This is a rewrite of a rather stupid fanfiction I did called Dancing With Death. Nothing is the same except the characters' names.

So, remember, if you want, I give!

"Insanity is relative. It depends on who has who locked in what cage."

-Ray Bradbury

_-X*X-_

They come for the insane eventually, whether you're a king or a peasant. No matter what, they come, and they hurt. I'd know. They came for us when we were ten.

I can remember the inconsequential things, like what we had for breakfast that morning and that London was finally cooling down for Autumn. Father woke me and my brother just like any other day, and took us down to downtown London.

But it was different. When we got back, he was waiting. He was waiting in the charred remains of our manor, all splattered in blood and black ash. I remember those colors clearly because they stood out against the white of his suit.

My father pushed us behind him, and he shouted, he told them he was calling the Yard and to leave. But my brother and I watched as the man in white said nothing, instead drove a thin bladed sword through his heart.

Not an hour later, the Yard came and locked us up in the madhouse.

A year later, we were released, and the madhouse burned down. My brother and I were the only survivors.

A year after that, we're twelve, living in the Belynneda manor with our little sister Rosanne, a housemaid with no sense of smell, a precocious cook, a mute gardener, and a beautiful handmaid from Italy.

We still have our scars. Burns from the electroshock and chafes red on our wrists. Unlike some, we wear ours proudly. When we have guests or meetings, there is almost always an off-handed remark about our time in the madhouse or our family's deaths or our scars. Lau of the Shenghai Trading Company is no exception.

"Excuse my prying, Lord Belynneda, but I heard rumors that you were locked in the madhouse."

"We were," Casimir challenges with a raised eyebrow and a cocky smirk. "At ten, falsely accused for our parents' murder."

"You poor children," the merchant purrs, his mouth set in a grim line. Next to him, his escort looks on silent and stony faced.

"I'd like to think we're actually in a rare possession of luck, Lau," I say quietly over my teacup, swirling the spiced tea in its chamber.

"How so, my lady?" When I pause to take a sip before answering, the merchant continues in his sickly sweet voice, "It seems as though you've gone through one too many trials to have such a positive outlook."

I glance down at my scarlet satin and black lace gown, falling smoothly over my slender shoulders and flaring at my ankles. The whole affair is tailored to match Casimir's outfit, which is less elegant scarlet and more of a masculine crimson, his lacking in as much lace, of course.

"We're optimists." I tilt my head and force the corners of my lips upward in a knowing smirk, a trademark of the infamous Belynneda twins.

"As for our luck," Casimir continues, his black gloved fingers sliding delicately over the handle of the teacup, "we have each other, don't we? We have this house, capable servants, and we have our fun. What more could we possibly ask for, hm?" Casimir lets out an amused laugh.

"Yes, well, you have had your hardships, little lord. Don't you agree, Ran Mao?" The escort nods silently, pressing her ample breasts against the merchant's arm as he absentmindedly pats her on the back like a kitten.

"Such a vulgar display," I murmur, raising my brow at Lau. His knit together, seemingly confused. "And in such of a large audience. What are you a merchant of, Mister Lau?"

"What am I a merchant of?" the young man smiles kindly, his hand trailing up to rest on the girl's head. "Why, that's easy; I'm a merchant of pleasure."

"And what in the world does that mean?" Casimir practically giggles into his tea, his brilliantly emerald eyes tracing the dancing figures fluttering behind Lau and his escort Ran Mao. Before he can answer, my handmaid Alexandra appears with a tray balanced high on the tips of her white gloved fingers. She performs a single handed curtsy, glasses on the tray never once clinking, and plucks my teacup from my hands.

"Alexandra," I protest as she places my dish on the tray and moves towards the kitchen. I trail on her heels, Casimir keeping pace with me. I can practically see the amused smirk on her graceful features as she rubs it in. "Alexandra, don't you dare make a fool of me in public." I hiss to her, knowing full well she can hear me over the music. She swings open the kitchen door without another word.

"'Ello, Alexandra!" The cook, Myles, greets without looking up. His hands are buried deep in the cupboard and only his fiery hair that always manages to stand up on end is visible over the general messiness of the place. Soon enough, he stands, his face streaked with flour and a huge grin. "Master, mistress, what brings you around to these parts?"

"Alexandra stole my tea," I pout, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Who let you drink the tea!" Myles exclaims, dropping a rather large chopping knife into the wash basin.

"Why shouldn't I be allowed to drink tea?"

"Someone," Alexandra says cruelly, her Italian accent slurring the hard vowels, "carelessly poured too much alcohol in the first few pots, my lady."

"This should be getting interesting then," Casimir laughs. Myles rubs the back of his head sheepishly, smearing flour in his hair.

"Should I go tell Sylvia to recall the tea?" No sooner does he ask than the aforementioned house maid, Sylvia, a young girl of only sixteen with silvery hair and a crooked nose, come flying into the kitchen from the garden door, her apron stained with mud and her face flushed.

"Sylvia, please, hold yourself together!" Alexandra berates, setting her platter down and shooing Sylvia back out the door. "Don't stain the floor. What in the world happened to your pinafore?"

"Someone put alcohol in the tea, and it's gone mad!" She exclaims.

