Chapter Two


Meg: First of all, thank you very much for the lovely reviews! It's so nice to discover both old and new faces reading my work!

Second, I am sorry in the delayed update. I am taking so many writing-intensive classes that I tend to write about an average of three papers a weekend. This weekend, it was only one paper, but it had to be 15 pages long.

I should have mentioned this last chapter, but the title of the story is based on Breaking Benjamin's song "Dance with the Devil" from their CD Phobia. This song is rather important to the plot, which significance I will not explain until the end of the story. All you need to know now is that it's a rock waltz; it's based on 3/4 time, which fits the steps one uses in a waltz. So, in a circular-argument way, waltzing may be important to the idea behind the story. Ooooh... I love being stupidly mysterious. When I tell you guys at the end what the connection is, you'll all probably call me an idiot for getting you excited over nothing.

Another strong influence on this story was The Black Parade CD by My Chemical Romance. The five guys with Lydia and Lisa in the first scene are based on the members of that band and the personas they took on that particular CD. That first scene was strongly based on the song "Mama," which also somewhat explains Lisa's presence.

So if you want to listen to the abovementioned songs, go for it!

By the way, I am having so much fun writing about the London underworld's daily operation as if it was a legitimate business. Evil rocks!


Dark and damp are the sewers. Not a healthy place for one with poor health. No sunshine to light of the dank corners of London's underworld. Few venture down there of their own free will.

A lingering disease is in the air, a sort of sickness. One feels it at the entrance to the underworld, a chill down the spine that warns would-be trespassers to stay away. Those constantly subjected to this poisoned atmosphere feel the chill sink into their very marrow. No man-made heat can shake it off; only the power of the sun, rare in the inclement weather and polluted atmosphere of London, can dispel it.

As the days and weeks pass the chill creeps through the veins, finally settling into the heart. The soul becomes dormant. The moving, breathing body is dead.


At that moment Ratigan sat at his desk, scribbling on a piece of paper. The albino and Harry stood before him.

"The price of tobacco is going down," he muttered. "Increase interceptions of tobacco shipments. We'll keep them here; if our efforts don't make the prices go up, then the economy eventually will, and we'll put them back on the market. Also, the quality of the bread at meals is horrible. Fanny claims it's the flour, so look for some that isn't the consistency of sand… I want to send two of the green boys to Paris. Write Edouards and let him know."

"Which ones?" Gerard asked.

"Kelley… and that other one, that Ferris boy. They're too uncertain about their new occupations for their own good. Some time in a foreign land, where they have to depend on more seasoned fellows to take care of them, should convince them otherwise… Harry, give Allan a friendly warning about that whore he keeps bringing down here. I don't trust girlfriends, let alone whores. If he resists, then have Gerald talk to him about the fate of one Scarlet Jones… Gerard, give this letter to Mayhew to deliver to Nickels… oh, we need more stamps. Also, contact von Eichmann. He's several months behind on payment of Parker's salary." Ratigan stopped writing, staring at his paper for a moment. Then he raised his eyes to Gerard. "And why is Lisa still here?"

The albino shrugged.

"Tell Fanny I want to talk to her. I will not house her in-laws while-"

Ratigan abruptly stopped and tilted his head towards the two men. He waited for a few moments, the light ring of old sewer pipes filling the silence.

"COME IN!" he roared.

A few moments later the door behind the two men cracked opened, and Lydia poked her forehead and eyes through the crack, as if she knew her presence was unwanted.

"What do you want?" Ratigan snapped.

"Is this a bad time?" she said in an almost inaudible voice. "I could come back later, when you're not busy-"

"Why don't you knock and talk louder next time?" he barked.

She stopped talking, her face flushing over. She began to retreat.

"Get back in here!"

She reentered the room, shutting the door behind her. Then she slowly approached his desk.

Ratigan resumed writing. "Gerard, drop Fanny some useful hints about that intolerable leech, and how this isn't some sort of hotel for women who don't have any other ambitions in life. Lisa has a little money; I'll start charging her rent if she doesn't make herself useful or get out soon. Harry, any problems with shipments this month?"

"The Yardies 'ave been poking their noses around our East India domain. There're rumours about Basil getting involved soon."

