Thanks muchly Vickisticks! What a great compliment!

Hehe, thanks BeBopALula. Ha, I never even thought about Chicago!

Thank thee Ravencaller too. You know, I was thinking about how to delve into Sweeney more. In a way, I really wish he wasn't dead…I'm not sure whether to write a separate story about him and keep it a mystery in this one, or somehow delve into it in this one. I think I'll somehow put it in this one. I'm sure there's some way I could do it easily. And I do have a past for him too…

There's an incredibly clichéd part in here, I know, but I don't caaaaaaaaare.

(By the way, Piers is pronounced like Pierce)

Chapter Twenty-One.

The young woman's floor was swathed in endless newspaper cuttings which spoke of horrendous things that had to be from a nightmare. None of this could have been true. Her face had been stained with so many tears, she felt disgusting. She looked down one more time and barely read half of the caption from one particular clipping before her eyes were swimming with tears once more. This was ridiculous, how on earth could there be so many tears within her? It was as if a layer of ice frozen during a winter had been sliced open abruptly, and a torrent of tears was gushing through her. The worst part of all of this chaos was the not knowing. None of this made any sense.

Bridget Hope was well aware that her brother was in a horrendous mess. She paced the tattered carpets of the inexpensive apartment she had rented with her lover, her gloved hands pressed against her stomach which roiled and stirred uneasily. Her tailored gown of deep green with a half coat over her bodice trimmed with ebony lace was about the only neat feature about her. Her small hat perched atop her head of the same green, with a half veil of matching black lace could not hide the reckless tresses of a woman who had more to think about than her appearance.

She had already been to the police headquarters countless times during the few days since all this had started, kicking up such a fuss on the whereabouts of her brother that she had been banned from setting foot in the place again but promised that the moment any news of him came forth, she would be informed – although, perhaps that promise had occurred due to the money she had passed to one of the officers. She had not ventured there that day because of the ban, but had still taken pains in dressing well, just in case the time arrived where she would be called to go down there.

So much had changed since she last embraced her twin in Cornwall four years previous and he had left her. She looked over at Piers, still sleeping in the bed they shared in the only adjoining room, his muscular torso peeking out from underneath the sheets, his dark hair spilling over his pillow. His arm still reached across the bed as if he were not aware she had wriggled from underneath it early that morning. Sighing from fractured nerves wrought with indescribable worry she bent down and began clearing away his art tools he had left scattered around the floor when she herself had gone to bed and he had continued with his work. He hated when she cleared away his things. She hated his mess. How on earth they connected she would never know.

They had met at the Café Noir le in Montmartre, when she had just been taking baby steps in her travel and ambition. After her brother had left to fulfil his dreams of sailing the seven seas, ambition had stormed within her too – she had always dreamed of making her living by singing on the vast continent. The stage had always called her, just as real as the seas had captured Anthony. Even though it had long been denied, Bridget had often wandered if there was any gypsy that ran through their lineage from her mother's side. Her great-grandfather had married a foreign girl and a few other relatives had had the urge to travel, her uncle not being the least of that example. He had always been restless, never having time for a family as he wandered the world on his ship. Anthony had inherited that roaming gene, and it seemed she too had craved for that nomadic existence, where the exotic seemed to call her to come discover them.

Her mother had encouraged this dream of music. Before she herself had married and had contented herself with the more domestic occupation of dress making, she had tried to pave an ambition from playing the piano. But her idea of her daughter's music career was most probably contrary to how Bridget went about accomplishing it. Her mother had written to an old connection and a friend in London to take her daughter and introduce her into the music circles. Bridget had left Cornwall full of excitement six months after Anthony had done so. But London had not captured her heart. The people Bridget met had been far too stuffy and restricted, their creativity smothered of all colour – and she had run away, travelling through untamed Europe and performing in troupes and taverns, sleeping in garrets shared with strangers, and only living off course bread, music and new independence that she had never been afforded to know before, because of her gender.

