Albert called her room, unexpectedly one night, and told her to meet him outside the Spencer mansion.

He was waiting for her, beside his black jaguar, hands in his pockets. He wore a nice black Italian suit, his face unreadable under the Ray-Bans. "We need to talk," he said, opening the passenger door for her. Alexia hesitated. "I'm not going to hurt you," he assured her, and Alexia believed him.

Alexia climbed inside the car, and Albert thunked the door shut. It smelled of Albert's cologne, and of new leather. Albert got behind the wheel and drove, his wipers smearing rain-drops across the glass, The Animals singing House of the Rising Sun on the radio.

"Birkin threatened you," he said matter-of-factly, once they were on the highway, which, if they kept going, would eventually funnel them into Raccoon City, onto Flower Street, and past Tony's Kitchen. The highway was dark, and there wouldn't be any lights, Alexia knew, until they were closer to the city.

"He did," she said, and Alexia didn't even bother to ask how he'd known that. She watched the woods blurring past the window. "He said he'd hurt me, if I didn't tell him about my meeting with James Marcus."

"If it's any consolation, and I very much doubt it is, but," said Albert, without looking at her, the cold dashboard lights reflected in his sunglasses, "he wouldn't actually do it. Birkin is all bluster. That said, what did Marcus tell you?"

"He wanted to promote me." For whatever reason, Alexia didn't feel the need to keep secrets from Albert. She felt a strange sort of familial attachment to him, in fact, as though he was an uncle she'd never known she'd had. "To Arklay. He wanted to send Birkin to Antarctica."

Albert didn't say anything, as though he already knew her answer to Marcus' offer was no.

"I didn't take it," she said, watching the wipers now. "Too much tied up in Antarctica."

"Good," he said, and Alexia was surprised. She thought Albert, as her mentor, would have wanted her to take the promotion. Albert must have sensed her surprise, and said, "There's a bit of a problem right now, and I don't want you in the middle of it, Alexia."

"Grayson thinks Spencer wants to kill Marcus. A coup," she said.

Albert said nothing.

"That isn't true, is it?"

"Of course not," said Albert smoothly. "Can't imagine where Grayson would get such a silly idea. Spencer and Marcus, they're partners."

"Why are we here, Albert? In your car."

"I wanted to tell you to back away from Marcus," he said. "Keep out of things. Focus on your T-Veronica."

"Albert, what's going on?"

"Alexia," said Albert, with a concerned air, "the less you know, the better. I wouldn't want something unfortunate to happen to you, or to young Grayson."

"Are you threatening me?" she asked sharply. "Threatening us?"

"No," said Albert, his expression unchanging under the Ray-Bans, resolute. His face, Alexia decided, was like something carved from marble, immutable and severe, like the busts she'd seen of her dead relatives: former politicians and prominent military commanders, their faces eternally scowling. "But meddling never does any good for anyone," he continued. "Curiosity killed the cat, and I don't want the cat to die."

"You're concerned," she said.

"I've taken you under my wing, so I feel a certain responsibility for you," said Albert, his mouth a thin, hard line. As usual, he remained evasive, or, at best, very obtuse, about his point. "You've been a good pupil," he added, solemnly. "I would hate to see your career cut short."

Marcus never came up again in their conversations. Alexia said good night to Albert on the mansion porch, who told her to remember what he'd told her, and then, in typical Albert fashion, had vanished into the Arklay night before she could say yes, she wouldn't forget.

She went to her room. Grayson was there, leaning out of the window and smoking a cigarette. "You promised me you wouldn't smoke those disgusting things," she snapped, any details of her conversation with Albert quickly evaporating, then, becoming mild anger. "I told you I'd tell Scott if I—"

Grayson turned around, frowning. His right eye was black and swollen. Before Alexia could ask him what had happened, he said, "Birkin. Little asshole got the sneak on me. Tried to fight back, but he had these Umbrella guys from Security, I guess, come at me." He winced, rubbing his side. "Jesus, my fucking side hurts."

Alexia wondered if Albert had intentionally removed her from the mansion, so Birkin could hurt Grayson. She quickly ran over, forgetting about Albert right now, pulling up Grayson's shirt. His side was bruised, a deep ugly purple-red. "What did they do?" she asked coldly, looking at him.

"Told you," said Grayson, finishing his cigarette and flicking it out the window. "Got the sneak on me. His Umbrella buddies smacked me around a bit, told me to keep out of company biz. Smacked me across the side with their fucking blackjacks, or whatever."

"If something was broken, you'd be in a lot more pain," she said.

"I was really banged up. But funny thing," said Grayson, looking at her, and it seemed, to Alexia, that the swelling of his eye had gone down, "it went away. The pain, I mean. It still aches, but it's not painful. Know what I mean?"

Alexia remembered Bingham's virus, then. Grayson had told her about a bad cut he'd gotten at Game Palace, not very long ago, and how it had healed in just a few hours; he didn't even have the scar anymore. Alexia didn't doubt that, by morning, the bruises, and the swelling, would be gone too. "You'll be all right," she assured him, touching his arm. "Did they do anything else to you?"

He shook his head. "I think they wanted to, but they stopped."

Birkin, Alexia knew, wanted to experiment on Grayson, and because he wanted to experiment on Grayson, Birkin wouldn't actually try to kill him. The prototype virus present in Grayson's body was more valuable in a live-study than in a dead one. "I'm going to bring this up to Spencer," she said, stroking his face. "I promise."

"Don't," he said, pulling away. "If Birkin gets in trouble, I'm dead meat, he hears I ratted on him. Not too mention the shit it'd kick up for you." Grayson held her hands now, squeezing. "Just leave it alone, Alexia," he urged, shaking his head. "I'm tough. Ain't the first time I've been knocked around."

