Notes:

I did make changes to the previous chapters, to fix some of the choppiness and some more of the extremely questionable science that I really don't have excuses for.
With that said, warning for questionable science, which will hold for the rest of the fic. Still not a biologist, I just watch a lot of House, MD. ;)
At this point, you may or may not be wondering about the family time to mystery ratio. The mystery is secondary to family time, because I have been wanting these people to be a family for a while now. I'd say that they've suffered enough, but I'm a big fan of hurt/comfort.
So this is a super long chapter. I toyed with the idea of cutting Cain's section and sticking it in the next chapter, but then I remembered that I promised you all the parrot this chapter, and a lady keeps her promises. ;)

Mary

Even though I am home again, I can't bury my spiraling fears that Big Brother will leave me. I leaf through Riff's old textbook, where I have kept my pressed flowers, but it brings me no comfort, not this time. One day—I am certain of this—Big Brother will not come back, and I will have to make do with memories. My hand hovers over the tarot deck, as I contemplate the dilemma of knowing. They only speak truly when I am heartbroken. If I knew what was to occur, then i could amend it, soften the blow somehow. Is that not part and parcel of being a woman?

I do not want to know. Not this time.

But to do nothing is unbearable, and so, I take up my sewing basket. Rummaging around until I find the leftover fabric. A light blue cotton, ringed with darker flowers. Daisies, I think, although the print is almost too tiny to be certain. The needle threads easily, and a gladiolus soon frames one corner, as I work quietly into the night. The steady advance of the stitch, my only clock. By the time the stolen candle has dimmed, almost slipping into slumber, my work has been finished. My fingers sore. Then I seal the flat flowers into the newly sewn pouches, accompanied only by my wishes and thread.

From the noise in the hall, I know that Big Brother and the Doctor have returned, from one of their many trips, and I cannot contain my envy at their apparent freedom, while I remain a caged bird. His return fails to assuage my fears, although I cannot deny my gladness that such time has not yet arrived.

Big Brother and I will never again have the closeness that we once had, before the Doctor, and that loss weighs down my heart. Somehow, they understand each other in a way that I cannot. I want to be there for Big Brother, but I do not know how. And the loss of Riff has awakened a terrible fear in me; the knowledge that Big Brother will die one day and leave me alone, without a family. (As Mother did.) Behind my eyelids, he dies a thousand deaths, and always the emptiness overtakes me, for one of this deaths will be his. Merely showing myself every possibility does not staunch my worries.

I wait until I am certain they must have fallen asleep, before setting out.

Big Brother's gift is easily given, for I know his room by the way he has carelessly discarded his clothes on the back of a chair. There is blood on his cuffs, and I pray that it does not belong to him.

The day he came back, a bullet in the shoulder, I thought he might have wanted to see Riff again, that that might be the cause of his carelessness. Big Brother wants to pretend that I have known only milk and honey, but I lived on my own for too long. I have seen how tight the noose can get. Leroy lost his father to a train, and I have never forgotten how the whistling of the engine, so joyful and thrilling to me, would darken his eyes. I wonder, not for the first time, what has become of him? Big Brother says that he has made a good life for himself, but still I wonder.

I tuck the tiny pouch into this coat pocket, leaving my wishes with it. Praying that it will protect him in the way that I cannot.

I deny the dread in my heart, as I contemplate my next task; I hold myself as bravely as I can muster. Thinking of Esther, in all her bravery, and my heart quietens in my resolve. Turning over the tiny pouch, large enough for a handful of pins, I cast a keen eye over my handiwork: a star of Bethlehem, unfolding in the center. Its white, narrow petals came easily to my needle, but the memories prove difficult to overcome. In the crossed lines is the bareness of my heart, my wish for what I should have had. The words I cannot say lie bound up in the flower, the only way I can communicate. Or perhaps, the only way I am allowed.

(I close my eyes against the memory of blood on the glass. The sweetness of chloroform. A thousand gasping shards. Two deep holes in Drew's head, and one in mine that I have yet to fill. I suspect I never will.)

