Written between 13x17 and 13x18 because I couldn't handle not knowing what's going on with George. Spoilers for the first episode, speculation for the second. Crossposted to the Other Place; no permission given to put it anywhere else. Murdoch Mysteries aren't mine. Huge thanks to everyone who makes them happen.

Inspector Thomas Brackenreid stood up from his desk as Effie Newsome and Constable Higgins nearly burst in to his office, both of their faces etched with worry.

"Sir, it's George," Henry blurted without preamble, sounding genuinely alarmed.

Brackenreid felt his heart skip a beat. "What about him, then?" He glanced at the calendar, and his eyes widened. "He's not supposed to be back to Toronto for another week at least, is he?"

"That was the plan," Effie said, her voice high and urgent. Brackenreid noticed she was turning a black bowler hat around in her hands. That's a bad sign. "But Percy telephoned the station house this morning looking for him. Apparently he came back to the city two days ago."

"Percy," repeated the inspector. "Percy who?"

"Percival Emerson. George's agent from the publishing house. He said the book is so popular that they've had to interrupt George's tour until they could print more copies. He's been trying to reach George at his boarding house to let him know about the new schedule."

"And he's not been there," Brackenreid prompted.

"No, sir," said Higgins. "His landlady was expecting him home at the same time we were."

Brackenreid swallowed. "And you've been to the train station and made inquiries there."

"Yes, sir." Henry took a breath before continuing, long enough for Effie to break in.

"Inspector, the porter had his hat." She lifted it to show him. "Here, his name is in the band. The porter saw him leaving very briskly with a young blonde woman in a grey dress with a light blue lace capelet. He called after them to return the hat, loudly enough for them to hear, but neither turned around. And no one has heard from him since."

Brackenreid set down his glass of scotch, walked to the door, and bellowed. "Murdoch! Watts!"

"Well, sirs, we've interviewed the crew members of the train that George took from Montreal, and they do recall seeing a young woman matching the description provided by the porter." Any hint of Higgins' usual lackadaisical demeanour was absent, replaced by a deadly seriousness. The entire bullpen was silent, eavesdropping on his report.

"And what have you learned?" Detective Murdoch said tightly.

"It appears this woman boarded the train separately from George in Montreal, and they had no contact during the journey. It doesn't appear that he knew her."

"But he left the train station with her. Could she have abducted him?"

"It's looking that way, sir."

Brackenreid exhaled, and looked skyward. "And what else do we know about her?"

"The porters and lounge attendants reported that her behaviour was quite erratic, and that she was unaccompanied by any luggage. She was holding a copy of George's book, frequently thumbing through it and muttering something about pearls and rhododendrons as she marked annotations in the margins."

"Do we have a name, sunshine." The inspector's tone was low and menacing.

Higgins hesitated, and Brackenreid grew pink. Watts broke in. "No, sir, not yet. But we have the book. She must have dropped it as she hustled George away. Only the sections about George's Aunt Rhoda are marked. This woman must have some connection to her."

"Never thought we'd need to remember anything about all those aunts Crabtree always blathers about…" Brackenreid muttered.

"I remember all of it, sir."

"Course you do, Murdoch."

"It's not as if I choose to, sir. But I don't recall ever hearing George speak about an Aunt Rhoda. The only time I've seen her mentioned is in his book."

"So she must not have been at the, ah, rectory for very long." Watts cleared his throat. "Perhaps we could contact his other aunts for some information about her."

"Right away, sirs. I'll telephone Aunt Azalea." Henry practically sprinted back to his desk.

George had lost all sense of time. He could barely remember that that he had not always been in this room, tied to this chair, subject to the cruel whims of this unhinged woman who somehow… blamed him for the loss of her mother? Everything hurt, and he could not recall the last time he had eaten. His mind was a jumbled mess of pain and fear and dreams of food.

She had been giving him water from a pitcher on the table, and had he had his faculties about him he would have noticed that she never drank from it herself. He was exhausted, and the water only addled him more. Was it spiked? Probably.

Every time he drifted off, the woman would jab him hard in the centre of his chest, shout at him, forbid him to sleep. Manic energy crackled off her as she flitted around the room speaking words that increasingly sounded like so much gibberish.

Nina murmured in his ear. You are the best man I've ever known. He felt her breath on his neck.

Edna stroked his forehead as he held her farewell letter in his hand. I love you and I will miss you always. He thought he felt a tear run out of the corner of his eye.

George! You're alive! William Murdoch beamed at him, and rushed to enfold him in a warm embrace. He smelled… different, muskier, the way he had when George had shepherded him home from Haileybury. Lord, it was good to see him, to feel his solid muscular warmth.

He was six years old, hidden in a fortress he had made of blankets next to his bed. He liked to go there to feel safe and look at his picture books. His aunts, bless them, knew not to disturb him until he was ready to come out, at least not until dinnertime. He wondered what was for dinner tonight. Was it Sunday? Sunday was always Jiggs' dinner. He loved Jiggs' dinner. He could all but taste the corned beef, the cabbage, the split peas, the potatoes and carrots, the dumplings melting in his mouth. Aunt Fern made the best dumplings. The only thing he disliked about Sundays was that he would have to go to school the next morning.

