He won't stop crying. Why won't he stop crying?
Thomas Sharpe glances across the workshop to where his son lays screaming from his crib. It seems as though he's been crying since his birth, just those few short months ago. Lucille says that it's only natural for an infant to cry, and she always knows best. But as Thomas crosses the room and places a smooth hand against the child's cheek, he's taken aback by the heat. Gently, he lifts the child from the black-laced bassinet and cradles him to his chest.
"Shh. There, there, little one. All will be well." Thomas' soft voice and tender caresses finally bring the child's cries down to a whimper as he paces the room. Just then, a blast of icy northern wind strikes the window, slamming it open against the wall and filling the room with a frosty breeze. The baby's wails drown out the sound of Thomas' quiet curse. Crossing the room with the infant still clutched tightly to himself, Thomas pushes the window back into place, latching it tight against the storm outside.
"I'm sorry, little one, but I'm afraid you'll have to get used to things like that if you grow up in this house. No matter how you hedge against it, the cold will always find its way in." As he continues pacing about the room, soothing the anxious child, he reflects on the accuracy of his words. Time and again he tried to leave Allerdale Hall. First boarding school, then university. But it drew him back without fail. Or rather she drew him back.
Always together, never apart. It's what she said to make him stay. What she'd said that first night and all the nights after. Somehow, deep in his heart, he knew that what they did was wrong. Through the years, especially at school, he'd learned to push it all away, to hide his past. He even learned to mimic the "normal" behavior of the other boys. But his scars, like the red clay of his homeland, ran deep, permeating his being and oozing into every thought, every action. Finally, he felt that, like the machine he had designed, he was destined to spend the rest of his life dredging up the past, atoning for his mistakes. The child would be his first absolution.
Lucille never spoke of the father, though his identity seemed to be no secret. Born wrong, is what she said. She wanted to leave him on the doorsteps of the church, to either die or be found, but Thomas wanted to keep him. He loved the boy's tiny ears and wide, lolling smile and convinced Lucille to let him turn a portion of his workshop into a nursery, while she found a wealthy, single young lady to play nursemaid.
Enola was a tender, maternal soul, convinced she could take care of the baby and cure whatever ailed him. But as the weeks wore on, it became clear that no amount of nurturing would affect the child's condition.
Pulling out a rickety stool, Thomas sets the child on his knee, reaches across the workbench, and picks up one of the many dolls he had carved for him. The boy struggles to stay upright, even with Thomas' wide hand supporting his back. But once he sees the toy, a brightly painted clown, his tiny eyes light up in a slanted smile. He giggles and coos, reaching chubby fingers towards the figure.
Thomas begins to laugh. "There we go! That's a strong lad! Get Mr. Clown!"
"Thomas!"
He drops the toy in surprise at the sound of his sister's voice, the loud clatter setting off another round of wailing from the child. "Lucille. I didn't hear you come in. We were just having a bit of fun."
"Fun?" Lucille strides into the room, jingling with every step as her massive ring of keys rustle against her lifted skirt. "I haven't had a moment's peace all day with that infernal squalling. Can't you make it shut up?"
Thomas rises, rubbing soothing circles on the baby's back. "Well, I've been trying..."
"It's probably hungry. Why don't you go warm a bottle?"
"Of course. I'll be back shortly."
Lucille makes no move to take the infant from his arms, so he gingerly lays the child in the bassinet, kissing him gently on his feverish brow.
"Enola! Enola?" From the cold, cramped kitchen Thomas stokes the fire in the stove, calling out for the newest Mrs. Sharpe. But the only answer is the echoing wails of the infant, pouring out of the workshop and gushing through the empty halls.
Just as he begins to mount the stairs, the warmth of the bottle providing welcome relief to his freezing hands, the crying stops. He pauses. Gradually, even the gentle falling of the snow and his own shallow breathing take on a growing crescendo in the overwhelming silence that descends.
On entering the workshop, the bottle drops from his hand, crashing into delicate slivers of icy glass. Lucille stands over the cradle, staring down at the child's still form. "Well, it won't be crying anymore."