Still, a lady is gracious and kind and forgiving—particularly to her own kin. And I am well aware that my forgiveness entails a demand of its own, one more powerful than hatred, for I alone decide when penitence is done. In time, my heart may give into love of a cautious, reserved nature, but for now, my heart still rings with terror, albeit muted. If only I knew what Big Brother was keeping from me, then I could set this to right.

Animated speech comes through the door, as solid as it is, and I listen in on the sordid details—blood samples and autopsies and the scarcity of some chemical with a name a bit too long to remember. I suppose he must be consulting with Cassian, and it requires all my will to knock. The chatter dies away, and I take that as my cue, painfully aware that I am an intruder. The Doctor gives me a questioning glance, and in that, I remember Drew's ruined face.

Be brave, I urge myself. Be brave for Drew. I tell myself that I no longer harbor any fear of him, but the weakness in my legs betrays me. I want to flee into Big Brother's arms, but this is something only I can do. Keeping my distance, I crouch beside Cassian, who regards me, not unkindly, with a sleepy stare. "This is for the Doctor," I tell him, placing my offering beside him. "Mother told me that lavender keeps the bad memories away."

My heart thunders in fear, and I comfort myself by petting Cassian. His fur has grown coarse: no longer the soft coat of a puppy. We are both older now, it seems.

A slight confusion registers on the Doctor's face, as if he cannot understand my actions. Pity comes over me. How sad it must be, to be unable to distinguish what is given in kindness from what is not. A new resolve comes over me. Perhaps, like in my fairy stories, kindness will change everything into what it ought to be—and I'll have a family again.

(Drew's ruined face reminds me of just what a naive notion that is. My heart leaps in terror, as I remember just how close those things, those horrid things, were to me.)

Still, I wonder what he is up to, with all those vials laid out. A sea of colors that only he can read. I'm not supposed to be interested in anything beyond what will serve me as the daughter of an earl, but I cannot deny my fascination with the scientific realm. if one knows only how to listen, an entire world appears. I once peeked into Riff's microscope when he was called away, and marvels loomed before me—all seemingly housed in a single leaf, no bigger than the fingers of my doll.

The Doctor catches my lingering gaze, and contemplation comes over him. "Tell me what color this is," he says carefully, holding up one of the vials.

It's the color of an unripened wheat stalk, a soft grey-green, but I hesitate. (The memory of Drew never too far.) "Why?"

"Because, often, a second opinion is needed for determining colors."

Reluctantly, I tell him the color. Unable to keep myself from twisting the corner of my pinafore out of worry.

"Hm. And this one."

"Blue."

He sighs. "I was right. Your brother is going to be sorely disappointed."

My curiosity gets the better of me. "What are you trying to figure out?"

"I was running tests for poison in the blood. if it had been present, it would have reacted differently with the chemicals. To produce different colors."

"I know," I offer. Wondering if I should reveal my clandestine studies. Reluctant to admit that I have taken such an unfeminine interest, and yet proud that I understand the letters, all marching towards the final product.

Surprise shows on his face. "I didn't think governesses taught chemistry."

"I read about it in a book." My shyness recedes, and I cannot contain my urge to tell someone about my studies. "In one of Riff's books. Something with electrons, buzzing about." Unconsciously, I wiggle my fingers. "They move all the time."

"Yes, that's the current theory." It's difficult to tell, but he seems faintly pleased. As if his opinion of me has changed for the better.

How curious.

Jezabel

I wait until her footsteps fade before investigating her gift. For some reason, an unbearable sense of loss comes over me; had my sisters been alive, either one could have made this. Are they angry with me, I wonder? Watching with hateful eyes, my worthless use of their "gift." How did they die—rendered docile by chloroform and brandy, perhaps, unaware they would never wake? Gurgling in their own blood as their throats were slit? Or were their necks broken, like that goose? Did they fight and plead? Or did they submit themselves to his judgment, as trusting as lambs?

More questions without answers. My sisters are nothing more than organs and discarded dresses. (Photographs of them must exist, I suppose. Father never kept any around, but since they were his daughters, he must have had something to remember them by. Or maybe not. Perhaps they were no more than cattle to him. Something useful but worthless. Like me.)

