"NO!"
Edith stopped in mid-step, halfway into hysteria when Lucille twisted the hair tighter, pulling Thomas in by the neck. Her eyes were frigid, her expression deadened.
No, no, no. Lucille would not.
The hair pulled tighter. Thomas's back arched, his hand weakly trying to dig under his noose. Lucille would.
"Stop, stop!" Edith could not find her breath. No, please, stop it now. Let him go. He did nothing wrong. He did nothing but love his sister. Love her in health. Love her in illness. Didn't she love him back? Didn't she love him?!
"What do you want? What do you want?" Edith was screaming. Begging.
None of it had any effect.
Lucille was beyond the reach of words. Even if she did know what she wanted, she had no understanding of how to say it.
But Thomas did. And for that reason, his struggles stopped. To Edith, he gave a silent plea.
Her frantic eyes caught the word on his lips.
Go.
Go? Go?! How could she go? Leave him to his death?! Just turn her back and close her eyes?
Edith wanted to cry. But what else could she do?
And there was that reassuring look again. That everything would be fine, even as the hair twisted tighter, constricting him. Edith would simply have to put her faith in him this time.
Her breath hitched, finding no more air than Thomas could. Finally, she forced herself to break her gaze, ignoring her blurring vision.
The door slammed shut.
Thomas closed his eyes. He forced his body to remain calm.
If he had his voice, he would call his sister's name once more, to tell her she had him now. That he was here. That they were together again, as she wanted.
But he did not have his voice, so he used his remaining strength to find her hand and enclose it with his.
It took time for Lucille to register the touch. It took even longer for her to break out of her trance. For the voices to leave, for her to see her brother in her lap. See what she was doing to him.
She retracted as if burned. Hair floated down in harmless threads.
Thomas fell as limply as a doll.
"Thomas?"
Crawling forward, she grabbed his arm. Wide eyed, she shook him.
"Thomas?!"
Before Lucille could fully panic, his chest rose. He gasped and coughed, his eyes open as he strained to take as many deep breaths as possible.
"Oh Thomas," Lucille cried, hugging him tightly. "You startled me. You… you scared me!"
He breathed more, before slowly returning her embrace. "I…" He swallowed, and breathed again. "I'm sorry."
"You left me alone," she said. "I was so alone."
"I'm sorry," he repeated.
She said more things, some less coherent than others, and he apologized for those too, holding her and stroking her hair. There was half-dried blood on her scalp, from where she plucked herself, yanked and tugged until she ripped herself open.
And he was sorry once more, and also secretly thankful that it had been he who stepped into the room and not Edith.
When Lucille finally calmed, he lifted her up and carried her to the bed. All of her whines and whimpers, he returned with hums of understanding, letting her hold onto him as tightly as she wished. His sleeves were blackened with charcoal, his face and arms streaked like hers.
Behind him, the door opened.
While he soothed his sister against his chest, his wife stood in shambles, dried streaks of tears on her cheeks. A fractured smile broke out at the sight of him safe, betraying her overwhelming relief.
"Edith," he whispered, ignoring how the grip on him hardened at the sound of that name. "Would you please bring us a cup of water?"
Edith looked confused by the request. Her feet refused to move, refused to leave him, but her heart skipped, suddenly in doubt, uncertain of herself and her place.
In the end, her footsteps faded down the hallway. Thomas had not missed the suppressed hurt on her face. He tried not to think too hard on it, his attention returned to Lucille.
"Why did you do that?" Her nails dug into his skin. "Why did you ask her?"
"Because you're parched, Lucille," he whispered softly.
"It'll be poisoned."
"It will not."
"How will you know?"
"Because I will drink it too."
He smiled at her smile. Her fingers stroked his cheek, then down to his neck, where angry lines weaved across like a darkened collar.
"You won't leave me, Thomas?"
"Never," he promised.
He couldn't.
Appeased, Lucille lay back down. She wished the American would come back quicker now, wished she would dump the whole canister into her glass. Lucille would enjoy the look on her face, savoring her victory in her final fading moments. And Thomas, hers.
Forever hers.
.
Edith moved the pot back on the stove, then off again. She ran it under the water, for no reason than to busy her trembling hands. She had made the meals. She had done the dishes.
Thomas still had not left Lucille's room. Of course he would not leave her room. His sister had finally regained her mind. He must be joyous. And Edith… she would be lying if she said she shared his sentiments.
Her thoughts distracted, she did not notice the water splashing off the bottom of the pot and onto her dress. Cursing, she turned the tap off, then tried to wipe the wetness off her to no avail.
It did not matter. Her clothes had been ruined since the morning anyway. She unfastened her skirt and angrily tossed the heavy fabric onto the table, then collapsed miserably onto a nearby chair.
She buried her face into her palms, not caring if anyone caught her in her petticoat.
Why was she shaking? Why was she surprised? It was not as if she did not know the type of woman Lucille was, crazy and extreme and sick sick sick. It was not as if she did not know that everything would turn out like this with her around, a neverending nightmare of violence, dancing on the line between life and death with reckless abandon.
And Edith had still chosen to bring her back.
Just when she and Thomas were getting closer, too. Just when she had started getting used to the feel of his presence around hers. The sunlit smiles in the mornings, the crinkles in his eyes.
"I'm a fool," she breathed, half in laughter, then half in tears, her arms cradling her middle.
Sweat dripped down her neck. She held onto herself tighter. Edith did not react when the front door sounded.
"What is it, Finlay?" she asked, not looking up.
"The machine, milady. Will the master be returning to it?"
"Not tonight. Lucille had woken from her fever. His presence is needed upstairs." A pause. Before Finlay could leave, Edith looked up and asked, "I was told it worked? The machine."
Here, Finlay smiled.
"Aye."
