A heavy book rests on the wooden table in the centre of the room. James opens it, wincing from the sheer weight of the many pages and their thick binding. The volume falls open to a page marked with wildflowers; when James was a young lad, his nanny used to love pressing colourful plants between the books in the Gillies' library. This book, and the flowers within, remind him of his youth. Taking a flower between his fingers, James holds it up to the light to see it better.
He briefly wonders why people characterize children as being innocent and naïve; even when Nanny originally pressed these flowers, James was considering the… experiments he wanted to perform in his future. Nanny often told him that he was a bright boy, an inventive lad, filled with potential. She was far more supportive than James' Mama or Papa. Hush, James, Mama used to say; James, you must learn to fit in with other children, Papa would insist. And when they thought James was tucked into bed and deep in a dreamworld, the couple would sit in the parlour, sipping tea and saying things like, Did you notice the way he changed course simply to kick a frog? Did you see how he climbed the tree and pushed the nest out, just to see what the Mother Bird did? Darling, one of the maids told me he locked the neighbour's youngest child in the shed because he wanted to know how the other children would react… And then Nanny would emerge from the hallway to reassure the Gillies duo: There's a good heart in there, I'm sure of it. Master James will grow up; he'll move on.
Nanny is dead now, and James hasn't seen his parents in years. Not since the sentencing… Not since the first time it was decided by the courts that bright, inventive, filled with potential Mr. James Gillies deserved a death sentence.
James returns the wildflower to its place in the book. He shuts the book gently, careful to preserve the flowers that have been present within the pages for nearly two decades. He pushes it to the other side of the table. He doesn't want to be reminded of his childhood now; he doesn't want to remember the good times or the bad; he doesn't want to question if maybe he was terribly different from other children, and perhaps frightfully cruel.
The young man rises from the table and pours himself another cup of tea. The boiled water has been sitting for some time, so his drink is barely even lukewarm. Regardless, he sips it plaintively, allowing the black Ceylon tea and hints of bergamot oil to wash over his taste buds. James considers dumping the rest of the tea down the drain (it's not good unless it's scalding, he thinks), but instead downs the cup in three swift gulps. He sets the cup and saucer on the table top by the heavy book.
James puts on his overcoat and leaves the dingy apartment he's been staying in. Let his belongings be someone else's problem, then. He has neither the time nor the inclination to clean the place up or dispose of his property.
He is on his way to see the object of his admiration and ardour. Who else would he ask this favour of? No one in the world but Detective William Murdoch can possibly be allowed the pleasure of killing a murderous mastermind like James Gillies.
Whatever would Nanny think of me now?