As I unfold the memories of Father, as is my habit, hoping to unearth a revelation, an answer, anything at all, I notice that what we had no longer feels like love. Even though I desperately want it to be. Somehow, all of that has receded, laying bare what I have denied. Instead of basking in his smiles, I can no longer imagine them as anything but the malicious grins he gave me in Delilah. His soft words laden with disgust. Far from relief, a certain horror rises in me as the memories of his beatings no longer evoke the satisfaction that for a moment—just a moment!—he belonged to me, but rather anger that he ever raised a hand to me.

(Maybe it has always been there.)

A soft morning light intrudes into my room, pushing past the heavy curtains. The sort of light that announces another disgruntled sky, another grey day of summer. Rain and mist. Clouds and cold. And with that, I realize that I have spent another night wide awake. While I was no stranger to this in Delilah, spending two, three concurrent nights in such a state, now it seems out of the ordinary, almost an indication of something amiss. It's strange how easily things change. When I was with Father, it was almost expected of me that I was nothing more than barely kept together wreck, or else, cold and cruel. And in my blind rage and misery, such expectations were easily fulfilled. Especially since I felt as though I were bleeding to death, but unable to staunch the wound, not even a little. But now that Cain expects me to act rationally, I find that such behavior is within my power, albeit more of a challenge. I am no different than I was before, and yet, I suppose Cain might think me changed. I'm not sure what to make of this.

As I open the door, awkward hammering on the piano greets me, all sudden sprints and protracted pauses. Mary's piano lessons have always started early in the morning, and after I have selected a new novel from the library, I settle down nearby—not out of any sudden need for companionship. Certainly not that. No, it's the familiarity of it all.

Since she has exasperated her last tutor to the point of tears, Cain has taken up that role. She finishes a little adagio piece, fidgeting the entire time. As Cain turns the page to another song, she protests and pleads, and I can't help but recall, with a certain distaste and pride, how Father taught me the piano. It was a sullen thing, whose keys must have been weighted with iron, and of course, the dull ivory reminded me of the ceaseless, needless death that such an instrument required. Although I tried to banish the image from my mind, I would think of those elephants, weeping holes where their tusks belonged.

He would stand directly behind me, slapping the braided whip handle into his palm to mark time. Never hard enough to harm himself, but still a reminder of what would befall me if I missed a note or lost the rhythm. And because I was thirteen and still clumsy, I often did. The first blow was always a surprise, but after that, the lashes settled into a predictable pattern. One-two-three. A pause. One-two-three. (Even when I was older, he never wavered from that pattern.)

And despite it all, I just longed for his approval until it took up residence in my chest as a constant ache. If only I could master this piece, then all would fade away, like an enchantment, and Father would return, Father who smiled and held me—the one I waited for all those years. I resolved to tried to solve this much like any puzzle of the human body—through constant, applied practice. I would tap out the rhythm on stiff book covers, desks, tables, anything with a flat surface, determined to bridge this obstacle.

When he resumed our lessons, I could hardly contain my anticipation of his approval. This, I was determined, would remind him, that I, and not Cain, was the son who wanted his happiness, and when I played the final notes, I couldn't help but look back, slightly breathless.

Under his composed face lay the unmistakable sign of disappointment. "You finally learned it." A cold disapproval in his tone. And in that moment, I wish he had hit me instead; that would have been easier to bear than knowing that all my practice was for naught. That even my best attempts at pleasing him did not suffice.

Mary's deliberate cacophony brings me back from the past, and exasperated, Cain plays out the piece again, as an example. It's more lively.Adante.

Mary casts a careful eye over me, no doubt weighing how best to evade today's lesson. "Do you know how to play piano?"

"Yes," I reply.

"Play something for me then."

Cain gives her a warning look, but she pays it no heed. "Please?"

I hold a brief debate between indulging her and struggling with the leaden prose of my novel. Reluctantly, I acquiesce, deciding on one of Father's favorite pieces. Middle C is easily found, and I begin, almost mechanically. I don't derive any satisfaction from this—it is just another task to complete. I learned it by rote a lifetime ago, and so it comes to me easily. I have almost finished it, when I hit the wrong note. The air suddenly thickens, and I am back with Father again. It's useless to tell myself that it is not happening again, for even as I know it to be true, the fear does not cease.

