November in England was always a dreary affair. Not quite freezing, but the constant drizzle carried the cold creeping into one's bones following a long, pleasant summer.

It was a fitting day for a funeral.

The siblings had drawn into themselves, rigid with eyes fixed firmly forward as the whispers swirled about. Marigold has drawn a netted veil down over her face for the funeral itself, gripping Alexander's arm with white-knuckled resolve, the only visible crack in their little shield wall of cold courtesy. The few who had the lack of common sense to approach were quickly pulled away with apologies.

The reception was worse. Spencer and the late Lord Ashford had built up many relationships among the gentry, academic, and business world alike, and they all wanted to know what would happen with the fledgling Umbrella venture. Spencer was present, of course. The man, solemn, grim, and so very sure, assured them all that the European branch was still in the workings, and were they all not lucky that Doctor Bailey and Earl Beardsley were available to assist that side of their great working?

Surely, they must protect the legacy of the man they had lost too soon.

And then Spencer's eyes would track to young Alexander, listless and lost in a fog of grief, who had retreated into a shell of stoicism. The listener would catch the message clearly enough. The boy- no longer the celebrated young genius in their eyes, fickle, fickle memory- was clearly unready to lead. It would be dangerous, unfair to put that burden on his shoulders. Really, wresting control away was an act of mercy.

Marigold drifted through the crowd, numbly and dutifully accepting condolences. Poor child, having taken sick just last month and now this. People commented that she seemed thinner when they felt that they were far enough out of earshot, though otherwise had made a remarkable recovery. Spencer tracked her movement through the crowd for a while, eventually dismissing her, satisfied that the incident in Africa had resolved itself cleanly. She'd be brought back into the fold soon enough. Earl Beardsley would need the support to establish himself in Europe within the scientific community, at the very least.


Marcus did not want to be here.

Yet somehow, the botanist found himself fidgeting nervously by the buffet, making tepid small talk with academics who all quickly realized that no conversation was to be had. They had all drifted off towards Spencer, and towards Bailey, who was off in his own circle. His former assistant was better with people, was grateful for the kind thoughts, and would but happy to get in touch sometime in the future.

Someone pushed a cup of coffee into his hands and he took it without thinking, noting with mild surprise that it was fixed to his liking. He had drained half the cup when an amused voice broke into the fog: "I could have poured a whole bottle of arsenic into that and you would have just downed it, wouldn't you?"

Marcus flinched, then turned to face Marigold. "I probably deserved that," he admitted. A beat. "You seem in remarkable good health."

"Yes," she said, pleasantly bland. "I suppose we're both quite lucky that poor silly me can't follow basic instructions to follow a basic regimen of medication, yes?"

Marcus tensed, hands tightening on the cup. He was at a loss for words. Marigold rolled her eyes. "Idiot. It's not poisoned. Not that you wouldn't have it coming, though, from what I've been told."

Finally finding his tongue again, he spoke. "No one else was able to see the blood panels at the site." The suspicion in his voice was clear as day, but he seemed resigned. "Not even your father."

Her face hardened at the invocation, crystallizing the polite smile into something that would cut if wielded correctly. "I couldn't speak to that," she said, soft. "And you clearly haven't. I don't imagine you will, either. Aren't we all just the luckiest people in the world?" With a sneer, she melted back into the crowd, who were carefully giving the grieving daughter a wide, respectful berth.


Her head was pounding, and Marigold wasn't watching where she was going when a hand gently caught her arm. Biting back an urge to round on the perpetrator, she found herself looking into Lord Spencer's inquiring face. "Dear, are you alright? You look distraught." His eyes tracked to Marcus, eyes narrowing in warning.

She managed a weak chuckle. "It's been a trying few weeks, Uncle."

His face softened marginally at the term. "True enough. Are you getting the help you need?"

"We have people managing the estate- organizing everything has been a welcome distraction," she admitted. After the funeral, she'd be left to her own devices again, if Alexander couldn't break out of his fugue and step up. Privately, she wasn't sure he'd be allowed into the inner circle even if he could, after all of this.

A proud house had been reduced to a pariah and an eligible bachelorette; barely even that, if the stories told on her out of school held water. The wolves would descend in no time.

Then again, she thought, that ship had sailed. On that ago, hadn't it? Spencer was already moving a silent partner to helm her father's facility, and Bailey to hold down Kijiju, functionally displacing Alexander and isolating Marcus at once.

Spencer nodded, seeming to understand. "Of course, Marigold," he said, reaching out and taking her hand in both of his. "This would be a terrible time to have to take on all of this alone though. Would it be alright to send someone to the house in the new year? I wouldn't dream of adding to your burdens, yet we could sorely use your input while Brandon gets settled." He glanced over at Alexander. "I rather worry about whether your dear brother will have the capacity for a while. Wouldn't you agree?"

Anyone else taking that particular shot at that time would have had a strip torn up one side and down the other, one way or another. She'd gone out of her way to properly castigate Marcus, albeit in as few words as possible. Yet, this man was family- or, as good as. At that particular moment in time, Marigold Ashford, eldest child of the recently deceased, wanted the support more than she would ever care to admit. For the return of even the illusion of stability.

She agreed, dutiful as ever, to allow for a visitor come the new year. Come the spring she would be shadowing business managers, executives, and lab assistants, charting a path to power by the only means she felt were left to her.

Surely Alexander would understand that she could only salvage what was left now.