A/N: I've started my internship, and let me tell ya—getting up at 6am every morning is just ugh. You want death, Stefano? Just take a picture of me when I get home at the end of the day.

Soft, slow beeps filled the background as she sat still in her chair. Her hands rested daintily over her crossed legs. It was getting late, but she couldn't bear to leave that room. Her beloved was next to her, though she didn't want to disturb him from his sleep. It was all he seemed to do nowadays—sleep. It saddened her to have to come to terms with the fact that her husband had weakened to this nearly unresponsive state. But it was the truth. He needed his rest, and so she didn't disturb him.

Emilia's eyes drifted over his motionless form on the hospital bed. The silence, coupled with the static atmosphere, invited the slow fog of nostalgia to drift over her. She found herself reminiscing over the events of her life that had brought her here to this quiet hospital room.

Her family had never approved of her marriage. They'd warned Emilia that when the first wrinkles started to show, he would discard her like a pair of worn shoes and trade her for another. And she knew they were probably right. But Emilia had wanted to be a dancer.

She had been 18 when she learned her dream would never come true. With her family's finances, she wouldn't be able to attend ballet school. And then a man came along, charming and, more importantly, rich. While he courted her, one of the things he did was pay for her entire schooling.

Nicholas, she found, had been 36 when they met—nearly 20 years her senior. He grew up surrounded by towers of cash. His bank accounts never showed amounts below eight digits. He was only marrying because it was something his family expected him to do, though he knew nothing of it. And he was only marrying her because he found her attractive. But wearing his ring meant she could be a ballerina, so she had told him yes when he proposed.

She had been raised on how to be the perfect wife—devoted. Kempt. Nicholas, on the other hand, seemed only to be married in fact and nothing else. His heart had been too spoiled and carefree to believe in matrimony. The man cared for her, of course, but more like a friend with benefits. He loved her in the form of cliché, over-the-top dates, expensive gifts, and nights on his wide, canopy bed. When he didn't offer these things to her, he ignored her completely.

Sometimes he would take long trips on his yacht with some of his other upper-class mates. They brought along pretty models to take over the water with them. Nicholas had always told Emilia they were more for his single friends, though Emilia had known better than to expect him to keep his hands off of them. But she was living her dream, and she told herself that was what mattered.

She didn't expect him to change his ways. Nicholas was almost 40, and his kind of money allowed him the luxury of never having to grow up. Emilia had already resolved to live the rest of her domestic life as a wife that was only granted her husband's affection whenever he was home and wanted sex.

And then that all changed when, at the age of 23, Emilia became pregnant. Nicholas seemed to become a different man as his wife's belly grew. He stopped going out on the yachting trips. He stayed at home more. He talked about his child and how he'd give it everything it wanted. For once, he called him and Emilia a family.

Then, eight weeks into her pregnancy, the doctor told Emilia that there were two heartbeats detected in the ultrasound. She was having twins.

It was raining today in Krimson City. Even from inside, the downpour could be heard as the torrents battered the roof.

He found her in the studio, having pulled an armchair up to the window to watch the water cascade down the glass. Stefano spied the mug in her hands and the string of the teabag draped over the rim. "No wine this time?" he teased lightly.

"It calms me," Celestina answered simply, her eyes still on the muddled window. Her hands cradled the ceramic mug. Stefano turned towards the direction of the darkroom, but heard Celestina say, "Darling, what ever became of my little Marie?"

Hmm. This was the first time since returning Celestina had brought that one up. Stefano stopped.

"It's been a while," he pointed out. "But she, like the other pieces, have long since fallen into police custody. I'm sure they have quite the collection of my works by now." He thought back to that detective. I know you have some part in this. Stefano wondered what might have motived his words—a solid hunch, or simple frustration. Whichever it was, it hardly mattered. That detective was never going to pin him down. Let him try, though. It was much more fun, and much more rewarding to watch him fail every time. But…

Stefano's eye lowered, and then drifted in Celestina's direction. She was on Ledford's radar now too. It was all because of that damned interrogation—the end of it. That slip had been unintentional, a mistake. Something very unlike him. But for the longest time, Stefano had only ever known to care for himself. Now there was something else, another part—like another limb to suddenly be mindful of. This woman. He should have cut this extra bit of tissue off, but he had let it grow on him for too long. It was a part of him now and he couldn't bring himself to take the knife to it.

"Amore," he continued. "I think you know as well as I do that it's best to lay low for now until the pressure dissipates. Take an artist's hiatus, so to speak."

"After our little trip," Celestina replied, "I thought you'd be itching to jump back into the fray."

"I'm only thinking in our best interest."

"Well…" Celestina uncrossed her legs and looked back at him. "How very… generous of you." She turned to the window and leaned back in her armchair. "When you put it that way, how can I object? Besides, there's no harm in a hiatus. It's almost quiet now." Stefano's gaze jumped up to the window. The rain outside was making a racket.

