Dreams are supposed to be your imagination running wild through the night.
Some are good, others bad.
Some horrifying, some sad.
They say dreams aren't supposed to hurt you.
But sometimes, they do.
Waking up in a place he didn't recognize, Arthur looked around from the plush bed, glancing at his hands, then to the rest of the room. It was a habit that he look at himself from where he lay to make sure he was alright. The room beyond his body was almost like one that someone would read about in a fairy tale. Pale floral walls with a pale oak dresser and matching vanity, both littered with little jars of glimmering things, and glass and gold plated jars of powders and makeup. He blinked and sat up slowly, frowning at the flowers that had started to fall from his hair. Looking back, the pillow had been lined with small and delicate flowers supposedly working up to meet his hair, leaving just a few to stray in his hair. "Peculiar..." As he swung his legs off the worn pastel quilt, he stood slowly, looking at the intricate pattern of the Persian rug on the floor. Somebody took the time and effort to decorate accordingly... From the etched and stained glass of the lamp to the chandelier that hung from the ceiling, it was almost too perfect. "This is odd..." His attention suddenly snapped to the jewelry on the vanity, especially to the rings that sat on the varnished oak in their own burgundy velvet ring holder. There were nine rings, each one representing the rainbow, and then a pearl and one black stoned ring. There was something off about the rings...figuring it was a dream, Arthur shrugged and picked one up—the garnet ring an slid it on his fingers. A warm glow slowly emerged, and his body warmed. Heat started building up in his hands until he was holding two fiery orbs resting in each. Mystified, he quickly took the ring off and put it back in its spot.
Now, a normal person would have went and possibly explored the rest of the house, but Arthur stayed in the room and tried another ring. There was another ring he wanted to try—the rose gold and pink pearl ring. The pearl itself looked like it was between pink and a light baby blue, and someone had fashioned the rose gold so that it had small tendrils encircling the pearl. Beautiful as it was, Arthur decided he must try it on. As he slid it onto his finger, another warm feeling crept through his body, but this one was different. The warmth resided in his stomach, and made his mind warm and hazy—he almost felt like crawling back into the bed, just waiting for something. He didn't know what, but he'd sit there and wait. Before the feeling got too strong, he gingerly pulled the ring away, setting it back in its spot. The warmth faded from his body again, and thankfully, so did the haze in his mind. As far as his thoughts went, he tried on the others, going from the orange citrine gem that gave him small light orbs around his hands and anywhere he pointed to the yellow topaz that gave shocking results, the sapphire which held the power of water, the indigo-colored lapis luzili that made him feel very heavy, and he couldn't breathe for a minute—He could have sworn he had gills—and so on. The ones that were different were the aquamarine gem, the onyx ring and the violet amethyst and silver ring. The aquamarine and white gold ring made him invisible—only he could see himself in the vanity mirror and even then he was only an outline of blurriness and the small ring on his finger. In comparison, the onyx ring changed his reflection to something entirely different. The three mirrors had different reflections when he looked up from the shiny black stone. The far left was a man who looked similar to Arthur, only his hair was a champagne color and his eyes were blue. He looked just as confused as Arthur when he looked to the far right reflection—some creature that looked like a devil with cherry red hair stood, holding the ring lightly just like Arthur did. The creature looked as pale as paper. The middle reflection though was what really scared him. Instead of a normal reflection just like any other mirror, this reflection of Arthur was thin and worn, eyes begging for some sort of mercy. One eye was a milky green color, the other was a sickly green hue. Dark rings had formed around the eyes, and there were marks all over his skin. Disheveled and messy, this Arthur looked like death warmed over. Quickly taking off the ring after that, he still held onto the amethyst ring.
"I would get out of here if I were you."
The voice startled Arthur and caused him to run into the night stand, almost knocking over the glass lamp. In front of him, standing by the door there was a boy, no older than twelve. He held a stuffed white bear in his arms, with old glasses perched on his nose. His hair was a bit long for him, but it framed his delicate face so nicely, it didn't really matter. Though his hair was wavy, there was one part of his bangs that made a perfect ringlet or two, leaving it to rest with the golden wheat-colored mop. His clothing, Arthur noted was a bit dated. Knee length breeches, a plain shirt, along with stockings and leather boots, this boy was a bit...odd to him, though he fit with the house quite nicely. "How long have you been here?"
"Please put the rings down..." He said quietly, holding the bear a bit tighter. "My papa will know if you've been messing with them, so I'd appreciate it if you'd put it down...I don't want him to get angry with me." The boy seemed to be getting a bit upset, so to avoid complication, he put the ring down, noticing a small detail that seemed to be missing from the whole set. The emerald. The green ring was missing.