"Would… would it be possible for you to show me?" Edith stood up now. The noises and grumbles, the steam and turning gears—she suddenly missed all of it dearly. "I want to see it."
Finlay shook his head. "I'm afraid not. The winter did a number. It won't start."
Oh.
"For the amount of work to restore it, we would need at least five to eight men," Finlay continued politely, and Edith understood.
Without another word, she retrieved the money and told Finlay to find her husband a proper crew come morning. In the meantime, she could use his company, if he did not have any objections. He did not, already seated across the table.
Their conversation was good-natured and mild, about Cumberland and the countryside. Edith listened with interest to his stories of the Sharpe siblings as children.
Very bright and talented, both of them. Some would even say too bright, easily outpacing most of their governess's teachings. Thomas was an avid reader, his mind always curious about new thoughts and ideas. Lucille was considered a musical genius, having composed her first piece at the age of six. In earlier springs, you could catch them rolling in the moors, braiding wreaths of grass to crown each other's heads.
The fondness in Finlay's voice reached Edith, softening her temperament. In the stories, the siblings sounded so very blithe and… normal.
As if reading her thoughts, Finlay turned to the snowdrops between them. As she may have experienced last winter, the land here could be harsh. Plants didn't always find themselves growing in their ideal conditions. And so, they needed to adapt to survive.
To not be eaten, they might turn bitter. To not be plucked, they might wear barbs. In the face of the cold, they might shrink and bend, huddle and cower.
Smiling, Finlay inched the pot into the light. So docile and demure, these flowers. Yet, they broke through the frost year after year, long after the tall and vain had perished.
Such were the subtleties of nature.
.
Edith nearly collided with Thomas in front of the door to her bedchamber. Their bedchamber.
It caught both of them off guard, she nearly dropping her candle. Edith was not expecting him to join her tonight. Neither was he, apparently, who looked less the master of the house and more a servant boy caught sneaking after hours.
"Edith." Besides her name, no other words seemed to be able to come out. If he had prepared a presentation, he had forgotten it in her abrupt appearance.
His shoulders lowered. "Lucille fell back asleep. I… I wanted to check you were okay."
"I'm okay," Edith said quickly, tightly, snatching the excuse out of his hand and throwing it over her shoulder. It had not escaped her notice that they were both whispering.
"And you?"
The lighting was dim, and Edith did not have her glasses. Her hand touched his shirt collar, pulling it down.
He swallowed, feeling her fingers trail down his neck.
"Alive," he joked lightly.
"Alive," she echoed. She stopped at his pulse.
They should have opened the door first.
Edith ended up having to fumble for the handle, blind, with Thomas's mouth on hers. Their bodies were flush against one another, her breasts pressed to his chest, his hand on her lower back.
The fireplace was not lit. That was fine. Edith welcomed the darkness, the obscurity. It only heightened the pleasure, the rawness and strength in every breath exchanged between them. Her back met the bed. With the way she locked him in her embrace, his weight followed not soon after.
Finally, finally…
His knee had sunk between her legs. Her hips rolled up to meet him, eliciting a gasp from them both. In their break for air, she caught sight of his expression and wondered why she had waited so long for this, why either of them bothered to hold back.
A dark desire hit her then, something primal. Slowly, she slid her thigh up, a deliberate move up his leg and against the fabric of his trousers. She was rewarded with another gasp. His muscles tightened as he gripped harder at the sheets beside her head, a desperate attempt to hold onto his control.
What he did not know was he had already surrendered his control at the door. He was at the mercy of desire now. At her mercy.
"Wait…" he managed to breathe out. By then, he was already shuddering against her, his eyes wide but unfocused. Lost.
Then, fear-stricken.
"She'll know."
Their bodies flipped.
She'll know.
Edith's lone thought was…
Good.
Let her know. Let the whole world know, like how they knew the moment he extended his hand to her for the waltz. Of who would take him as his partner. Of who had the honor of this dance.
Didn't he want to dance with her? All those months of courtship, of insufferable wait and want, exploiting every excuse to get closer, pushing the bounds of propriety just to steal another look, another touch.
They could touch as much as they wanted now. It felt so good when they did. Anywhere, everywhere, as her lips fell back on his lips, his jaw, down his neck along his pulse. The things he had done during their night at the post office, the heaven he had given her in her memories. She craved it. Craved him. How much she craved him.
Her hand pressed against his chest, firm and rising with every hitch in breath. Thomas could feel the curve of her body as she straddled him, the softness of her hair. Everything felt like a dream, all of his heart's desires exposed. He should be happy.
He should be happy to the point of tears.
She wanted him.
In this time, in this place, she wanted him.
Everything was telling him to seize the moment. Hold it close, hold it dear. Sear every second into his soul. The shame would brand him just as hot.
Too many times had he dreamt of this in the months of Edith's absence. Too many times had he woken up to the twisted pain on his sister's face. His sister, whom he had given his promises and vows, whom he had betrayed and was betraying again. He had left her all alone.
He couldn't do this to Lucille. It would anger her.
No worse than in the past.
It would hurt her.
Too late for that too.
"I want to be honest." If nothing else, then that.
It was barely a whisper, easily lost to the wind. Yet somehow it had the power to silence a tempest, freeze every touch. Edith stared at him with wide eyes.
She rolled off with a slump.
They sat side by side, neither breaking the silence.
On the distant pedestal table, a lone candle burned. Sometime earlier it must have left her hand for his without her knowing.
"Give me a few days."
She met his gaze. It pled for her patience, her understanding. Just a few days, then he would do anything she wanted. He would make it good for her.
She broke their kiss and nodded, forcing herself to let go of his shirt collar. Forcing herself to remain still until he was gone.
Her thighs were still damp. She rolled onto her side, holding his pillow to her flushed face.
And then, she screamed.