"Oh, wonderful!" I clap my hands in excitement, pulling Casimir from the kitchen and back into the party. Sure enough, a scuffle has even broken out. Two older men are attempting to sluggishly strangle one another. One man has the other by the tie, the second has gone nearly purple in the face.

"I suppose we should stop them," Casimir suggests, even while a grin breaks out on his face.

"We probably should," I agree, unable to keep my own enjoyment from showing.

"Master, mistress, shall I put a stop to this?" Alexandra's voice comes from behind us, and I start.

In response, Casimir strides forward and says quite loudly and sternly, "Excuse me, gentlemen, but is there a problem?"

But drunk men are very rarely still only men. Drunk men seem to know no boundaries. So the drunk man who was attempting to strangle the other by his tie leaps on to my brother. The elder man's thick, pudgy form sends Casimir stumbling, crashing into a table. Not a second later, the same table collapses.

I don't quite feel myself moving forward, but I do, and suddenly the dagger I keep strapped to my leg is in my hand. I kneel over and press my knee into the man's shoulder blades, the tip of my shining silver dagger poised viciously behind his ear.

With a grunt, Casimir tugs himself out from under the man, his clothing thoroughly torn and wrinkled. He angrily brushes himself off, straightens his waistcoat, and pushes his glossy ebony curls from his eyes. With a vindictive, calculating stare, he picks up his foot and presses it gently down on my hand, the one holding the knife.

In front of more than thirty members of high society, Casimir presses my knife into the man's head. He lets out a guttural moan, which fades into death throes. Casimir takes his boot off my hand and I climb off the man, taking my knife with me. In a large, sticky bubble of blood and a wet squelch, the knife releases from his brain.

As the man stills, Casimir gives me a glance with his brilliantly green eyes and his arrogant smile, and we burst out laughing.

_-X*X-_

I let out a piercing scream from atop the landing. It rings through the nearly empty entryway. The occupants, Casimir and Alexandra, both cast me a short glance. Our guest, dressed in the standard madhouse assistant sterile white gown, glares at me over her cap.

"You're back again," Casimir notes coldly, crossing his arms over his chest. He and I remember this particular assistant as the one who treated us with the electroshock. I rub my wrists absently.

"You have no business taking us anywhere," I shout crossly.

Before she can respond, the kitchen door bursts open and Myles, looking much like a candle with his floury skin and bright red hair, runs in. William, gardening shears dangling from between his fingers, his bright hazel eyes wide, trails quickly on his heels. In the same second, Rosanne, rubbing sleep out of her eyes with her right hand, followed by a flustered Sylvia, tromps down the stairs.

"What in the world was that sound?" Myles demands.

"Somethin' wrong, mistress?" Sylvia asks fiercely.

"The lunatics are back," I mutter to her. Her eyes narrow. Rosy blinks at me and Casimir innocently with her single working eye.

"Why'd you scream, Acacia?" She asks, her voice husky and rough with smoke damage from the fire.

"Did she wake you, Rosy?" Casimir questions gently, bending down to her level and surreptitiously advertise her gaze from our unwelcome guest. "You go ahead and go back to sleep. Nothing's wrong, I promise."

"Are you certain, master?" Sylvia asks.

"Take Rosy back to bed," I order, my eyes still locked on the madhouse nurse. To Myles and William, who are still standing downstairs, I demand, "and you two may go back to your duties, thank you very much!"

With a backward glance, the three servants disappear back to where they came, Sylvia steering Rosanne gently by her small shoulders. When they've all gone, Casimir stomps moodily down the stairs, his boots making satisfying thuds on the marble. I match him pace for pace, matching looks of malcontent spread across our faces.

"You have no business here." Casimir sizes himself up to her, although she's easily two feet taller.

"Hello, Lord and Lady Belynneda," the nurse finally speaks in a high voice. I realize for the first time how incredibly young she is, no more than twenty-five now. She drops her head properly, a middle class citizen respecting a noble. "I was informed by an anonymous third party that you both are eligible for our care."

"Of course we are," I scoff decisively, "but you have no right to hold the Earl of Belynneda, myself as his first heir, our sister with her own claim to the title, or any of our four servants, as all are unaffiliated with the crime."

The woman blanches.

"Miss," Alexandra speaks up from where she had taken the woman's coat, "If you forgive me, I believe my mistress is correct. But," her lilting smile melts off her face. She crouches before us, takes each of our hands in both of hers, and says gently, "I think you should go."

"What, why!" Casimir and I shout at the same time, simultaneously wrenching our hands away.

"Padroncina, piccolo maestro, mantenare la calma, i miei amori." Alexandra coos with large, sad brown eyes. Her honeysuckle hair falls gracefully to where it brushes her shoulders. Casimir huffs indignantly, covering his fear with his obviously fake annoyance.

"But why, Alexandra?" I murmur, just low enough so the nurse can't hear. "Why should we go back there?"

"You are stronger now, mi amori, no?" She smiles and taps Casimir, who had averted his gaze. "Piccolo maestro, you are much stronger. It would ruin your reputation more if you didn't go."

"I'm not going back," he protests crossly, a hit of sadness creeping into his voice. "Il male a metà donna," he adds under his breath.

"You wound me, Master," Alexandra chuckles, taking his hand once more. "But I will be there, and I will continue to serve you both until you've gotten your wish. I will make sure they do no more harm to you."

So for the second time in our lives, my brother and I are hauled to the madhouse.