"Who are you?" Arthur questioned, looking to the boy again, only to find that he was missing. "...Never mind..." The blond muttered, heading to the door where the boy had been standing. He really needed to get back to...where was he, anyways? He had been doing something before this, but he didn't remember. The door was intricately carved out of maple wood, leafy patterns cut into the delicate wood. Even the door knob matched with a bronze finish. Beyond the door was the hallway, the walls were painted a pale yellow color, and the baseboards were the same oak that matched the vanity and dresser. There wasn't a carpet, but on the pine floors, there was a long area rug patterned with flowers and such. There were a couple rooms down the halls, one was another hall connecting to other rooms and the other room was another bedroom. Instead of venturing down the stairs, he thought it would be alright to go to the other room farthest from him. His heart started beating a bit faster as he neared the door, glancing at the name etched in the wood. More maple leaves and vines spelled out 'Matthew' in a graceful font. Slowly opening the door, he marveled at the sight. A dark varnished floor with matching dresser and wardrobe, plus a night stand. The bed looked plush and comfortable with its hand-made violet and white chenille quilt. On the ceiling was a starry night painted with delicate care, and the indigo sky was perfect. Arthur could have never done a job like that...he'd get too tired and give up, leaving blotchy spots that looked like clouds. In the corner there was a desk with a few notebooks, a box of assorted hard candies and a few novels, each of them a bit older than Arthur's time. Some were in French, others were a title or two that Arthur recognized. There wasn't a regular ink pen, but a nib pen and a bottle of Black India ink. The notebook was open, and there was a journal entry there for his reading.
'January...' The ink was smudged, all he could read was 'January'.
'My papa told me that I couldn't go outside anymore. I enjoy playing with the children outside, but he says they're tainted. He said there was nothing good about them. I got upset with him but didn't yell—I didn't want to hurt his feelings by saying that he was wrong. Instead, I asked for a cat instead, and he smiled at me and said 'Absolutely'. A day or two later, he came home with an orange and white cat with floppy ears and wide green eyes. I can't think of a name for him. He seems like an old man and he'll only play for short periods of time. He's like me, I guess. Though he sleeps all day, he likes to sleep in my bed with me at night. I hope this kitten is good...I don't want Papa to take him away from me, too.'
'January 1...18...' More smudged ink, and a couple wrinkled spots on the page. They looked like tear stains...
'It's been Ten years since mama left us. Papa seems very upset today and won't stop pacing around. I'm worried for him because he's spent more time in his study looking at all sorts of bugs. He's gotten more and more of them sent to him from all over the world. I'm afraid of most of them them, though. I don't like bugs, especially the spiders. I hate spiders...
'Sometimes when he has a few caterpillars around, I'll stay around to watch them inch around and turn into butterflies. I like to think mama went somewhere with a lot of butterflies...maybe she'll send a post card or come back to take me and papa to see them. Papa would enjoy that, and so would I.
I miss her.'
"What a dark little book..." Arthur muttered, turning away from the desk. The poor kid who wrote in the notebook must have been like a prisoner in his own house. "I should get moving again..." He glanced back at the bed before he left, his heart dropped a couple inches. There on the bed was the white teddy bear, blankly staring straight ahead. There was a greater urge to leave as Arthur let the detail sink in. He backed out of the room, closing the door before he turned around and was face to face with the boy again. "Shi-"
"You really might want to go now—I really don't want Papa to hurt you too." The boy said, worry crossing his face.
"What do you mean? This is a dream, right? Dreams can't hurt—" The Briton was interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming down the hall, quick and erratic. When the door swung open, Arthur's expression paled, his eyes wide. "Alistair?"
The man in question slammed the door behind him, making the smaller boy at the top of the stairs flinch. "Arthur, you need to get out of here." He huffed, grabbing Arthur's hand roughly, tugging him down the stairs past the boy. "Don't talk to that kid, either. You'll make his dad angry." Arthur was too busy trying to speak to even ask what Alistair was doing here.
