A/N: welcome back to Flowers in the Attic, the Victorian klonnie edition! Thank you for your lovely reviews, I'm stoked to take you further on this trash journey, hope you enjoy!


3: needles

"You have to be quiet."

She said this more to herself than him, because he was as still as a statue. He reminded her of the bust her grandmother had bought at an auction in town. Abby had sold it quickly after, claiming it was an eyesore and not worth the trouble of dusting, but Bonnie remembered it, sitting in the corner of the garden where the ferns were thickest. It was the likeness of a Roman soldier. She wondered what had happened to it, where it had landed, if it was still in one piece.

Niklaus waited by the side of the door, one sole stubbornly toeing the threshold, even though Bonnie had told him he was forbidden from entering her mother's room.

"Hurry up," he beckoned, studying his nails.

Bonnie walked along the empty wooden boards with some trepidation. Her boots scuffed, although she did not mean to. Her mother detested carpets and rugs and ornamental doilies - perhaps as a form of rebellion, since Sheila was very fond of anything she could use as a table runner. Her room was bare, though it wasn't very clean. There was a smell of dying flowers and beeswax, although Bonnie could discern no potted plant in sight. A tall and wavering poplar did stoop its branches against her mother's window, but she only saw the skeletal twigs rubbing against the pane. It had been vacated recently with Mikael's descent upon them, but Abby still spent some hours here alone. Doing only God knew what. Bonnie was rarely allowed in this room, which was why her brother had insisted.

You have to steal something.

That was the next step in becoming bad; bad enough to stay at home and never go to school.

Her little "lark" in the lake, as it was later described by Astrid, had been a good start, but it was rather unmade when her governess did not take her directly to her mother, to be seen in her bedraggled state, but to the dreaded wooden bathtub, out on the steps of the meat-house. Bennett Hall had long been deprived of domestic animals for slaughter, but they kept up appearances, and as such, any meat bought from town was dried and salted there. There was a perennial smell of gutted entrails and soggy intestines wafting from the abattoir. Martha and her younger apprentice (a kitchen mouse by the name of Prue) scrubbed her vigorously in the lukewarm water, tugging at her stubborn curls and making her eyes water from lye soap. During summers, Bonnie was infrequently washed in the reedy tub because it had been Sheila's belief that bathing should not happen indoors, when possible.

Niklaus did not receive a bath in the reedy tub because neither Martha nor Prue could find him; he'd vanished quickly after Astrid came to fetch Bonnie. Not that he seemed to need one. The next day, Bonnie saw him sitting on a haystack in the turnip patch, looking averagely clean and presentable, for him. His gaze was shorn, blond eyelashes fringing eyes that held no expression, as if nothing had happened.

Bonnie waved at him uncertainly and put her hands to her mouth to call him, but he only placed a calloused thumb to his lips. Shh.

She understood. He was going to continue her education.

Her daylight transgression of her mother's sanctum was one such lesson.

She had pondered a great deal what she might filch from this room of secrets where Abby slept and ate alone. The nights spent in such thieving, vagabond thoughts were rather thrilling. She had never really stolen anything in her life, except maybe an apple from the kitchen, and that was usually left there for her.

She'd met her brother in the dimness of the servants' stairs and whispered to him that she would steal something small, something that would go unnoticed.

He had sneered at her. "You're supposed to get caught. You're to take something big and costly. Something you want."

Bonnie had been perturbed by the suggestion. "Something I want?"

The thought had not occurred to her, not once during the long nights spent in illicit reveries. What could she want from her mother's room? She'd never allowed herself to desire things that gravitated around Abby. This was certainly a novelty.

"There must be something," he'd insisted with a knowing glint in his eye.

And indeed, there was.

Bonnie crept quietly to the heavy black armoire where Abby kept her lilac-smelling dresses. She knew that at the very bottom, under an unwieldy shoe box, her mother kept a red case, the insides clothed in crepe and velour. She knew this because she had seen Astrid fetch it once for the mistress.

In this case there was a collection of beautiful sewing needles, ranging from very small, to the size of knives. Bonnie had always marveled at this treasure. When she had asked Martha about the case, the old woman had told her that Abby had it among her few possessions when she returned, with child, at Bennett Hall. Bonnie'd often wondered if the case was from her father, but why would a man give her mother needles?

It took some huffing and puffing to remove all the trinkets and baubles that covered the closet floor. The smell was oppressive, moth balls and lavender and cough drops. The shoe box was heavier than she'd expected. She hauled it with her entire little body. It was a round thing, with a bow on top. Bonnie felt a little tempted to untie it and take the shoes. Theft opened appetites, the world was suddenly enlarged. But she shook her head against such false lures. The prize was afield.

