That my sister was mad I well knew; had known it for twenty years or more. She disguised her dark nature with ease, wearing a face of civility when among others, playing at modesty as skillfully as she did at the keyboard and with as much success. Lucille knew how to blend in, knew what to say and to whom; she had no trouble being seen as she wanted other to see her: proud but poor. Respectable. Devoted to her younger brother.

On the surface, admirable traits.

But under the surface . . . far less so.

I am not proud in admitting that I was in Lucille's thrall for years. She was my protector, my confidant, my friend and then my lover. We grew up together in dark rooms filled with dark moods. Mother and Father were the bookends of neglect and abuse, working in tandem to grind the spirit out of us. Had I been an only child they might have succeeded; my nature has always been gentler than my sister's.

Lucille, however, was always full of fire, fighting back when she could. She took her share of beatings and mine too, until I refused to let her do it. And there were terrible nights when Father would summon her and she wouldn't return to the nursery for hours. I would wait up for her, fighting my fear of the dark to be there when she came limping back. Mother would beat Lucille; Father did far worse.

But she survived. Her spirit hardened even as she grew tall and curvaceous. Lucille took comfort from my affection even as she encouraged it in dark ways. For my own part, I confess that as I grew I had all the normal interests and instincts of my sex, and Lucille enjoyed tutoring me in the talents of lust. She teased me, pleasured me and in doing so bound me to her all the more intensely.

Did I know then what we were doing was wrong in the eyes of society? Not at first, but with maturity and education I came to realize it soon enough. At eleven I was dimly aware that my sister and I must keep our nocturnal proclivities a secret; at twelve, I understood it far too well.

When Mother discovered our secret later that same year I knew our world was in terrible jeopardy. Mother locked me in the closet, dragged Lucille out and beat her with the cord of keys until my sister passed out, and then tied her to the bedstead with curtain sash.

I wouldn't be touched; with Father gone I was the heir of the house and Mother needed me to keep the claim on Allerdale Hall.

Horrible hours. I clawed at the door, throwing my slight weight against it again and again, trying desperately to reach Lucille, torn between fear for her and fear for what would happen next. My sister was strong, and could move to rage as quickly as the blink of an eye. I heard her rouse herself, called to her but Lucille ignored me and I heard her walk out of the room.

I couldn't say how much time passed, but when the key turned in the lock I stumbled to my feet to see Lucille, her nightgown splashed with blood, a triumphant smile on her lips. "Thomas," she murmured. "We are free; come and see."

The sight of Mother in her evening bath . . . I lost my gorge, turning from the hideous tableaux in the tub, choking in bile-tinted fear and shame. I had feared her yes, but she had been my mother, and as subject to Father's brutality as we had. I fought panic, aware that while Father's death had been suspicious, this was open murder and that Lucille would be hanged for it.

We ran. Taking few possessions and with no clear plan we ran only to be caught and taken into custody. My sister did her best to appear innocent, but there was too much evidence against her and too little compassion for her. Lucille was committed to Blackthorne Asylum while I was sent to school.

School. One would think that for a child who'd never socialized with anyone but his sister I'd be further traumatized, but the precise opposite occurred. I found my voice, discovered people who earned my trust and nurtured my talents. I was encouraged to study and enjoyed it. My quiet nature become good manners and my compassion for the opposite sex gained me much favor with women. I read people easily and found it a simple matter to present myself in the best light possible. With that came confidence, ease, poise. I had come through darkness into light, and all should have been right with the world.

But—

Two duties weighed on me; dual burdens that kept me grounded. The first was Allerdale Hall. As a baronet and heir to the estate, I was responsible for it. Father had done his best to drink and gamble away the fortune, leaving precious little behind. There were taxes and upkeep for the clay mine machinery and estate fees and countless other drains upon the meager finances left. I found myself caught in the dilemma of needing to work and not being expected to; my station in society held the assumption that my time was my own.

And the second was Lucille.