"Where the hell have you been?! You've been gone-"
"I know I've been gone, but you really need to get out of here." His red-orange hair was hanging in his emerald eyes, and his forearms were littered in scratches and bruises. As they stomped down the stairs, Arthur glanced at the pictures on the wall. A family portrait with the face of the woman scratched out, leaving the boy and an unfamiliar man. A portrait of the boy holding a cat with floppy ears—the glass around the cat was cracked. Another portrait with the face scratched out, and lastly, a portrait of the unfamiliar man, smiling with a small but devious look on his face. He didn't look half bad. Blond hair, pale skin and a faint blush around the cheeks. The painter was good at the portrait...it was so life like. Arthur blinked and tried to remember the face, only to let out a horrified gasp to find that the picture blinked all eight of its eyes. "Shit." Alistair spat, dragging Arthur down another hall, and through the set dining room table. The candles were lit and the silver dishes were set at all fourteen places at the long table. The kitchen was just down the way, and he could smell food from the kitchen, and there was movement in the sitting room not far from the kitchen. Something was coming, and fast. Alistair stopped short at the front door, the stained glass window showed nothing of the world outside of the house. "You need to go. You can't let him find you, otherwise you're gonna get stuck here." Alistair messed with the door knob, trying jiggle it open. He cursed and listened as footsteps were following the sound of the loose knob, cursing loudly. With no warning, Alistair brought his hand to his face, grunting as he dug his fingers into his eye socket and started pulling with a gasping cry. Grabbing Arthur's hand, he pressed something into his palm, closing his fingers around it. The blond looked up to see a gaping hole and a frantic look from the remaining eye that was still in his brother's head. "Take that. He can't do anything without it. Don't come back here in your dreams. If you do, you'll get stuck like the rest of us. Don't sleep if you have to, just don't come back." He thrust the door open and pushed Arthur out before he could get a glimpse of what had been following them. Arthur could barely say anything before he suddenly woke up.
He was back in the room he knew better. The bedroom with white washed walls, a small and ugly desk with bills and his computer piled on it, along with a overfilled dresser with small objects of interest on top. There was a short and small coffee table that acted as a place for his alarm clock, and his reading glasses he wore if he wanted to pick up where he left off in his book. Looking down at himself, there was a book resting on his stomach, and the lamp next to the coffee table was still on. The light bulb was hot, and one side of his face felt the warmth of the glow. "What an odd dream..." He muttered, putting a bookmark in his book before turning off the lamp. He was wearing the clothes he had on last night, and the clock read ten-thirty. He was lucky that today was one of his days off, and nobody was home to wake him. Usually, his three brothers and one sister were around home, but the number of siblings in the house dwindled. Liam and Owen were picking up the work that Alistair had been offered, working on small renovations. The second eldest brother had gone missing one day, and ever since then, the three of them and their older sister, Niamh were putting out all sorts of alerts for the missing sibling. It wasn't like the time that Alistair had gotten lost on his way home from Canada after visiting a good friend (Niamh says it was more so a booty call than anything—the girl he met with was 'too cute to not tap', she said) and ended up sitting in Norway for a couple weeks. No, this was an actual case of Alistair missing without a trace.
"What a wicked dream..." As he swung his legs out of bed and sat up, he noticed something odd. His hand was clenched around something small and hard. It was round, he knew that. With the dream, he was almost half-afraid to see what exactly the object was. Opening up his fist, he was looking at a silvery band with a small yet vibrant emerald sitting in the metal. It was no bigger than a pencil eraser, and it shimmered in the low light. "...I never knew we had this..." There was a chain attached to it, and it wasn't one of the fine necklace chains, either. It was more so one of the chains that one would find on a ceiling fan chord instead. Without a further thought, he decided he wanted to keep it, so he put the chain around his neck and tucked the ring into his shirt. Breakfast was next on the agenda, along with listening to the three messages on the house's answering machine. Hitting the triangular 'play' button, he headed into the small kitchen to fix himself tea and toast, giving a half-minded listen to what the phone had recorded.
'Message One: Thursday, May sixth at eight thirty a-m: Arthur, just your sis calling from the police station. There's still no word on Allie yet. It's been months...they say that it's starting to go cold, Arthur. They might just charge us more if we want to continue searching. One of the investigators also offered up that it might be one of those serial kidnappings that nobody will find. I don't know. I'll see you later, Artie.'
Nothing out of the ordinary. Niamh was working extra hard to try and find Alistair. Hopefully she didn't push too hard, or even worse—they'd find a body if she worked them too hard.
'Message Two: Thursday, May sixth at nine-o-one a-m: Hey, Owen's got a nail through his foot so we're heading over to he E.R. It wasn't his fault, I kind of shot the nail gun at his foot while redoing the kitchen of someone's house. We'll be home around ten after we get the nail out of his foot. I gotta go—no phones in the ER. Later.'