Mary gives me a confused look. "Why did you stop? It sounded nice. Just try again."

I cannot explain, even if fear hadn't stolen my voice, how this is merely another pattern. One that begs to be completed, if only so that life can continue. I am waiting for the blow that will never come, because Father is dead. The anticipation of the beating proves just as upsetting as its absence. If I were alone, I think I might have hit myself, if only to complete the pattern and allow time to resume. But since I don't want any further doubts about my sanity, I do not.

Mary opens her mouth to, no doubt, encourage me to finish, but, to my surprise, Neil intervenes. As he sends Cain and Mary away under some pretense, my heart sinks. I don't want to be left alone. And in that moment, I realize just how dependent I've become on Cain—and that frightens me, because there is only one way that will end. I want to flee, to anywhere but here, here where I have fallen into another trap. I only have myself to blame—I put the noose around my own neck. Now, the only thing that remains is how he will be taken away from me. Even as it strikes me as a ludicrous fear, I cannot deny its hold over me. Snark twists within me, that coiling that always precedes vomiting, and I try to steel myself against that urge, although I find myself immobilized by the disruption in the pattern. Everyone wants their pound of flesh from me, their claim on what is not mine.

But Neil just sits there, worry tightening his mouth, as I wait and wait for what won't come. Resenting how my past is scrawled on my body. How obvious the source of it all must be—everything leads back to Father. At last, he finally raises my hand away from the keys, although I remain frozen in place, unable to break away from what surely must follow next.

"You don't have to tell me anything," he begins, unexpectedly soft. I had never associated anything resembling gentleness with him before, but then again, managing the affairs of a prominent family hardly lends itself to softness. Maybe I have misjudged him, despite all his ill-advised actions. Maybe he has only done what he thought best.

Despite my reserve, my fingers curl, ever so slightly, onto his hand, his skin thin from age. The grooves of his knuckles worn deep. I allow myself just the faintest of touches, before drawing back.

"I never thought I'd have children," Neil says, at last. "My wife—your aunt—died without bearing any." Another pause. "And then the family gave me Cain to raise, because no one else wanted him. You can, no doubt, imagine the immense difficulties" He smiled ruefully. "For the longest time he didn't understand that the servants could see him, and I never understood until Raffael told me. And I was furious with Alexis, that he had raised a child like that."

Oh, if he thinks that horrifying, I suppose Cain never did tell him the whole story. Even as I resent Neil for what he does not have to bear, I wonder if that is Cain's way of putting the past to rest. By concealing it.

"But there's no point in despising a dead man," Neil continues, a little more softly. "Everything fades."

I'm not convinced of that just yet, particularly as the marks on my back say otherwise. No, if anything fades, it is the mundane details. I no longer remember any of my schooling, only the wet red and the ceaseless cadavers that it involved. The long nights, and brutal examinations. No, I am certain I will remember what has been done to me until my dying day, even if I forget all else. And I don't know what to do with that knowledge. Would I forget, if it was in my power to do so? Is it a matter of wanting, or is it something else?

The final experiments at Delilah were all centered on the brain. How one forgets—or does not. How the will can be bent. How personality can be reshaped. It's not impossible to destroy the areas responsible for memories, but what one is left with is a fragment of an existence, remembering only less than a minute of the present. Thirty seconds, or so. It's a ghastly existence, to never be truly aware of where—or even who—one is. To have only thirty seconds of being. And then nothing. Living one's life in an inescapable pattern.

(One-two-three. Pause. One-two-three.)

The only thing that time has left with me with the aching realization that one cannot escape the soil. That every heartbeat brings me closer to death. If I was a wiser man, I might have relinquished this struggle against the past, in favor of a gentle life with Cain and my—what do I call them? Family does not sound correct. Not family. Not friends either. Apart from the curse that runs in my veins, the only common element we all share is Father. Everything leads back to Father.