If I thought my station in life was difficult, hers was more so. At this point in life Lucille would have been expected to marry. She was after all a titled, eligible young woman with a presentable pedigree, and certainly handsome. Upon reaching her twenty-fifth birthday she was released from Blackthorne and into my custody, albeit reluctantly by the physicians of the institute.

I'd received letters from her during our time apart, notes of affection that bore marks of editing or censoring—I could not tell which. I'd written back to her as supportively as I could, refraining from expressing too much affection lest it be read by others, and always with a curious mingling of shame and lust. My rational mind knew how I must behave, but my body did not always agree, and Lucille's image occupied my intimate thoughts and private sessions often. Somewhere within the constitution of the Sharpe family lies a darker nature when it comes to passion. The only time I have ever expressed open aggression was when lying with Lucille; she had encouraged me to assert my desires as I wished.

I feared being in her company once more would rekindle our passions . . . a fear that proved true. In her time at Blackthorne, Lucille had not only grown more beautiful, but also more . . . manipulative. I, who had not had physical relations with anyone other than my own hand for the last ten years found myself unable to resist her blatant kisses and caresses, cursing myself after every session and lying to myself that each would be the last.

Lucille enjoyed my torment. "We are meant to be together, Thomas. Your body buried in mine, your heart beating on top of my own," she would croon as I took her. "Always together, never apart."

How that phrase filled me with dread. For I loved Lucille, but I had known another life too. I'd spent ten years in a normal world, making friends, studying, enjoying each day. A decade in the light.

But no more. Lucille kept me to herself, carefully intercepting my mail and breaking my engagements and appointments. Friends fell away; correspondences slackened and gradually ended. Lucille insisted we return to Allerdale Hall.

That first night. She wandered our ancestral home, naked and laughing, her hair down and her eyes bright. "Where shall I have you fuck me, my love?" she demanded. "Shall we profane Mother's bed? Or will you bend me over the balustrade? Or perhaps I simply will get on my hands and knees here on the landing and we can leave the great front doors open as you take me?"

Talk like that terrified and aroused me all in one. I tried to block her way and speak reasonably, but she pressed herself against my body. "We're home, Thomas. Our home. Here we can do as we please! I've waited a long time for this, suffered and survived little brother, so that I could return here with you!"

I tried to protest, but the gleam in her eyes chilled me, and some small part of my brain understood that the wrong word at this particular moment would ignite a fury I would not withstand. Her caressing hands made me shudder at her touch, and I gave in, my guilt and frustration venting itself in the cruelest kisses I could give.

She gloried in them, urging me to bite, to leave marks on her fair skin and to my shame I did, darkly relishing the way Lucille cried with joy in receiving them. My sister knew well my own inner demons and set them against me that night, leaving me spent and sick by morning.

We could have stayed that way had we any money, but soon enough creditors came calling, bills in hand. I sold off what I could, and there was enough to last a year, but after that we would lose Allerdale Hall. That frightened Lucille.

"You must marry, and well," She announced to me. "Some older bitch with money and no relatives. Someone impressed with the title and land but uninterested in the marital bed."

I protested. Marriage was out of the question; I had no intention of playing the gigolo. There was a chance I could make something of the clay mines though, and I tried to explain that to my sister. She listened, grudgingly, pointing out that money was still necessary to build the machine I'd devised. Short of robbery, deception would have to do.

And I knew. Even before I'd agreed to Lucille's plan, I knew that whoever I married would not . . . live. In the time I'd become reacquainted with my sister I'd come to see that Lucille no longer thought of other people as people. To my sister, people were obstacles or tools or pawns, nothing more. Nothing. Her years at Blackthorne had tempered her perspective into this simple, vicious outlook.

I wish I could blame Father and Mother, or the asylum, but they were only parts of the whole in her education. Lucille herself had always had dark tendencies. Too, I wondered if this scheme was also so she would have something, someone to . . . kill. Can one develop a taste for murder?

A craving for it?

I was not to be the first time I wondered about it.