Now they're out of a good income...great.
'Message Three: M—y sixth-th-th-'rrh-nn' The digital recorder started to garble a bit. That was odd...Arthur went over to check the answering machine, tapping on the recorder with a frown. 'Good morning, this is François Bonnefoy—I'm calling to inquire about a lost artifact of mine, and after given a list of possible locations of said artifact, I thought I'd call here. I'm looking for an emerald ring—it's simple, but it means so much to me. It used to be my wife's, so I can assume you understand the urgency. It's a gold band with a small emerald, so it shouldn't be hard to find, but if you do find such a thing, my address is Eight hundred Eightieth Second Street in Ashburry. The address is a bit rural, but it's easy to find. By the way, I'd like to thank the craftsman who renovated my kitchen...he did such a wonderful job. It's a shame he's gone missing.'
The message cut off suddenly, leaving Arthur with a heavy feeling in his stomach. He looked down his shirt and at the emerald ring, shaking his head slowly. It couldn't be...No, he'd just jot down the address and investigate later, find the house on Google maps or something... yeah, he'd do that. That'd be easier than going out in a taxi or something. The message on the phone was still unnerving...was that really one of Alistair's customers? Arthur could always look through the book that he kept names and numbers in and find out where he last went, if that would help any. He always had two sets, and one of them were in the care of the policemen working to find him. But, if he were to get the date book, he'd have to go into Alistair's room...and that was a bit of a sore subject for Arthur. Sure, he had hated his brother for a while, but after a series of unfortunate events, he had warmed up to the brute and became better acquainted with the other. But...it had also been five months. Five months of looking and searching near and far, and through all the phone books and everything. It was worth a try.
After getting his tea—which had been brewing for much too long and had turned bitter, to his disgust—and couple pieces of toast, he didn't bother to change out of his clothes and readied himself in front of Alistair's room. He sighed heavily and bit his lip, reaching out to turn the brass knob when the phone went off again, startling him out of his focus. "For the love of..." He muttered, stomping over to the phone, forgetting the book for the moment. He picked up the phone gruffly, huffing into the reciever. "Hello?"
"It's your brother again, Artie. We just got out of the E.R—Owen's foot is going to be okay, but he can't walk on it for a couple weeks."
"Well, that's good. Is he on any medication?"
"Just pain meds. They make him loopier than shit, I tell you." Liam snickered. "We're just waiting for a taxi home then we'll be back for the afternoon. I went ahead and called ahead to the other customers that we'll be out for those two weeks. You still got your job on at the department store?"
"Of course. Today's just my day off." Arthur sighed, glancing back to the hallway where Alistair's room was. Currently, Owen and Liam were actually sharing a room, save for the days when Owen slept on the much too short couch in the living room. "I've got more hours than you on your job, that's for sure."
"Oi, just because I'm only able to work one shift doesn't mean you have to rub it in." The ginger snapped in retort, muttering to Owen to move his foot. "Anyways, the cab's here. I'll have to talk to you when I get home. I gotta haul dopey into the car. Later."
The call ended, leaving Arthur with a bit of a scowl. "What kind of idiot hits his brother with a nail gun?" Obviously his brother would hit the other with a nail gun, otherwise they wouldn't be in this mess. He moved his focus back to Alistair's room, putting the phone back onto the charger so he could go back to re-opening the can of worms that hurt him most. This time, he got the door open, looking into the clean room as if it were some sort of foreign land. Of course, he didn't like going in there. He'd rather eat said can of worms instead of crossing the line between the living room and Alistair's room. There was a desk and two small dressers, along with an actual night stand with a small desk lamp on it, and the notebook he was looking for. The messy scrawl that was his brother's was written across the front. 'Appointment Book: Home Copy'.
Though he didn't mean to, he sat down on the bed and picked up the notebook, looking at the cover. It was nothing special. Just a composition book with Alistair's handwriting on the pages. Arthur never had ventured into Alistair's room, and when he did, it was to wake the older man up. He noticed something new. A picture frame with an unfamiliar picture in it. There was a family—their mother and father, young Owen and Niamh, toddlers Alistair and Arthur, along with baby Liam. He didn't really remember what his parents looked like anymore. They had been missing for quite some time. He remembered when he was young that Owen had told them that mom and dad had gone on a trip for quite some time, and they weren't coming back for a long time. Their godmother took care of them until they could get on their feet by themselves, and then the siblings bought a room for all of them to live in until they each wanted to move out. Arthur just stared at the picture, his eyes misting over a bit. He missed them all—his parents and Alistair included. There was a knock on the front door, jolting Arthur from his thoughts. "One second, I'm coming," He called, bringing the notebook with him. Shutting the door gently, he wandered to the door only to find that Owen and Liam were behind it. He stood in the doorway glowering at them, shaking his head. "How the hell did you shoot your brother with a nail gun."
