Notes: A sequel ficlet to On the East of Eden, because I had an attack of self-indulgence.

It's early morning when I slip away with Florie and Elijah to make good on my promise to help out with the latest batch of rescues. From the carriage window, Florie pushes aside the curtains and wordlessly, watches the wide expanse of blooming heather below the moody, heavy clouds, barely able to contain her excitement.

"Are we going to see the sheep again?" she asks, and before I can confirm, she prattles on. "I do love them so. Mama said I can't have a lamb, but if I come back with one, she can't say no."

"You're not taking one. They live there." I shift Elijah on my lap, so that he can see out the window too. He babbles softly, waving a chubby fist at the passing scenery, and for a moment, I am afraid of the time he begins to talk and learn what the world really is like. I hold on to him a little tighter.

Florie pouts a little, crossing her arms and slumping in the seat. (I definitely seen this before.) "I want one."

"Tell you what, why don't you help out, and then see if you're up to taking care of a sheep."

A small smirk curls her lips. "I'll be very good at it."

The carriage jolts, colliding with a broken branch, and in that moment of alarm, I imagine Elijah's brains on the glass, before the solidness of his tiny body registers. He gurgles a little, unharmed, and I swallow back my fears.

We meet Jezabel near the stables, with some members of the anti-vivisection society. Social graces require that he attend to his guests, and Florie, in her childish manner and never having learned better, wraps her arms around him. "I want a sheep," she announces, staring up at him, adoringly, tactlessly.

Jezabel gives me a long, questioning stare, as to why I brought people to his sanctuary, before giving her a flat "no".

"Oh, but I do, I do," Florie protests. "Mama knows how to fix sheep, and it would be ever so happy with me. I'd take it out every day, and—"

"No. Animals are not toys." He turns his attention to me. "Give her a doll instead."

"A sheep doll?" Florie helpfully adds, ever the opportunist.

"Why don't you make one?" I suggest to her. "Go find some fabric. I'm sure the girls in the attic will show you how."

Jezabel looks as though he fully intends to tell me off for distracting Florie with his sisters, but I don't think they mind visitors. Mary said that they've been lonely for such a long time up there.

Florie pauses, carefully weighing the pros and cons. "They are awfully nice."

"Then it's settled," I say, giving Florie a gentle nudge in the direction of the house. "Tell Martha that I told her to give you a sweet too."

Florie bounces, excitement lighting up her face. "Oh, she makes the best scones!" Then a shadow comes over her, and she fumbles for my free hand. "You'll come too, won't you?" she asks in a small voice, as if she's taken on all her mother's fears.

I nod, and sunshine returns to her. She tramps through the overgrown heather, ahead, eagerly pointing out a strutting robin or the blur of a frightened mouse, as purple, bell-shaped blossoms catch on her dress.

Jezabel walks beside me, alien and incomprehensible. Sometimes I can guess what he's thinking, and sometimes I am reminded that we are two different people at the end of the day. "He'll ask one day," he says quietly, so that Florie cannot hear, even if she were not currently occupied many yards ahead with a rabbit burrow. "About Father."

I clutch Elijah closer to me. I know it's strange not to leave him in the care of a nurse, but fortunately, my reputation as a Hargreaves allows me such eccentricities. He nudges against me, cooing contently.

Jezabel takes my speechlessness for an answer. "You should start thinking of an excuse. He'll realize Father's absence soon enough." Silence engulfs us, as we pick our way through the field. 'What about Riff?"

My throat burns from the overwhelming pain that comes from hearing his name. I shake my head. "No."

"He's going to ask about his namesake."

"Middle name," I counter, suddenly defensive.

Jezabel sighs, exasperated, and glares at the low, gathering clouds in frustration.

I suppose I should take this as a promising sign of his interest in Elijah's future. I know he still doesn't care much for humanity. He was unspeakably angry the day Elijah was born, a fury partially born of the realization that I had fulfilled my duty as head of the Hargreaves—to leave an heir. That the infant writhing in his cradle, still red, was more wanted than he had ever been. And as I watched him coldly regard the child, I was afraid he would kill him right there, or throw himself on me, or threaten me, or throw himself out of the window, or any combination. Instead, he only watched the jerky movements, his hands tightening.

And then I realized how to solve the problem of his jealousy, or at least alleviate it some. "You're his godparent. You and Mary and Oscar."

He's yours too.

The cold hatred drained from him, to be replaced with shock and horror. Why died on his lips, as he looked from the child to me, shaking his head. "Did you consult your wife about this?"

"She thought it would be a good idea. She wanted her sister named as well, so if I die, you'll have to decide who raises him."

"The next heir," he said flatly, with a hint of bitterness, "raised by the family bastard. That will go over exceedingly well, I suspect."