"At least you're somewhat perceptive. I've been informed about Basil's involvement. Cease operations there for at least a fortnight. We'll talk about it then. Gerard, do something about that hole in the wall in the meeting room, and remind the men how the Boss feels about reckless shooting in his domain. Take away the culprits' weapons for two weeks, and warn them of what will happen the next time. And tell Barrie to stop by tomorrow around noon and to give a better report this time, or else I will put his sorry ass on the next Darby Road excursion!"

Gerard nodded.

"You may leave," Ratigan said with a wave of his hand.

As Gerard departed, he leaned over to Lydia and said, "You wouldn't be a very good Ladybird in body, but a pretty face can sometimes make up for that."

The girl stared at the floor.

Gerard passed, shutting the door behind him.

Ratigan stood up. "What do you want?"

The girl looked timidly up at him. "If you please, sir, I'd… I'd like my letter."

The rat snorted. "Is that all you can think about?"

She shook her head. "No. But he promised to write. It's been several months, sir. I was afraid that he was dead."

Ratigan folded his arms and looked down at her. "By all means he shouldn't even be alive."

Lydia nodded vigorously. "Yes, and I thank the Lord every day for your graciousness-"

"There is no God down here."

Lydia clasped her hands and averted her eyes to the floor again.

Ratigan reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter. He examined it in his hand. "I would like to respond to this letter."

A wave of alarm passed across Lydia's face. "I… I thought that he was to get no letters-"

"No letters from you. I am allowed to respond. I have many friends in German Africa. It will get to him in no time."

Ratigan watched with amusement as Lydia fought to control her words. "What will you say… if you don't mind my asking?"

"I will tell him exactly how worthless of an acquisition you are."

The first tear fell from her eyes. He smirked.

"I refuse to let others give in to disillusions, Lydia. You are worthless. You cannot do anything useful. You cannot cook, your cleaning abilities are mediocre, you don't know how to do any laundry, you write silly little stories all day long or use my personal study as a lending library, and you have no solid plans for your future. You cannot be responsible to make your own decisions, and it shows by the type of life you were living before you fell into my hands."

She gripped her hands but said nothing.

Ratigan shook his head "I don't see why that man keeps you around, Lydia. He's certainly getting nothing out of the deal."

She opened her mouth as if to say something, and then shut it again.

"What did you want to say just now?" the professor asked.

She shrugged. "Nothing."

"I think I can guess. You were about to remind me of your bargain to get him out of my cells, weren't you?" He waited for a response. She would not look up at him. "Yes, that was it. You see Lydia, that bargain did nothing. It didn't help anyone, and it gave him something else to concern himself with—you."

"If I had known it would have caused him more problems-"

"Don't start trying to pity yourself. You're sensitive and weak, a sniveling little brat who doesn't deserve what she's been given. It's about time you learned what little character you have!"

"I have been learning. I keep learning because of you!" she yelled.

Ratigan smirked. "Temper, temper. So dramatic. So violent. Oh yes," he said, meeting her doubtful look with a smirk. "Your temper has the ability to turn violent. You rarely take it out on others, I suppose. The violence in an inner one. But when it's out-" he snapped his fingers. "Something is destroyed."

Lydia wanted to question his strange statements, but the urge to get out of his presence as quickly as possible was too strong for her to bear his presence any longer. She bowed her head, murmured some unintelligible words in way of a farewell, and turned to leave the room.

"Girl!" Ratigan barked.

She stopped, her back to the professor.

"I don't ever want to see a repeat of the scene you caused in the study this afternoon. Understood?"

"Yes'r," she growled before stomping out of the room.


Tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap tap. Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap. BANG BANG BANG!

"Would someone open up that confounded door!" Basil said, holding an old heel suspended over a bluish solution in a bubbling beaker.

"It's probably one of your customers," I said dryly as I headed toward the door. Mrs. Judson beat me to it, and opened it up.

"Hello Mrs. Judson. Meg!" Isabelle Fremly flew past her and into my arms, giving me a warm hug.

"Good afternoon, Miss Fremly," Mrs. Judson said.

"Soon to be Mrs. Dawson!" she exclaimed, sticking out her left hand, displaying a gold band on her ring finger. "Last Sunday! Has David told you?"

"My word. Dr. Dawson hasn't said a thing!" Mrs. Judson beamed. "Did you know of this, Mr. Basil?"