Another sharp poke in the chest, and he slammed back into the waking nightmare.

His foot throbbed. His head ached. His ear stung. His wrists burned. His throat hurt. She had squeezed it again, more than once, and every breath was painful.

He had no idea how many times she had kissed him. His entire body sang in visceral disgust at the thought. Perhaps it would be preferable to die than endure this Hell one moment longer. Perhaps he could taunt her to the point of ending him.

There was a noise in the hall. Amelia dove for her gun.

A small army, guns drawn, stood peering into the broken doorway. Higgins and Brackenreid had hit it so hard with the battering ram that the entire door fell into the room, and the inspector held up a hand so he and Murdoch could assess the scene.

A haggard Crabtree, his gaunt face shadowed with days' worth of stubble, stared out with unseeing, haunted eyes. A cheerful woman held a revolver to his head.

"Hello, everyone!" she greeted the assemblage brightly, ignoring all the guns pointed toward her. "I suppose you're here for George?" Her eyes glittered as she glanced back and forth between the crowd at the door and the man bound to the chair. "Well, you can't have him. He's mine."

Julia inhaled sharply, the situation sickeningly, viscerally familiar. For a moment she was back at the asylum, Rose Maxwell rushing at her with a pipe. The all too familiar rush of adrenaline flooded in, quickening her pulse. She did her best to dismiss it, detach from it, engage the clinical part of her brain. She was briefly torn between evaluating this woman's condition, and examining George. She looked from one to the other. George looked so awful that she knew immediately there was no choice but to start with attention to him.

In the odd timelessness of crisis she was able to take in a great deal.

George.

Sunken, dull eyes, the darkest of circles underneath. Pinpoints for pupils. Pale skin, almost translucent, stretched too tight across his familiar features.

He hardly looks himself at all. Dehydrated. Likely sleep-deprived and malnourished. Clearly drugged.

She catalogued his wounds as best she could from a distance. Swollen left ear. Blood on the collar underneath. Angry red welts on his wrists from the rope. Purple and distended left foot, bulging against a too-tight bandage. Bruising around his throat.

He resisted. Likely blunt force trauma to the foot. A blade to the ear?

She tried to choke him.

White-hot rage welled up. She pushed it back down.

He is apparently quite oblivious to his surroundings. Groggy, passive, likely compliant. No sign that he recognises us.

Oh, George.

Julia's split-second analysis was interrupted when Effie tried to lunge forward from the back of the horde, only for three constables to restrain her. At the front, Brackenreid, Murdoch, and Watts exchanged horrified glances, silently negotiating who would reply. Murdoch gave a single nod and stepped forward.

"Miss Smythe. Kindly unhand the constable and surrender your weapon." His expression was pure flint. Julia could see the fury radiating from every inch of him.

Amelia stared back at him, eyes blazing. "I will do no such thing! Get out or I'll kill him. He's mine to do with as I wish. He took my mother from me, you know. He owes me a debt."

Julia cleared her throat. Endogenous psychosis, it would seem. Extremely unstable, delusional, violent. Like Rose. She felt a chill.

Well. In Tom's words, here we go.

She tapped her husband on the shoulder, and he gave her a knowing nod. Go ahead, he told her silently, and Tom nodded as well.

She put up her hands and stepped forward, sidling between William and Detective Watts. "Miss Smythe. Amelia. May I call you Amelia?"

Confusion crossed the young woman's face, and she nodded. "George calls me that. Who are you?"

"My name is Julia. Amelia, I'd like to talk to you. You've had a very hard time of it, haven't you."

Amelia regarded Doctor Ogden sceptically for a moment as Julia adopted the kindest expression she could muster. Amelia's eyes finally softened, just a little. "Yes." It was no louder than a whisper. "Yes, I have."

"And you feel that George is responsible."

Amelia gripped him and the gun harder, and George's head lolled. "I was six years old. He didn't need her. He should have sent her back to me."

"You felt abandoned."

"I did. And it was his fault." Her face abruptly hardened again, and a smile started to curl at the corners of her mouth. "Oh, no. No, no, no. I see what you're doing. You're trying to win me over to get me to let him go. No. He's mine. You all leave, or he dies."

Julia tensed, becoming intensely aware of Henry's laboured breathing just behind her. Alarm buzzed through her veins like electricity. Don't do it, Henry. Don't say a word.

Henry could contain himself no longer. "Put the gun down, Miss Smythe!"

"Higgins! Shut it!" Brackenreid hissed.

"Higgins, is it?" Amelia was beaming now. "George spoke of you. He's very fond of you, despite your ineptitude. I'm glad you'll get to watch this. It's right that your horror will be the last thing he sees." She cocked the revolver and pressed the muzzle harder into George's temple.

A shot rang out, and then another. George's head snapped to one side, and Amelia jerked backward onto the floor. Effie started to scream.