But my plan worked. The next time he visited, he brought over a thick tome of Beatrix Potter's animal stories that he insisted I read to Elijah. It wasn't until I leafed through it, seeing two unfamiliar names scrawled in a strange hand inside the cover, that I knew. It belonged to the girls in the attic. I wondered if that's how he understood them, after they died, trying to find in the pages any trace of them. A favorite story, as evidenced by well-worn, dog-eared pages, or a scrap of schoolwork, lost as a bookmark.

I've never met his sisters. Mary says that they're still there, and that they're sweet girls, but it's difficult to picture Jezabel as anyone's younger brother. They don't seem to have aged, and there's something sad about being trapped at a certain age for the rest of eternity. They'll always be children, never women with their own families. I saw one of them, once. The older one, Anna. I had been dozing in the soft September light, faintly listening to the contented bleats of Jezabel's flock; when I opened my eyes, she stood before me, curiously searching my face, her sea-gray eyes the perfect mirror of Jezabel's. Her blonde hair curled faintly under her pink, printed-cotton bonnet. And then she disappeared, as if she had never been.

It's frightening and reassuring, all at once.

The attic is surprisingly warm for March. Among the boxes of forgotten and discarded items, of yellowed lace curtains and dusty tableclothes, abandoned stitching samplers and cloth dolls and little blood-spotted dresses buried deep to hide their existence, I make my way, eventually perching on the bed Jezabel had moved up there, stubbornly.

It makes sense. I wouldn't want to sleep alone in this house either.

The pale light spills across the room, lending it a pleasant, gentle haze. A rocking chair stirs at our arrival, and one of the dolls drop to the floor. The floorboards creak near me, but I cannot see them, even as I can almost feel their presence. I imagine the younger one, to be nearly on her tip-toes, carefree like Mary. The older one, more reserved, accustomed to the ways of adults, quietly clever.

(Or perhaps that says more about me than it does them. Maybe I can't bear it if they were resentful because of what Father did.)

I set Elijah carefully beside on the clean sheets, and for a moment, I imagine him tumbling, smashing his body on the floor—a mess of detached eyes and insides turned out, wet and red. (Like the one of the first murder victims I saw. God, I was too young to know that some things stay, but I was trying to find some foolhardy courage in myself, to prove that nothing could affect me after Father. I was wrong. )

At the sound of my breath catching, Jezabel searches my face, but what conclusion he reaches, I cannot say. "Give him here," he offers stiffly.

I only shake my head, terrified to see my visions made reality.

"You can't hold him forever," he replies, slightly hurt now. "You couldn't hold Mary forever, either. There's no use trying again."

Florie interrupts us, bounding up the stairs to parcel out a batch of fresh, warm scones. There's no disguising the look of worry and apprehension that crosses Jezabel's face when she hands him one. He starts to pick at it.

"If I had know that was your mortal weakness," I tease him. "I think things would have been a little fairer."

He rolls his eyes at me, while Florie stares at us, confused. And I wonder if I've gone a little too far.

"Here," I say, as I set Elijah between us, afraid but inspired to try to face my fear. Elijah sways a little, as he finds his center. I nearly feel the swish of a skirt over my legs, as I suspect his sisters come closer to examine Elijah.

Or maybe I want them to.

Florie watches Elijah with growing interest as she finishes her scone. "He's just a baby," she explains to no one. "His name? Elijah. Um, like the prophet." She pauses. "No, he hasn't said his first word. Not yet. Mama says it will be 'papa,' and papa says it will be 'mama.' Auntie thinks it will be 'no.'"

She doesn't add that Jezabel thinks it will be 'murder,' in defiance of the common understanding of infant speech.

A pause, as Elijah suddenly goes wide-eyed and quiet, focusing on something I cannot see. He moves his lips in a burst of intense concentration. "Ba-bal," he babbles.

"Oh, stop that!" Jezabel says abruptly, though not-unkindly.

I can almost imagine a girlish giggle, and Florie claps her hands to her mouth in a vain attempt to stifle her laughter.

"Ba-bal."

And then I realize that his sisters must be trying to teach Elijah Jezabel's name, but he's too young to fully pronounce it. Only the ending.

"Does that count?" I wonder out loud.

Jezabel shrugs. "I hope not."

"Just wait until I tell Mama," Florie adds, grinning.

"Ba-bal."

Jezabel gives me a level look. "Is he going to be saying that all day?"

"You're the one who went to medical school," I counter. "You tell me."

"I didn't study infants."

"Is this something you don't know?" Mock surprise laces my voice. "Someone tell the editor of the Times. He'll be glad to know you're only mortal. I'm half surprised he hasn't put a bounty out for you by now."

Jezabel rolls his eyes, but he doesn't seem upset as he finishes his scone.

Notes:

Thank you for reading, as always.

The title comes from the lovely Scottish ballad, Ca' The Yowes To The Knowes. It has one of my favorite lines in it (''Til clay-cold death shall blind my eye"). You can read the whole poem here: .