Her hands reached for the red case and pulled it out.


They sat a few feet apart on a pair of upturned crates in a shaded corner of the stable. Up until Mikael had installed himself as master of the house, only one lonely, sleepy mare had occupied it, but now she was surrounded by two stallions and four geldings. The stable-boy who mucked the floors had gone to lunch, and so the two found ample privacy to sample the needles.

She opened the case with trembling hands. From inside there came a smell of cities and opera-houses. Not that she had ever been to either, but she could imagine. The needles sat each in their little hook on a fat velour cushion, the color of dog-rose. They did not gleam in the weak light coming through the shafts in the wood. They seemed to reject light, their opaline surface devouring any flash. They were mute, they alluded to nothing. Each needle ended, or began, with an ear-shaped loop, which she knew was actually called "eye". Her body thrummed to touch them.

Her brother was staring at the horses instead.

"That one Father whipped this morning," he said, pointing at one of the geldings who was chewing on a string of dried barley.

"Oh, why?"

He shrugged. "Took a wrong turn and almost ran into a road-post. But he doesn't realize the horse's blind in one eye."

Bonnie felt a little sour that he was not sharing her interest in the needles. "How do you know he's blind in one eye?"

"I did a trick, held up my hand, and covered his good one," he explained, pinning a small bug that was running up his leg.

Bonnie chewed on her lip. "Does your father know?"

"Not yet."

"What'll he do when he finds out?"

He stretched his leg forward, checking for ticks. "Send him to a doctor. Then shoot him."

Bonnie flinched. "But it's just one eye."

"The second one will die out too," he explained, wriggling his toes. "Anyway, Father doesn't like broken things."

"Your father is mean," she blurted out, pressing her knees together.

Niklaus rolled his eyes and finally deigned to look down at the case. "Best you don't say that around the house. He's your father too now."

"I wasn't going to!" she snapped, irritated that he thought her so reckless. "I can keep secrets, like this one."

His eyes surveyed the needles clinically. "Won't be much of a secret when your mother finds out."

"She's your mother now too," Bonnie punctuated gravely.

His jaw ticked, as if the bugs that were running up his legs had found a way inside his cartilage.

Bonnie ignored his discomfort. She covered her mouth in delight. "I can't believe I stole them!"

He nodded, distracted. "We could use them to put it out of its misery."

"What?"

He reached forward and slipped out the longest needle from the hook. It was bigger than his forefinger.

"Could do it with this one. I know where to cut."

Bonnie stared at his fingers wrapped around the needle. "What do you mean?"

"The belly, below the guts. That's the softest place. Easier than the throat, and the horse doesn't spook."

It took a few moments for her to realize what he was saying, and when she did, she laughed, forcefully, pretending it was a joke. "Ha ha, put it back now!"

He merely flipped it to his other hand, inspecting it like a man deciding on a weapon.

"Put it back now, you're scaring me!"

He looked at her then, unimpressed. "Scaring you? The animals' going to die anyway."

"I don't want to play like this," she intoned, pressing an uncertain hand on the red case.

"We're not playing," he sneered. "I'm making you bad, remember?"

"All right," she mumbled. "Then try it on me."

He paused, balancing the needle on his knuckles. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't – don't cut up the horse, you can cut me a little. But just a little."

What he did next startled her quite a bit. He laughed. It didn't sound like a laugh at first, but more like the braying of the horses around them. It came from somewhere below his belly, maybe from the softest place where a needle could cut through easily. She shuddered.

He shook his head. "You can't save the horse."

"I know that, but I don't want to spoil my mother's needles on it," she said, marveling at the ingenious lie. He didn't look like he believed her, but he worked his mouth in agreement.

"And then I'll cut you up, just a little," Bonnie added. "To be fair."

Niklaus scoffed at her idea of fairness, but made no further comment to dissuade her.

Bonnie held out her palm bravely and closed her eyes, squeezing them until she saw little lights against her eyelids. "Make it quick."

He yanked her wrist towards him, pressing his thumb in the hollow of her palm and splaying it open. His hand was warm, but it tickled like grass. His touch, however, did not tickle. He was mean, like his father. Her flesh hurt from the inside.

"Just do it already," she begged, hating the dreadful wait before the act.

Suddenly, he was holding one of her fingers up, isolating it from the rest. She felt the tug of her joints, the way her hand rebelled. And then he was pressing the sharp tip against the little ball of her middle finger.

"Ouch, ouch, ouch!"