Basil grunted, dropping the heel into the solution. It hissed and bubbled up, and then settled down.

"He knew," I whispered to Mrs. Judson. "We're still not sure how he's taking it. He didn't say a thing when Dawson broke the news."

"Oh," she mouthed. Then, turning to Isabelle, she said, "If you're here to see the doctor, I'm afraid he's seeing a patient."

"That's all right," she said, taking off her gloves and hat. "I'm mainly here to see Mrs. Havers here. Meg, do you know what day it is?"

"Erm… Thursday."

"No!" Isabelle exclaimed, removing her fur cape. "Well, yes, but that's not the right answer."

"The day after Wednesday?"

"Now you're just teasing me."

"Yes, because I can't abide guessing games. Why are you so excited?"

Isabelle went to the front door. "Because it is exactly two years to the day since you became widowed."

"Oh… it is." I glanced at Basil, and then back at Isabelle. "I knew it was coming up, because I went into partial mourning a few months ago. You came all the way here to tell me that?"

"No." Isabelle opened the door and poked her head out. "You can come in now."

Rahle came in, wearing a shabby suit of a hideous dark green color and a black tie, carrying three white boxes under one arm. « Bonjour Monsieur Basil, Madame Judson, Mademoiselle, bonjour, » Rahle grumbled.

"You've been wearing nothing but black, grey and white for the past two years, and I daresay that all of your clothes are going out of fashion. So I hired Rahle here to make you some new dresses to celebrate your freedom from the widow's burden."

"Oh, Isabelle!" I squealed, throwing my arms around her.

Rahle cleared his throat and held out the boxes. « Pardonnez-moi, mais je suis un homme très occupé ! »

"Sorry Rahle." Then, to me, Isabelle murmured, "He's annoyed that I made him wear a suit."

I took the boxes from the Frenchman. « Merci beaucoup, Rahle. »

« Pas de quoi, » he growled.

"Let's try them on!" Isabelle said, taking my arm and pulling me up the stairs. Mrs. Judson followed at Isabelle's insistence.

Five minutes later I stood in front of the full length mirror in my small room, staring at the pale, mahogany-haired girl in the blue cotton dress in the reflection. Isabelle and Mrs. Judson sat on my bed, next to five new colored dresses. "Amazing…" I breathed. "I look so much younger."

Isabelle let out a squeal in delight. Mrs. Judson gave a small frown.

"You look lovely, Megana," she said quietly. "But I thought two years after the death of a husband was the start of the half-mourning period. And…" she ran her hands over the dresses, "…I see crimson, and dark green, and auburn, but lilac and grey seem to be much more… appropriate."

I blushed, but replied in a small voice, "I already completed the half-mourning period, Mrs. Judson. I have a lilac dress. You've seen me wear it."

"When Mr. Judson died, I began half-mourning exactly two years after his death," the landlady said, folding her arms across her chest.

"When did Mr. Judson pass away?" Isabelle asked.

"Oh… nearly 20 years ago now. I followed the rules for mourning the entire time."

Isabelle patted her arm, but I could see the spark in her eye. "Mrs. Judson, times have changed. Widows don't mourn nearly as long as they used to."

Mrs. Judson gave her a long, hard look. "If, heaven forbid, Dr. Dawson… passes, before you do, will you treat his memory in such a callous manner?"

"No…" Isabelle said cautiously. "But I know that David would not want me to be dressed in hideous black trappings for two full years!"

Mrs. Judson stood up. "Well, I don't think it's proper. Meg, you do look lovely, but be careful. People are already starting to talk." With that she left the room.

I turned to Isabelle, who looked like she was inwardly fuming. "Why that woman!" she exclaimed. "What right did she have to-"

"Please stop!" I said. "She's just ashamed. It's common knowledge that Basil has been courting me, and it has scandalized the neighborhood because I wasn't out of my mourning period when it happened. Mrs. Judson has received the brunt of the criticism, because as landlady she is considered to be my chaperone."

"Oh... I see. Well, it is a bit odd that you started courting during your widowhood. But surely just having Basil here is scandalous enough for Mrs. Judson!"

"Are you suggesting that Basil is a public embarrassment?" I giggled.

"Don't you?" Isabelle replied with a smile. "This is the man who walked in on Lady Clapman in her bath to arrest her!"