But she had stumbled across Piers accidently. She had not known a scrap of French and he had not known a bit of English. She was young and an amateur and the letter of apology and explanation to her mother of her reckless and wayward behaviour had just been sent that morning, and she really had not known where she would even sleep that night, this being her first night away from England. Oh yes, things had changed since she had last seen her brother – she could only imagine his horror if he ever discovered that her first night of her new life in Paris had been in sharing the bed of a stranger. She had wanted Piers unreservedly the moment he had ordered her the hot chocolate she had been having difficulty asking for, and he must have cared deeply for her too, as often she would wake early in those first mornings of their liaison, to him sketching her still form, gazing at her intently. And he had followed her without question as she travelled throughout Europe, chasing her dreams. But then again, he was a Bohemian artist, wandering was a part of him. After two years she had found success in a night spot in Venice, where she could afford her own apartment and sing, for the first time thankful for the endless lessons in Italian she had undertaken as a child, while Piers could paint and sculpture at leisure, not having to worry about bills and paying for food.

Oh how she had missed her twin desperately. They had been like two peas in a pod all of their life. When one had hurt, so had the other. He travelled so much now she had nowhere to write him a letter, but when she became settled her mother forwarded the letters he sent home – and the trinkets he sent to her. She had unwrapped an ivory elephant once – a figurine he had purchased from India. She could smell its foreign scent of spices and she had held it to her lips for the longest time, shaking with tears, and leant against Piers who nuzzled her affectionately. It had been one of a pair – Anthony kept the other, and its trunk was raised in a way that it would entwine with its companion when reunited. She had so much to tell him – she had changed so much…

She had had to leave Venice when she received word that her father was very ill. She had never particularly known her father – he seemed to spend most of his time in London throughout her childhood - but that never factored into her resolve to return home. He was a good man – he had provided her and her siblings with everything they needed. And so she had returned to Cornwall dutifully, if a little reluctantly – would her mother guess from just looking at her that she had not just found a sweetheart, but they had been living together as well? Piers had played the dutiful part – sleeping in an inn – but it was just as Bridget had feared. Her mother knew the moment Piers had put his arm around her at the dinner table the first night home, that the two shared a relationship that was far too intimate for a chaste courting couple. And she had barely spoken to her that month, rarely leaving the bedside of her husband who writhed from fever.

Bridget had been wakened one morning to the sounds of little Penny bawling from the kitchen. She sprung from her bed in an instant, throwing a robe over her nightdress and ran to the kitchen, expecting the news that her father had passed away during the night. But it was not that at all – in fact, as horrible as she knew it would sound to anybody else, it was worse news. She grabbed the newspaper viciously, her eyes blurring with tears as she read the article again – "It can't be our Anthony!"

"It's Anthony – he's a sailor – it's Anthony –" Penny wailed, "Mama! Mama –"

"Hush!" Bridget clamped her hand over the whimpering child's mouth, "You won't speak a word of this to father, do you hear me? He's ill enough as it is!"

Penny pulled away from her, crying still uncontrollably.

The family was a wreak. Yes, they had managed to keep it secret from their ailing father but everybody else was in too much shock, too much horror. Their brother was wanted for conspiracy for murder. He had been in league with a murderer, had brought him into London! None of this made any sense, but Bridget had been packing even before her mother had found out, to go find him. Her mother had been beside herself when she had found out – it wasn't a well kept secret that her only son had been her favourite child. She clung to Bridget – the first time she had embraced her in years – begging her to find him, and had given her an envelope with a large wad of money (the family savings, Bridget supposed) to find a decent lawyer. They had all agreed there must be some horrible mistake. Her poor mother – unable to leave her husband and find her child who was in dire need.

Piers stirred from his sleep now – he had been painting since three in the morning and had slept in very late. He sighed when he saw her waiting fretfully outside the bedroom.