I only see now what I should have had, and although I am no stranger to jealousy, this digs into me unlike anything I have felt before. A sore that cannot be healed. A wound made of all the stolen years that I should have had for myself. I despise Mary for that, for her innocence, and I despise Cain for having the rest of his life for himself. For leaving Father's shadow while he was still young enough to distinguish between himself and Father. I, on the other hand, am ruined, irreparably, and every day I become more aware of the extent.

Neil places my hand on the bench with a certain tenderness at odds with his stern demeanor. (Almost as a grandfather would.) Evidently thinking that I had been struck into speechlessness with a wondrous insight, instead of more ruinous brooding. Another cycle I cannot escape.

"I know what Alexis wanted for you, and what Cain wants," Neil says, so that only I can hear. A careful, heavy pause. "But what do you want?"

His question takes me aback, because no one had ever asked me that. I had thought so long of myself as an object, to be acted upon, that I had never considered what I might want. If that was something I was even capable of.

He senses my inability to find a ready answer. "I see." And with that, he moves to take his leave. Just as he reaches the door, however, he pauses again, gruff demeanor given over to contemplation. "I've going to look over today's post, but I'm certain Mary would like to be taken out to see the goats. The rain should clear up soon."

(What do you want?)

I continue turning the question over long after he leaves me.

The morning gives way to a surprisingly pleasant afternoon and so Cain drags me outside, against my half-hearted protests. I am slightly irked that Neil was correct in his predictions—I don't like it when others are correct—but Cain's insistence gives me something else to be annoyed with. From the net, I know Cain has enlisted me into a game of badminton.

"Only a small game," Cain begins, handing me the racket. "I can practically feel my muscles atrophy from a day indoors."

I give into my urge to correct him, if only to appease my sulkiness. "Atrophy takes months."

"Best to not let it start then," he replies, with a grin. Twisting the birdie. "Last time, I believe, I was in the lead."

"Last time, you had Mary with you." I cannot help myself from pouting slightly, my pride wounded. "Hardly fair odds."

"True," he concurs. "Would you like Mary this time, or—" Those eyes alight with mischievousness, he crooks an arm behind his back. "Or I could play you like this?"

"You'll fall like that," I point out, flatly. "You have no balance. And the grass is still wet."

"Is that concern I detect?" He teases, albeit not maliciously. "Concern for my well-being?"

"Don't be daft." My words come out more harshly than I had intended, and his look of hurt pains me, against my better nature.

"Oh, don't be cross with me," Cain replies, if a bit stiffly, tossing me the birdie. "Here, I'll let you serve first."

I accept it wordlessly, partially ashamed of my unintended hostility and partially upset with him for reminding me of how I used to hide everything I loved from Father, lest it be taken away. (But he found out. He always did.)

"So," he continues, walking to his preferred spot. "I've interviewed the suspects. No one actually saw the crime in progress."

"Of course not." I wait for the chilly breeze to leave us. "Were you expecting a confession?"

He shrugs. "Beside that, there's everyone in the smoking room as a suspect." He looks at the bordering trees, deep in thought. "And the footmen. And of course, Lady Jane, who discovered the body—highly suspect, since she's a young widow."

"You think she's a black widow?" I start the match, sending the birdie to his left.

"You don't?"

"Oh, no. She's a childish little woman. So excitable."

"What about Lord Gilroy?"

"He's certainly wicked enough."

"Wicked enough to kill?"

I pause, remembering the self-satisfied way he told his gruesome story. "Quite frankly, I hardly care if the entire nobility gets killed off. Good riddance."

Cain tries a different approach. "I think we're looking at this wrong. The question is not how, but why? Certainly there's an element of sadism involved."

"You'd need the rest of the reports for that conclusion," I point out.

He swings his racket at the incoming birdie. "Already have them."

"How did you accomplish that?"

"I impersonated you."

"What?" I am so surprised that the birdie flies by, unnoticed. "And how, do tell, did you manage that."

"After that little exercise with the autopsy, I realized how easy it was to impersonate a doctor." He then gives his best impression of my voice and speaking pattern.

A slight amusement, and perhaps even amazement, comes over me, but I pretend to not be so easily swayed. Still, I cannot suppress a faint grin, as I pick the birdie up from its resting place. "That's not accurate," I reply. "At all."

