Someone was feeding her. The gesture was too strange, and in the haze of light, Lucille saw the face of Enola. The voice also sounded like Enola's, that soft Italian rhythm of undulating tones, as she encouraged her to drink. Drink this to stop the bleeding.
Hush, lie down, lie down. The baby was fine. He would turn out a fine boy, legitimized under her and Thomas's name. A secret, kept safe by three.
The voice was soothing, blanketing Lucille in a veil of tranquility that was almost enough to lay her to rest. And she would have rested, had it not been for a baby's screaming, the terrible screaming that could never in any way have been normal or right.
Only monsters made such noises.
Isn't that right, Mama?
The one feeding her could not be Enola. She was long dead, the figure in front of her reminded scornfully. Now, eat up.
Weakly, Lucille shook her head.
No, she knew what was in there.
But you won't get better if you don't eat, the child reprimanded, pushing the spoon closer to her mouth, forcing it in and watching with sadistic satisfaction when she choked. The evil child, killing her mother with her own poison. Yes, eat, chew. Swallow it. Swallow it.
No, no, no more. Where was Thomas? Where was her brother? She could no longer feel him. It was so cold without him.
Why was she so cold?
When Lucille opened her eyes, it was to the moonbeams of night. The pillow by her head was damp. Weakly, she curled inwards.
It took some time before she remembered her voice, but even when she did, her mouth and throat were dry from disuse.
"Thomas," she finally croaked, in a tone she had not used since their childhood, since the last time he saw her so weak and dependent. "Thomas, I want w-water."
And after, a hug. A kiss to her forehead. Her anger had burned out. Whatever wrong he committed, she was ready to forgive him. All she wanted now was her brother back by her side. All she wanted was to be cradled and warmed in his arms.
But the silence dragged on, her request gone unheard.
"T-Thomas?"
Hazily, Lucille gathered her strength, her hair falling in thick curtains as she pulled herself up. Her surroundings confused her. This was not her room nor any place in the attic. Her hand reached across the bedding and found nothing.
Alone.
She was... alone?
No, that could not be right. For as long as he was alive, he would never abandon her. Even at her worst, he never abandoned her, was never a few steps away from where she lay.
He… he went away to get her something. He had already gone to get her water. That had to be it.
That had to be it, Lucille thought, fighting back the grief that struck her when she continued to sit alone. Her nightgown pooled around her on the bed, slightly too large and slipping off her shoulder. In her position, she looked and felt no more than a miserable child.
Her breath shuddered. Thomas must be lost. She would just have to go to him, if he could not find his way to her.
Slowly, her bare feet made contact with the floor. After pausing to orient herself, Lucille shakingly walked to the door. It seemed like an eternity before she finally collapsed against it. Her hand reached for the handle, only to find it locked.
She shook harder, but the door remained sealed shut. Confused, she patted the wood, running her fingers against the crack. No, no, this was not right.
She did not know how long she knelt at the door, willing it to open, as her desperation and loneliness grew and grew. Where was Thomas? How had he not come to her yet?
Could it be that he was…?
The thought was too horrible to consider, so she banished it far away.
Or maybe he wasn't but simply…
That thought was even worse, enough send a sob rippling through her. No, it couldn't be. Thomas wouldn't.
They had a fight, that was all. It was natural for siblings to fight. Maybe their fights were more violent than most, and her temper was not the best, but Thomas always forgave her for that. And Lucille was ready to forgive too. Whatever angry words she threw at him, she only said them because she was upset. Never once did she love him any less, surely he understood.
Determined, Lucille staggered away from the door and toward the window. She needed to get out and find Thomas. She would get out, one way or another.
Only, the windows did not budge either.
That was impossible, how—
Lucille froze at the engineered lock. The American was not capable of such a design. But her brother, she could recognize his work from a mile away.
Hyperventilating, Lucille stumbled back, falling hard on the floor just short of the bed.
Thomas… Thomas had locked her in.
Thomas had left her locked in and all alone.
Alone and trapped.
Her eyes wildly darted across the room, searching for a tool, a weapon, yet finding nothing but calculated barrenness.
Alone and trapped, just like at the institution.
Her breath choked.
Except Thomas was not coming to rescue her this time.
.
"Oh, wait, that's not right." Thomas brought the napkin to his mouth, before swallowing and gesturing for the tray.
Edith's dress came to a sweeping stop at the kitchen table. Her eyebrow rose as she watched Thomas take a scone from his plate and put it on hers.
"The numbers... they need to be even," he explained sheepishly, as if he understood the absurdity of his request but hoped she would indulge him all the same.
Slowly Edith nodded, and Thomas gave her a smile of gratitude.
And so, she was off with a breakfast of all evenly paired things.
Ever since Edith overtook the duty of caring for Lucille, she had become acquainted with her sister-in-law's increasing list of idiosyncrasies, the peculiar rituals and habits that Thomas endlessly indulged her in. The lullabies and nursery rhymes. The herbs that needed to be sprinkled in her bed.