"Well..." Owen looked like he was absolutely out of his mind, his eyes hazy and unfocused. "We were working on something and Liam was talkin...and I wassn' lookin out for th' gun..." He chuckled and leaned on his crutches, his head lolling around. "Mm...but they got me good medicine an' I got some laughin gas..." He chuckled, closing his eyes for a moment. "Bu' the healthcare took care of it...We jus' gotta pay our bit..." Owen grinned stupidly, leaving Liam to roll his eyes at the other. Compared to Owen, Liam didn't look much like his brother. Owen resembled their mother's side, while Alistair, Niamh, and Liam looked like their father with their red hair. Alistair colored his sometimes to more of a auburn color, but otherwise he was just as red-headed as the rest of them. Arthur was different, though. He looked more like his uncle on his mother's side with his lighter sand colored hair.
"Alright, big guy...We'll get you and your foot laid up...Arthur, shut the door behind us." The duo hobbled past the Briton to the couch, flopping Owen down. "Just call me if you need anything...I'll be in my room."
"Al' right lil' guy..." The other slurred out, folding his hands over his stomach. Luckily, the medication made the other drowsy enough that he'd fall asleep before he'd really need anything. Arthur found that it'd be easier to pull his laptop into the living room and then look up the address from the answering machine. His memory served well, so he just went and got his computer and walked back to the living room, glancing over the sleeping Owen. "...I don't think I even feel sorry for him." He mutttered, flopping down in the white armchair across from the couch, quickly keying in the password to get into the computer. It was the same as any other password, meaning that if they had hacked his computer, he'd be in trouble. They'd never guess it, though. It was his little secret.
Before he got distracted, he got to Google Maps and filled in his home address and then the address of the place on the answering machine. Boy, was that François man right when he said it was rural...it was about an hour away from where Arthur's house was, and Alistair would have to get an extra fee for using so much gasoline. Or...He could just rent a car and head out there. They did say that the investigators looked over the area, but they hadn't relayed the details to Naimh and the others. Arthur was familiar how to drive, but otherwise he'd have to take a coach out to investigate for himself. "I wonder if I could see the place on street view..." He muttered, dragging the little person out onto the map, seeing that he could manage a glimpse of the house. To be honest, he was surprised he got as good a look at it to begin with. The house was surrounded by trees, a wrought iron fence, and there was a long driveway at the end of the trees. All he could really see of the house was the little description by the blurry Google maps result and a few familiar things. There was an old structure of some sort outside the house, maybe a gazebo or something. Out back there were glimpses of a garden fence, and some sort of window behind the weeds of the door. This place was a dump. How could anyone live there? Well, some people had their ways. Maybe he was getting the whole place redone and he was just living in a camper out back? Maybe. It was hard to tell. In the end, he found himself searching about this François Bonnefoy on the internet, finding only old articles about the man. He just glimpsed them, sighing a bit as he dozed off with his hands on the keyboard.
Arthur woke again, but this time in the dream again. He was sitting comfortably in a chair, his hands folded in his lap. His eyes looked down, then up again, finding that there was nothing wrong with the surroundings. He was in the parlor sitting room surrounded by matching Rococo furniture, each of the pieces were the same theme. Maroon velvet with a hint of gold embellishments on the dark walnut woodwork and clawed feet on the chairs and wardrobe. The walls were actually painted a pale dull green in comparison to the furniture with a few paintings on the wall. Still dazed, Arthur studied the room in more detail. The tea table in front of him held a tea set patterned with florals in a dripping water color style—unusual for the whole theme of the room.
"Papa said the teapot was made by one of his good friends. She was very good at what she did, but she lost her hand in an accident." The familiar voice made Arthur blink twice at the boy sitting in front of him again, holding that snowy white bear of his. "She made him a whole tea set out of porcelain and painted it with the special glaze they use for China Dishes. She also used liquid gold around the edges and painted more glaze on it...It's beautiful. He wanted just that design, and she did it."
"...Why are you here?" Arthur fumbled with the words, still waking up in the dream. "I mean...they told me not to talk to you..."