"Hold still," he hissed, his grip turning to iron. "I saw a doctor do this once."

She pinched one eye open, afraid she'd see a muddy stream running down her finger, but instead it looked like a pin-prick, a round bubble of blood flowering against her skin.

The pain subsided.

"He tested the blood, like this," he said, pulling her finger towards his mouth. She had done this before; she remembered, dimly, finding a whorl in the kitchen floor, a dark hole where a million little beads glittered, like dewdrops on a spider's web. Later she learned there were just mice, but she'd stuck her finger in that hole and felt the tide of an underground pool washing over her fingers.

His mouth was hot like coals and his lips folded over her knuckle, sucking the blood away.

Bonnie squeezed her eyes half-shut as little jerks of electricity ran down her arm.

"Tastes brackish," he decided, releasing her finger from his mouth. "That's good."

Her hand dropped back in her lap with a thud.

The horses snuffled in their sleep.

"My – my turn," she said after a pregnant pause.

He offered his hand almost lazily, planting it in the space between them. Bonnie stared at it for a moment, reflecting on its singularity. The fingers were awry, the joints bent sideways, the veins beneath pulpy. The skin was cracked, and between the cracks there was this white light, like wool. When she looked closer, it was just a delicate constellation of scars.

She wrapped her small hand around his middle finger and grabbed a fresh needle from the case.

She held the tip against the calloused ball, watching his face for fear or pain. He stared back plainly, like someone watching the sky or the movement of a carriage down the road. Patient and absent, a Roman soldier.

She was like a horse and he was trying not to spook her.

Bonnie clenched her teeth and jammed the needle forward in a quick stabbing motion.

A short gasp signaled her success. His face contracted with a spasm. She had not been as precise. A sizable gash, much bigger than hers, had broken his skin. The blood poured freely.

Bonnie shrieked, frightened by her miscarriage. She dove forward and covered his finger with her mouth, sucking and licking desperately, tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

"I'm – sorry," she mumbled through gulps, "I'm – so – sorry."

He watched her with half-parted lips, his expression neither fierce, nor dull. He was watching an experiment, something he found riveting by virtue of its properties. Her concern was contemptible, but it was also enticing. He pretended to feel another spasm and delivered a dramatic hiss of pain.

She gripped his whole wrist, cradling his arm at her chest. "I'm so sorry!"

He almost smiled. "That's all right."


"Should I hide it in my room?" she asked in a whisper as the blue of the late noon sun washed her feet.

He kicked a pebble into the red dust of the road.

"We could bury it somewhere," she ventured, hugging the case to her chest.

"Give it to me," he said, at length. "I'll throw it away."

"No!" she protested at once. She was thinking of the horse. "It's my mother's case, so –"

"I thought you said she's my mother too," he replied snidely.

"She was mine first."

He did not seem to care one way or another, but she thought she saw the ghost of disappointment on his face.

"Tell you what," she began in the mercantile way Martha sometimes used to get her to eat something stinky and sour, "you can have the case. I'll take the needles."

He wasn't too happy with this arrangement, but he shrugged in agreement.

With great relief, she unhooked all the needles from their notches and poured them in the little pocket of her dress. Her fingers lingered on the velour one last time before giving him the case.

"There, that's fair," she said with a sweet smile.

Her brother looked up at the ancient house looming behind them, waiting for their entrance. "There'll be screams tonight."


"Where is it?! What have you done with it?! Tell me! Thieves, all of you! Get out of my sight! I'll have you hanged for this!"

Bonnie hid her head under the pillow as her mother's screams echoed down the corridor. Abby's wrath was a thing of wonder, an eldritch creature of the sea with limbs made of obsidian. The servants scattered in her wake.

Bonnie's heart beat like a hammer. She'd hidden the needles under the mattress, but they seemed to prick at her now.

She heard Mikael's measured steps down the hall.

"Calm yourself, my darling –"

His next words were swallowed by an altercation. Bodies seemed to collide against each other, thuds and thumps and blows, but they did not sound violent to her young ears.

Mikael was carrying her mother to their bedroom. "Oh, you beautiful, vile thing…"


Abby buried her moans in her throat as her loving husband carved her breasts with his teeth. She ran her fingers through his sweat-soaked hair and felt the muscles thrumming at his back.

No one could resist her, not even when they wanted to damn her.

Where were her beloved needles? She wanted to sob.

Mikael kissed and stroked her skin until it was as red as it would have been if he had applied a poker.

She sobbed with grief and pleasure.


In the attic, Niklaus smiled and slid his fingers in the needles' empty hooks.