even if a little. But tonight...tonight had been a nightmare. He had never had to break someone's heart that way before. Let them die...that was different. Dead women could not look at him with such deep sadness and hurt.

Lucille entered his room in her nightdress, "I told you to stick with the McMichael girl."

"And I told you that I wanted to choose this time."

"You know that isn't how this works. I pick a girl, you charm her, and we return to Allerdale with none the wiser. But you had to choose a clever one. We can start over in the morning."

"We have tickets on the train-"

"No. She has eyes only for you. You will finish this and bring her home. I will take care of her father."

Thomas felt his throat tighten, "You mean...?"

"Don't you worry about the details. Just find her in the morning."

"Carter Cushing is a good man."

"All their fathers were good men, at one time or another. You have never worried about depriving them of a daughter before."

"That wasn't my meaning."

"I said not to worry about the details."

Thomas had no reply. He couldn't. He wanted to scream that they were in too far, that this had to end, that Allerdale Hall could rot for all he cared, that she could return to England and he would stay here and find a way to marry Edith, free of his sister's claws...but instead he stayed silent. Edith was his salvation, that he knew. But why or how...those were a mystery.

There was a letter already on its way to her. Something that apologized for the heartbreak, something that he had sent without Lucille's knowledge. He wanted a clean break. If he could not have Edith, he would have no one.

Of course, why he chose her was also something he was not going to tell Lucille. Edith's imagination, at least from what he saw in her novel, was second to none. A girl with a vibrant spirit, a spunk, and someone unafraid of the darkness. A spirit who could love and forgive even monsters. And given that was what he called himself, it seemed she would be his hope, the light. Or the spark to burn down Allerdale Hall, light fire to its shadows, and purify him in the flames of her crucible. She would find a way to survive. She would figure something out, piece together the little clues he tried to leave around the manor. She would know not to drink the tea or always prefer to make coffee- he thought maybe Americans drank coffee instead. Or perhaps she would always insist on making her own- a strong, independent, American woman of this new century. It was so beautifully poetic.

But there was that problem of Lucille. She would not go willingly into this great day. She would either have to be dragged or... He knew this other alternative was the more likely. The only question was how it would all play out and if he would survive it.

He was not sure he would.

"Come," she dropped onto his bed, "A little fun before I take the morning train."

He dutifully obeyed. But this time, his lips were not kissing hers, at least not in his imagination.