"Chéri, ils ont dit qu'ils t'apporteraient des nouvelles," he called to her tenderly, sitting himself up. She knew very well what he was saying even though she shrugged vacantly – "Darling, they said they would bring you news," – the years together had given them plenty of time to become acquainted with each other's native tongue, but she chose to ignore him. He moved from the bed, pulling on a pair of breeches and a loose cotton shirt, and came over to her.

He examined her quietly, and she felt a blush bloom over her cheeks. Yes, she knew it was silly to dress up all day, every day, as if she would be ready the moment she received news. She chewed her lip anxiously and turned to the mirror, applying a touch of powder to her cheeks. A tear dripped from her eyelash and made a trail down her face as she gazed at the mirror.

Piers was making himself look more presentable and she turned to him, "What are you doing?"

He smiled at her softly and answered in English, "Zey banned you from entering ze police headquarters, but zey said nothing about me."

A few more tears scattered down her face and she ran to him, throwing her arms around him. He laughed quietly and when he was ready they made their way downstairs and out onto the street. His hand was entwined through hers as they meandered down the pavement. She wished beyond anything that she could run, but Piers was a laidback man, humming quietly as he lit up a cigarette.

A gasp caught in her throat when they arrived at the police headquarters – there were multitudes of people swarmed all around the building, spilling out onto the street, trying to get a glimpse of what was going on behind the windows. Dozens of journalists were trying to push through, swearing at others who trod on their feet and were in their way.

Bridget turned to Piers confused at this scene, until she overheard the name of Anthony Hope and she realised why there was all this excitement. The thought of her brother finally being found incited Bridget to cry out, and she clawed her way through the crowd, forgetting that she had left Piers far behind as she pulled her way through, yelling out desperately for her brother. She distinctly heard a man swear at her, and she tripped but was pulled up by a kind man muttering apologies over the wild behaviour that wasn't befitting for the presence of a woman, but she ignored this sympathetic aid as she moved closer and closer to the front.

There was that plump Constable she had spoken to who had banned her, Charlston, was that his name? He looked as proud as punch as he answered questions on the top of his voice, trying to make himself heard over the rabble that surrounded him, "Yes, it was I who arrested young Anthony Hope…I have been on his trail for quite some time – what was that? You're from the Mirror? Yes, it's Charlston – there is no 'e'. No, he did not put up a fight at all – slight lad – well yes, it is true, he volunteered himself to be brought into custody – but still…It still takes a certain cunning to – what was that? No, I said no 'e' whatsoever! As I was saying, it still takes a certain cunning – a type of skill to follow a suspect's scent. Are we any closer to finding Miss Barker, you ask? Perhaps, perhaps, but I'm not at liberty to speak further on it…My final comment will be that the progress of justice has been maintained. London will not have to fear, we will find the answers and the appropriate people will…"

The man continued on with this drivel as Bridget became knocked about from the men around her, as she tried to get the Constable's attention so she could be brought inside. But this pursuit seemed to be a useless one, as the man finally turned without seeing her and walked back inside, closing the door where nobody was admitted.

Bridget started to panic as she rapped upon the door as hard as she could with her knuckles, and she knew herself she was becoming irrational as she started to scream his name, "Anthony! Anthony!"

The press did not leave the moment the doors were barred, in fact, they seemed as intent on Bridget Hope to remain there, still shouting questions, and after awhile she had to realise this was getting her nowhere. Tears wracked through her body as she stumbled back, trying to find Piers, "They promised – they promised they would send for me the moment they found my brother!" she wailed to him, and he took her in her arms consolingly.

"Brother?"

Somebody echoed from behind her, and she pulled away, looking at the tall man gazing at her with one revealed eye.

"Yes – yes, my brother – I'm Bridget Hope – are you some sort of journalist? Could you get me inside – you don't understand, he needs me!"

"Bleedin' hell, God save us all," was all the strange man with an eye-patch could utter from her desperate pleas, which would have incited compassion from any other person, "There's a female version of him."