"They only say that because papa will get upset if you talk to me. He says people aren't good anymore so I can't talk to anyone. Only him, and he's scary. I don't like talking to my papa much anymore. I just talk to anyone...even my bear. I used to talk to my pets, but they've run away...papa told me they ran off to where my mama is. It's far away, so maybe when I'm older, I can visit." The boy looked down at his bear longingly, sighing heavily. "I guess he hasn't noticed you're here yet...he's upset with your brother. He gave you his eye."
Arthur looked down to his hand, looking at the still emerald colored orb in his hand. Unblinking, Arthur studied it a bit more. "Why is he upset over an eye...? And why is my brother here?"
"I don't know. I only know that I don't like it when they scream. I don't talk to anyone around here."
"You can talk to me, though. I'm not afraid of your papa. I bet he's a kind man."
The boy looked up at Arthur, almost horrified after the phrases. "No, he's not kind at all. He's very scary—I don't like all his eyes...some of them are little and beady, and you can't tell where he looks when he's speaking to you. I don't...I don't like it." He started to panic, his little chest heaving as he whimpered. "Promise you won't let him find me. I'll tell you where your brother is if you promise to help me out of here."
"I promise...I don't know why you're so upset...it's just a dream..." Arthur chuckled, rolling his shoulders a bit. "I'll just give this back to my brother so he can see again..."
"You think this is a dream?" The boy was right in front of Arthur now, little tears in his eyes. He looked so real...He reached his hand up to the boy's shoulder, feeling the softness of the fabric on his shirt, along with the coarse thread that held it together. Reaching up further with a look between confusion and slight shock, he felt the boy's hair—soft as a feather. His other hand felt the bear.
"It's...it's velvet...you've got a velvet bear." Arthur was beyond mystified. The dream was so real. "No, I'm just asleep, that's all...I'm sitting at my computer, in my comfy chair, just waiting for Owen to wake me up..." The blond bolted out of his chair, shaking his head a bit more. "Owen, any minute now—!" He yelled, eyes wide. Panic started to rise up in his chest, leaving a taste in his mouth. Was it the taste of anxiety? Partially bile and a bit of saliva. That was the taste of Arthur's fear.
"Stop that! He'll hear you! Be quiet!" He pleaded, holding his bear closer. A pale color swept across the younger one's face as he heard some sort of skittering in the distance. "We need to hide. Mister, we need to hide." He grabbed Arthur by his hand, tugging him towards the wardrobe.
"You'll get us stuck in there if you're not careful." Arthur hissed, opening the door of the upright closet for the other, going in after the smaller one. It smelled of moth balls and perfume from a woman's collection. The doors closed with a light and almost silent click, and in the darkness, Arthur couldn't see a thing.
"Be quiet...he doesn't like the smell of her clothes." The boy said quietly, huddled up against Arthur. "I'll be hiding here. Make sure he doesn't find you when you leave."
There seemed to be a bit more whispering after that, slowly growing into a woman's tone.
"Ar—ur. Art—r. Arthur. Arthur."
Sputtering a greeting, the sleeping man suddenly woke to his sister leaning down to his face, worriedly looking him over. "That must have been some dream you had...Owen rolled off the couch trying to wake you up. You were talking in your sleep...badly." Naimh said quietly, rubbing the shoulder of her younger brother. "It wasn't a nightmare, was it?"
"I don't think so..." Liar. "It was just...I don't even know what it was." Arthur sighed, pushing Niamh's hand off of his shoulder. "Since when did you get a caring bone in your body?"
"Since you've been having nightmares ever since Alistair's disappearance. It seems like you've been taking this the hardest, Arthur. You've had your little fits and rages, you've been grouchy, you can't even go in his room without psyching yourself to do so. How do I know? You brought out the notebook of his appointments. I know because sometimes you stand there at night and try to get yourself to go in there and borrow one of your favorite pens that's in there back from Alistair's room. Arthur, you're wrecking yourself over this."
"Yeah, well, I don't see you getting upset over this, Niamh." Arthur's voice jumped, snapping at her a bit more than he expected. "Just..." He grumbled, shutting his already blank laptop and shot up from his seat. "I don't know why I'm taking this so harshly—maybe it's just because I think something's wrong, or just..." He snapped and stomped his foot, trying to get the message out. "...Where the heck did you move Owen to?"
"He's sleeping in my bed. I'll take the couch for the night." She said lowly, shaking her head. "You changed the subject. How very mature of you, Arthur." Niamh hissed, turning her back as she marched off to the kitchen. "Your night to cook." She also added, slamming one of the doors of the house.
"Then we're eating Indian food again. I'm not even going to try to cook."