He heard Celestina give a heavy sigh—one that had her shoulders lift and drop as it escaped from her lips. "Darling," she said again. "That night you told me everything—who you were and every little brushstroke that made composed you—did it end up making you feel… liberated?"

Stefano answered her with a deep, dark chuckle, something bitter like bile in his throat as he did. "People like us, my dear, don't have the luxury of feeling that way anymore." Celestina kept her face turned away towards the murky window. He stepped slowly towards her, draping a hand over the back of her chair. "But, I'll admit, certain… things… have quieted down since then."

Celestina leaned back in her chair. Through the reflection in the window, Stefano caught her melancholy look.

"I miss the silence," she said. Celestina lifted the mug to her face, letting the steam bathe her skin. After a few seconds of hesitation, she lowered it and looked up at Stefano. "Pull up a chair, darling," she told him. "I think I'm ready for some peace. Or, at the very least, whatever counterfeit I can get."

Nicholas Amonte—or Papa, as they knew him—hardly ever uttered a word of refusal to them. Like a limitless genie, every wish they had was bound to be granted. From the genesis of their young lives, they grew up with that kind of treatment.

Givenchy's latest styles? You'll be the first ones to wear them, mon anges. Bichon frise puppies? I'll get someone to take care of them for you too. Dior cosmetics? Only the finest for mon trésors. Just days after the couple had brought their two little bundles home, dear Papa was already putting in private orders to have custom Bugatti's ready by their eighteenth birthdays.

One girl they named Celestina after the heavens, from where they were sure their little angel came down to bless them from.

The other, her twin sister, they named Alessandra—after a widely famous actress that had long been Emilia's idol growing up.

Both girls, even from young ages, were pictures of perfection—cute as buttons in their lacy dresses with satin bows in their chestnut hair. To Emilia and Nicholas's delight, their little ones both displayed prodigious talents in music. Private tutors, both for schooling and music, were brought in for the Amonte girls.

But as they grew, subtle differences began to show in those identical twins. Emilia was the first to notice.

Unbeknownst to her parents, little Celestina lingered just behind the doorway while her parents spoke in low voices. Mamma was expressing her concern that, because of the private tutors, Celestina and Alessandra weren't able to go to school and make friends like other children did. Nicholas retorted that those tutors were giving top-notch education that no primary school could compare with.

"And the truth is, mon aimé, people like us don't make friends. Can't. The ones who come close only want something. Isn't that right… Emilia?"

Mamma paused for a second. "Yes," she replied softly. "You're right."

Papa sighed delicately. "Well, if that's all…" he said, "I've some things to see to. Sweet little Celestina expressed her desire for horseback riding lessons. Grigorio—you remember him, right—he owns a large horse ranch just on the outskirts of Milan. I need to give him a call."

"Nicholas," Mamma quickly said. "About… about Alessandra…"

"Mon petit Alessandra?" Papa repeated, and Celestina heard both their tones change at the mention of her sister. "What of her? She's a rising star—both of them are."

"Nicholas," Mamma repeated, her voice dipping down to a nervous whisper. Celestina stepped closer to the door, keeping just out of view. Pressing her hands against the wall, she leaned and ear to catch Mamma's next words. "I've started to notice something… strange about her."

"Strange? Like what?"

"She's much quieter than Celestina," Mamma said. "More reluctant to talk to people. And, I don't know… sometimes she gives me this feeling…"

"Emilia."

"Nicholas, please understand. I love her and Celestina dearly. And that's exactly why I'm worried about her."

"They're twins, mon aimé, but that doesn't mean they're wholly identical. If Celestina wants to be in the center of attention and Alessandra doesn't, let them be."

"I suppose you're right." Celestina heard footsteps and quickly darted away from the door before she could be caught eavesdropping.

So Mamma had noticed. Well, Celestina had noticed long before then. She had never told Mamma or Papa because, well, she was afraid that something bad would happen if she did. They were right—there was something strange about Alessandra.

A few days later, they were gathered at the table for dinner. Starters had been finished, and Celestina leaned back to let the server to take her plate away. The main, a salmon dish, was placed in front of them shortly thereafter.

Mamma and Papa were talking about boring adult things. Celestina zoned them out as she picked up her fork. Her eyes flickered to the side and she noticed a scrap of bread. It must've fallen off of one of the plates when the servers had cleared their panzanella away. As she turned her head back, Celestina noticed Alessandra turning back as well from across the table. Their gazes met. Quickly, Alessandra lowered hers to her plate.

Celestina hoped one of the servers would see it and clean it up soon. Otherwise, if Papa noticed it first, someone was going to get an earful. And likely lose their job, too.