I blushed. "That was not one of his finer moments. But he caught his… erm… lady, right?"

Isabelle shook her head. "That man is impossible."

"I still love him," I said lightly, talking a look in the mirror once again. The relief I felt from the mourning clothes felt so wrong. "Did I mourn Josh for long enough?"

My question was followed by several moments of silence. Finally Isabelle asked, "Do you miss him?"

"I don't know." I stopped, remembering the last moments of Josh's life, swords clanging as he faced off with the Napoleon of Crime on our wedding night. "Yes. I do miss him. He was sweet, charming, honest. And brave. He fought Ratigan to protect me."

I stopped. A frightening thought crossed my mind: it seemed like the only thing we had had in common was a mutual hatred of Ratigan.

And what about Basil? Was I attracted to him too because of our mutual hatred of Ratigan?

Cold sweat began to work its way over me. I slowly started to unbutton the dress.

"Meg!" Isabelle jumped to her feet. 'What are you doing?"

"I… I can't do this!" I exclaimed. "I cheated Josh. I didn't do this right. I failed him. I failed him! How could I do this to him? I didn't wait long enough- not to end my mourning period, not to court Basil. I'm only with Basil because of Professor Ratigan! That villain is scaring me into relationships!"

"Whoah, whoah, whoah, Meg!" Isabelle said, grabbing my shoulders before I could slip the sleeves off of them. "Why are you thinking like this? Because of what Mrs. Judson said?"

"Well… yes and no. Isabelle, I've been living in this house, working with Basil ever since Josh died."

"For protection!"

"Or was it selfishness? Dishonor? Infidelity to Josh's memory? Look what has happened. Basil has replaced him!"

"No, no, no! Basil will never replace Josh. He isn't sweet or honest!"

I shot her a quizzical look. "Do you really think that?"

She opened her mouth, paused, and shut it again. She chuckled nervously and shook her head. "No. I was just trying to say that Josh, from what you have told me, is nothing like Basil."

"I know. And that's what makes me fear that I am only with Basil because of Ratigan!"

"Do you really believe that?" she asked, hands still on my shoulders, staring directly into my eyes.

My throat tightened and I choked back the urge to cry. I nodded.

"Maybe you need time away from Basil, then," she suggested in a low voice.

I studied her expression. The normally grinning face, the bright spark in her eyes, had vanished.

"I… I couldn't. Not now. He's taking the news of Dr. Dawson moving out so poorly. How could I leave him now?"

Isabelle laughed. "Now is the perfect time. David and I aren't getting married for several months! He'll still be here. If you did something in the meantime, to separate yourself from Baker Street for awhile, you may figure out what your true feelings are for being with Basil."

She slowly released me from her grasp, and the dress fell to my feet. I stared at the blue material. "Basil would never agree to me leaving Baker Street. It's too dangerous with Ratigan still at large."

"Do you think that?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to be frightened into hiding by Ratigan all your life?"

"No."

"Then you've got to get out there! Basil may not always be there for you, and then what will you do?"

I bit my lower lip. I had not seen Ratigan in over one year. He had not made good on his promise to harm Basil if I ever expressed any emotions for him.

I bent down and gathered up the dress. I slipped it on and slowly began to work the buttons back on.

"What did you have in mind?"


Meg: Information on Victorian widowhood and proper periods of mourning for deceased relatives, as well as anything related to the furniture and different rooms and their functions in a Victorian home, can be found in Judith Flanders' book Inside the Victorian Home: A Portrait of Domestic Life in Victorian England. In a nutshell, the women were expected to do the bulk of the mourning for anyone, even for a husband's deceased mother or father.

Also, if I had to redo the entire Meg Sarentis series, I'd get rid of Josh's character entirely; he's more of a roadblock to me now. The exchange between Isabelle and Meg took me forever to figure out because of him. Although I am pretty satisfied with the direction the conversation took- the work I did on this chapter will actually simplify things later on and make me seem like less of a cynic. Oh joy!

To erosgirl: To clear up the confusion about which of my characters are in this story and where they can be found, reread the epilogue of "Every Rose Has a Thorn." The first sentence of that chapter will reveal Rose's role in this story. I will also be loyal to the storyline set up in that epilogue if you want any spoilers.