If she thought her husband was not the most normal in behavior, Lucille was… well.
Propping the tray on one arm, Edith reached for the key to Lucille's room. She gently pushed the door open and was ready to step in when—
Her blood went cold.
The tray fell to her feet, as she stared at the empty bed.
Heart pounding, Edith stepped past the ruined breakfast and into the room, scanning for signs of Lucille.
But the room looked empty, from ceiling to floor.
Edith paused at the soot on the rug. Immediately, her gaze flickered to the fireplace. No way. She craned her neck. Escape through there could not be possible… could it?
The door slowly creaked closed.
The sound of something cracking, of something sprinkling onto the floor.
Edith spun around just in time to see a blackened log slam hard into her side.
The blow knocked her down to the floor. Before Edith could react, fingers yanked her up by the hair. She felt her head slammed back down.
Her world was ringing.
Edith felt her head lifted up again.
No.
With blazing determination, Edith flipped and yanked her attacker down onto the ground with her.
Lucille fell in a graceless heap. The illness had left her without any strength in her movements. Instead, she moved by sheer will alone, driven by malice and spite, ruin and despair.
Gasping, Edith forced herself up. She reached the door first and managed to slam it shut before Lucille could get her arm through. Pressing her whole weight forward, Edith locked it despite the violent bangs from the other side.
Done, Edith slid down, not caring if she ruined her dress in the porridge. She flinched at the blood-curdling scream from the other side, the scratches of fingernails against the door.
It was okay, Edith reassured her hammering heart.
Lucille was bound by flesh. It was not possible for her to burst through the thick wood.
Wincing, Edith touched her scalp and found fresh blood. She didn't need the mirror to know of her new patch of baldness. In the end, she had no one but herself to scold for not seeing this coming.
.
The clay machine would not start. Thomas had not the faintest inkling why. Actually, no, he had enough reasons to fill a page, all of them enough to make him hold back a frustrated sigh.
He caught a figure exiting the house. It was Edith, who presumably had finished feeding his sister and came out to see his machine work as promised. Her visit was premature and filled him with a gut of nerves.
He was not ready. The machine was not ready. All she would deduce from its current condition was another disappointment and failure.
"Edith—!" Thomas intercepted her midway, only to freeze at the sight of her nursing her head with a wet rag.
"Your sister," she mumbled in slightly peevish tone, "is back."
Thomas did not know which would be more inappropriate for him to do at that moment—to laugh or cry.
Edith felt only marginally more secure returning to face Lucille with Thomas at her side. Before they entered, she mentally reaffirmed she had left nothing dangerous behind in the room. That there was no conceivable way the woman could overpower them both. Her hand reached for her pistol, loaded and ready. Better safe than sorry.
Exchanging a nod with Thomas, she unlocked the door. While he went inside, she stood guard.
"Lucille?" Thomas asked cordially, letting his voice identify himself. A small hope that, perhaps, he would be more likely spared an attack.
The log lay abandoned on the rug. The bed was still empty.
He glanced away from the back of the door, which had been empty too. His expression went gentle when he found his sister huddled in a corner, destitute and covered in soot.
"Why are you there, Lucille?"
Edith watched warily as Thomas knelt beside his sister.
Slowly, Lucille raised her head, making blank eye contact.
"Thomas?" she whispered.
Thomas did not miss the redness underlining her eyes, how cracked her voice was. How parched.
Smiling weakly, he said, "Yes, it's me, Lucille. Come, let me take you to the bed?"
She stared at his open arms. But she did not move, her expression blank. She looked at the face of her brother.
In her delusional state, he would have been indistinguishable from an angel. Destined to spread his wings and fly. And she, bound to this earth, destined to rot.
Mindlessly, she twirled the hair in her fingers. Had it been a foolish dream, to believe they could be together forever? To believe his promises whenever he kissed her tenderly in the night?
Growing up, he had been so good, it made her hurt. So patient, so obedient, so kind. And she, so restless, so rash, so naughty. He had been so good, and she so wicked, two children born to one fate, bound to one fate, yet their natures diametrically opposed. No matter how hard Lucille tried, she could never pass God's tests, only make Thomas fail his. No matter how much she wanted to, she could never climb up to him, only drag him down to her.
All because she hadn't wanted to be separated.
Because she loved him, loved him until it burned and ached.
Loved him far more than herself. Loved him until she had nothing. Was nothing.
Shaking, she reached up to accept his embrace, looping her arms around his neck.
Even now, he was gentle with her. Ever so gentle.
Why couldn't she be like that?
Blonde hair caught the light, long thin strands interwoven into thicker black.
Edith saw it too late. She could not even react until Thomas had already fallen into Lucille's hold.
Fallen, fallen, trapped in the widow's nest.
His life, violently seized by the gold silk of his beloved wife.
Lucille no longer looked at him, but directly at Edith, dead eyes daring her. Daring her to just try and send a bullet her way.
Her beautiful brother would gladly catch it first.