Over the course of the meal, Celestina forgot about the dropped bread as Papa proceeded to ask the two of them about their lessons. Dryly, the two girls recited what they learned in order to get Papa's approving nod.

"And your piano lessons?" Mamma added. "How are they going, my little darlings?"

"Good," both said in unison. They looked across the table at each other.

"That's delightful," Mamma said. "Papa and I were thinking of having the two of you play at this year's Christmas party—in front of a big audience. Would you like that?"

"And sing too?" Celestina asked, immediately daydreaming of performing Christmas carols before a mesmerized audience.

"Of course," Mamma replied. She looked across the table. "Would you like that too, Alessandra?"

There was no answer.

"Alessandra?"

Eyes came up, dark—almost a glower. "Yes, Mamma."

A wide, anxious smile quickly appeared on Mamma's face. She shot Papa a look. Papa cleared his throat loudly and told a nearby server, "I think it's time for dessert."

Dessert was only ever served to the girls. Mamma never had any, and all Papa ever took was a cup of coffee. Tonight, they were treated with homemade bread pudding. Celestina glanced down at hers and then looked over at Papa. "I want more cream on mine," she announced.

Papa gave the server a stern look. "Send it back and bring it out with more cream."

Celestina shot a smug look over the table at Alessandra. Her sister quickly set her spoon down. "Papa," Alessandra said. "I also want—."

Mamma suddenly screeched. "Dio mio!" she cried. "Nicholas!" She scooted back, the legs of her chair scraping harshly against the floor as she seized Papa's arm.

Celestina glanced at the floor. She noticed the small, brown form of a mouse. It was nibbling at the discarded piece of bread.

"Bon sang!" Papa hissed, rising to his feet. "Who was the cretin that left food on the floor? And how did vermin get in here? Someone call an exterminator at once!"

"Celestina, Alessandra—come here, darlings. Don't get too close to it," Mamma said, holding her hands out for the girls to take. Celestina got up from her chair and drew close to Mamma.

"Where's my pudding?" she asked.

"Oh, Celestina, cara mia, it's coming out soon. But you can't eat it in here. Alessandra, I said come here." Alessandra hadn't moved from her chair. She was still staring at the mouse, silent as ever. "Alessandra, listen to Mamma."

"Sorry, Mamma." The young girl scooted out of her chair and joined Celestina on the opposite side of their mother. Taking both of them by the hand, Emilia took them to the drawing room next door. "Don't worry, my darlings. Papa will take care of the mice so you won't have to see any more."

"But mice are living things!" Celestina argued.

"Cara, they don't belong in houses," her mother returned gently. She gave the both of them a warm smile. "Stay in here, okay? They'll bring your pudding out in just a moment." Dropping their hands, she went back into the dining room. Celestina could still hear Papa's voice coming from there. She let out an aggravated huff. Stupid mouse had to go and ruin dinner!

"Do you think they feel if they're living things?" the voice from beside her suddenly asked.

Celestina turned back to her sister. "What?"

"Mice," Alessandra said. "Do you think they've got some sort of way to feel things?"

"Like emotions? I thought only people had them."

"People are living things. You said mice are too."

"Yes, well…" Celestina wrinkled her nose at the thought of being compared to a little rodent. "It's not the same."

"Then you shouldn't talk about things you don't know."

"Who asked you?" Celestina suddenly snapped, her voice growing shrilly with irritation.

"I'm tired of you acting like some kind of know-it-all! You didn't even answer my question!"

The door opened and a server came through, carrying the bowl of bread pudding with a generous dollop of cream on it. Celestina glared at the server, hopping down from her chair. "You took too long!" she huffed before stamping out of the room.

As evening settled quietly over Milan, Celestina climbed the stairs up to her room. The sun had only set not too long ago, but Mamma once told her that a lady ought to retire to bed early because staying up late caused wrinkles.

Her room was down a short hallway on the second floor, with the only other door in that hall being the one across from it. As Celestina approached her bedroom, she hesitated when she saw that the door opposite to it—Alessandra's door—was slightly ajar. She heard a soft voice coming from within, though it was too quiet for her to make out the words.

With her curiosity piqued, Celestina went to the door and silently pushed it further open. She heard Alessandra murmuring softly.

"There, there," Alessandra was saying. "No need to make such a fuss."

Shrill, panicked squeaks accompanied her words. The distress Celestina heard in those dampened shrills disturbed her. Unable to linger outside any longer, she pushed the door wide opened and stepped in. The sight she beheld made her freeze.

The poor thing had been enticed to its doom by the fragrant pieces of leftover bread pudding, a few of which still lay scattered on the floor. The majority of the pudding remained in its small bowl, though the silver spoon that accompanied it was missing.