Grayson made a good point. Birkin was vindictive enough to hurt him again, Alexia was sure. Umbrella, she'd found, had a way of rewiring personalities, a secret algorithm that tapped into some latent primal code inherent in every person's brain, and then dredged up their worst qualities, to better adapt them to the hostilities of Umbrella's very particular brand of white-collar Darwinism. "Did Birkin say anything to you?" she asked. "Before he'd left you alone."

"Uh." Grayson's expression was sheepish. Then, quietly, "He, uh, wasn't actually there."

"You said Birkin was there, Grayson."

"I mean, who else would send Umbrella security types after me?" Alexia watched his forehead crease, a look of doubtful confusion bleeding into his thin features. "You heard him, back in the foyer. Called me a troglodyte, a meathead." Grayson stared at her. "And he hates you," he added. "Just makes sense, I guess."

"I despise Birkin, but," she began, frowning, "you must be careful with accusations, Grayson."

"Yeah, I know."

"So don't go spreading that around," warned Alexia, watching him. "Don't give Birkin ammunition. We don't know if it actually was him, even if it makes the most sense." She paused, looking away and sighing, staring at the phone on her desk. "I can't bloody wait to return to Antarctica."

"Neither can I, truthfully," said Grayson. "I've had enough of this fucking place."

Several days later, James Marcus called her on the phone and told her to come to the Training Facility, no delays, he had something very important to discuss with her. Marcus watched her across the vast mahogany expanse of his desk, in a sober herringbone suit. No papers, rolls of print-outs, and neglected faxes occupied his desk this time, Alexia realized, and there was a certain somber air about Marcus now, a mood that made her think of funeral parlors. His chessboard was set for another match, the rows of white and black pieces lined up neatly.

"You've been talking to people," said Marcus, and Alexia knew he'd meant Birkin and Albert. His mouth became a hard line, like an old knife-wound, as though someone had carved it there, years ago, in old gray bark. "You," he continued, with the air of a dying man, "have sealed my fate, Alexia."

"Sir?" She sat there, in the overstuffed Chesterfield, and thought about Grayson's theory again, about a coup. Alexia felt a mounting nervousness in her chest. "I don't—"

"You know exactly what you did," said Marcus, jabbing a finger at her. "You told Birkin about my offer."

"Sir, he was going to hurt me. I was scared."

"Now Spencer knows," said Marcus, ignoring her. "Now Spencer knows, and I'll pay the price. When? It's hard to say. But now, now I must take countermeasures. Remain vigilant." He shook his head and stood, arms behind his back. Suddenly, Marcus looked a thousand years older to Alexia. "It won't stop with you," continued Marcus. "They'll go after your attendant too, eventually. The boy. He knows things, and doesn't realize he knows them. Too sharp. Spencer? Spencer will just assume he's been talking to the wrong people." Marcus looked away from her, staring out the window. "Leave, Dr. Ashford. Your involvement with Neptune is also terminated. I don't need you there anymore; I rescind my offer of the Arklay laboratory."

"You don't need me there anymore?" she repeated, watching Marcus.

"No. I put you there to gauge your skill, and skill you have. But your trustworthiness is severely lacking."

"Sir, Birkin was going to hurt me," she said.

"Leave, Dr. Ashford."

Alexia was dead, and so was Marcus, five years later. Alfred, now eighteen, had come gangling into his room and had told him all about it.

"They found him in the laboratory, mate." Alfred was tall and thin, and very pale, something almost reptilian in his face now. He wore a pastel get-up that made him look as though he'd stepped out of an episode of Miami Vice. "Bullet in the head," he continued, tapping his skull, sitting down in the chair at his computer desk. Crisp sunlight poured through the diamond-paned window on Alfred's right, and Grayson still found it strange, after what had felt like an eternity of Antarctica, seeing the English countryside beyond the glass. "They don't know who did it."

"Birkin," said Grayson, now twenty, remembering, at fifteen, when Birkin's goons had beaten him down in the Spencer estate foyer. "Bet you it was fucking Birkin and Wesker. I said that to Alexia back then, but she'd told me not to jump the gun." He shook his head, watching the motes turn lazy circles in the sunlight. "No, I'm not surprised Marcus is dead, Alfred. Spencer wanted him dead, man. You know that well as I do. Spencer's bad news—you said it yourself."

"We have no proof, Grayson."

"We should tell dad," said Grayson. "What if Spencer plans to whack you next?"

"Why would he?" said Alfred, watching him. "I have no claim to the company until I'm twenty-one. And even then, I don't really want Umbrella. It was..." Alfred trailed off, his expression guttering. It was rare, seeing Alfred look that uncertain about something, that lacking in confidence. "It was supposed to be Alexia's responsibility," he continued. "I didn't even want to become the family head, Grayson. I had no choice."

"I don't envy you," said Grayson, and meant it. He couldn't imagine how heavy that weighed on Alfred's shoulders, carrying the burden of the Ashford reputation, and its legacy as one of the founding families of Umbrella. To Grayson, it seemed like something that required a degree of supernatural fortitude. "I wish you didn't have to do it either, man. Makes you a target, and I don't want you to be a target, because you're my best friend." He frowned. "I don't want you winding up like Marcus, dead in some laboratory, with your brains on the wall."

"Sometimes I wish I could foist the burden onto one of my relatives," said Alfred, clasping his hands between his knees and sighing, staring at his white loafers. "But Scott tells me that I need to see this through, for Edward."

Grayson nodded. Then, "Not to get derail you, buddy, but they find anything else about Marcus?"

"Sort of," said Alfred, shrugging. "When they found him, he was surrounded by leeches."