Alessandra sat cross-legged on the floor, leant forward to observe her work. Celestina's eyes lowered to see what was in front of her, and first spotted the severed mouse tail lying a few inches away from the rest of it.

Gold hairpins pinned each splayed leg to the floor, their pointed ends stabbed deep through the carpet. The trapped mouse wiggled fruitlessly, with each movement it screeched in agony.

Celestina could only stare in frozen horror. At that moment, Alessandra noticed her and turned her head slowly towards her sister. Apathetically, she lifted a hand. In it was the silver spoon.

"Look, Cellie," Alessandra said. "They do feel things. It screams like a person." She flipped the spoon over, pressing the convex side down onto the mouse's back and pinning it down against the floor. Its struggling stopped, but the creature lifted its head and continued to shriek. Celestina felt the pounding of her heart in her throat. "Shhh, little mouse. You're so noisy." The spoon pressed down harder. The squeals became strained.

"Alessandra, stop it."

"You didn't answer my question, so I found out by myself. Come here—let's see what happens when I…" The spoon crushed down harder. The squealing stopped. Celestina saw something red come out and quickly turned away, covering her face in her hands.

"I said stop it! Stop it, stop it, stop it! Stop it, Alessandra!" Shakily, she lowered her shaking hands and dared to look back, mustering a glare as best as she could. "I'm… I'm telling Mamma!"

Alessandra dropped the spoon. She returned Celestina's petrified gaze with a cool, sinister one of her own. "You didn't knock before you came in," she said. "I don't like it when you do that."

"So?"

"You won't tell Mamma." It sounded like an order. Celestina pursed her lips. She wasn't one to let her own sister boss her around, but…

She wasn't going to tell Mamma. There was something that Celestina didn't like to think about, but it was hard not to at that moment.

The truth is, she was scared of Alessandra.

Christmastime was always that time of year when the Amonte household spared no expense. Last year, Nicholas had taken his family to Vatican City to see the St. Peter's Square Tree and attend the Christmas Eve Mass. This year, however, would be a more quiet Christmas—or at the very least, one that involved less packing. The girls, learning that they weren't being flown out anywhere, had grown petulant and only tempered down when their father promised more presents as compensation.

That year they planned to hold a massive Christmas party in their own home, and a grand affair it would be. Invitations were sent out several weeks in advance; down payments were made with wineries and breweries in France and Belgium to have their finest brought in. The kitchen staff was doubled with temporary help in anticipation of the leap in demand. For entertainment, a very prominent opera singer and string quartet were contracted to perform during the night. And, of course, there would be a point in the evening when the spotlight would be focused on two little guest stars.

Celestina was already fussing over which song she would play. She wanted one with words so that she could sing too. The more she could show off in front of Papa's guests, the better. She asked Alessandra if she'd chosen a song yet.

"No," Alessandra answered. "I was going to ask Signora Isabella for recommendations."

"Who?"

"The singer Papa hired. She's coming in this afternoon to do a rehearsal."

"Oh." Celestina put her hands on her hips. "She'll just tell you to play some kind of Christmas carol."

Alessandra shrugged. "Well, there's no harm in playing a Christmas song for a Christmas party."

"Fine, whatever."

Up until that afternoon, Celestina attempted to play it cool until the singer arrived. Alessandra had gone to talk to Signora Isabella during her break like some attention-seeking puppy while Celestina did her best resist the temptation to do the same. She liked to think she had a bit more pride than her sister. But she could only last so long before the resistance broke and she scurried off to eavesdrop on their conversation.

"It's a very tricky piece," she heard Isabella say, "but I've heard your papa say how very talented you are. I'm sure you can handle it."

"Thank you so much." It made Celestina want to roll her eyes how awe-struck Alessandra sounded. "I heard your singing earlier today. It was incredible."

"Oh!" Isabella chuckled. "Why, how very sweet of you! Do you sing, little one?"

"Mmhmm."

"Will you be singing at the party?"

There was a pause, and then Alessandra responded very quietly, "No."

"Oh, well… why not?"

Alessandra didn't answer, and after a while Isabella broke the silence. "It is your choice, after all. But just remember that if you've the talent, then don't let trepidation stand in the way. I think it's time to get back to the rehearsal, lest your papa send someone to herd me back. I look forward to seeing your performance, little one."

Celestina waited by the door to ambush Alessandra as she walked back out. She cut straight to the chase and asked, "Which song did the Signora choose for you?" Alessandra told her the name of the piece. "That one? Are you sure?"

"Yes," Alessandra said firmly, her face growing slightly defensive. "I need to start practicing now."

"Are you going to use the ballroom piano?" Celestina asked as her sister began walking away. "I want to use that one!"

"You haven't even picked a piece yet."

Celestina huffed. After hearing that conversation between Isabella and Alessandra, she knew exactly what she was going to play.