He smirks, no doubt pleased with his ingenuity. "It worked for the coroner. He sent me all the reports."

A sudden worry comes over me, that he has discovered how to render me utterly dispensable. That he knows just how replaceable I truly am. I hit the birdie harder than I mean to, and it falls out of Cain's reach.

(What do you want?)

Is this what I want? To spend my days with Cain? Can such a thing last?

If Cain notices my sudden change in mood, he does not remark on it, instead continuing on about the case. "All of the previous murders were similar, which, of course, points to the same person. Someone with enough influence that Scotland Yard didn't question him." He pauses. "But then why go to the hassle of poisoning someone with a nonlethal dose. it seems unnecessary."

"Because it wasn't a poison. The test was negative, as predicted."

"Didn't you need a second opinion for that? Don't tell me you asked the dog."

I decide to ignore Cain's skepticism about Cassian. "Mary offered hers," I reply. "She'd make an excellent chemist."

Cain misses the birdie, and as he stoops to retrieve it, he shakes his head in disbelief. "That's not a reputable position for her."

"The world is changing, Cain."

"Not that quickly."

I am becoming a bit breathless from all this exercise. "What we ought to be asking ourselves is what looks like a poison, gives all the signs of a poison, but clearly is not."

Cain falls into contemplation. "A hallucinogenic? That would explain the bizarre behavior, but not the rest."

"They're discovering new plants in the Amazon all the time," I counter. "It's excruciatingly difficult to test for something no one knows much about."

"It would have to imported then."

"Or, one could just go to the right party, if one knew where to look," I reply, remembering how Cassandra always kept up on the latest drugs. He never partook himself, preferring to stay in control of himself, but would never shy away from testing them out on his wards.

"A drug experiment turned sour?"

I nod. "I'll bet the murderer found out how to influence people by chance, and now can't relinquish that power over life and death." A struggle I am sympathetic to.

"Then why pick the nobility as one's prey? I would think the lower-classes—a new maid or footman—would be easier prey."

"What better prey than one's own?" I remember how that horrible man relished the details of the chase. Hatred binds my chest. "How thrilling it must be."

Cain frowns, not completely swayed. "Perhaps." A final swing of the racket, but he misses the birdie again. "We'll see how correct you are at the party tonight." As he brushes off the wet debris that it has gathered from repeatedly falling onto the grass, I wonder if I can be content with this, for the rest of my life. A practice in the village and solving mysteries with the brother I despised for so many years. Until he marries, and takes up Neil's life of household affairs and societal frivolities.

An acute sense of loneliness strikes me. A loss that is felt before it occurs—this cannot last; nothing lasts. And one day, this too will be relegated to memories that will fade. Fade and flicker, before they are forgotten. I have wasted my life in the pursuit of something I could never have, and now—now there is only another series of losses to look forward to.

And where does that leave me, the unwanted son?

(What do you want?)

Cain

The evening proves uneventful, to my disappointment. I forget who's hosting the party this time. Lord Sunderby? It hardly matters, after all; I'm not here for the company, dull as it is, but rather to catch the murderer in the act. To pass the time, I try to guess who will be next: the man in the corner, searching for his companion, or that whispering, unchaperoned woman? The grand dame accepting another glass of wine from the footman? Boredom comes over me, and resolve to search for my brother, who has disappeared again.

I hope he hasn't decided to murder someone just to get out of the rest of the evening.

The hostess announces that the entertainment of the evening has finally arrived, just as I find him, sulking.

"Didn't you hear?" Jezabel begins, in an morally outraged tone. (It's still strange to think of him as someone with morals, albeit considerably warped ones.) "They brought the parrot that was in the papers a while ago."

"The fortune-telling one?"

He shakes his head. "What a ludicrous notion."

"As opposed to re-animating corpses ?" I whisper, so that only he can hear. "And anyhow, won't it be nice to see it? Even if it is a fraud, it still looked handsome."

That my brother cannot argue against, and the struggle between curiosity and annoyance plays out on his face. He crosses his arms, returning to his sulky look. "I suppose."

Striding into the center of the room, a man—a showman by his gaudy suit—commands our attention. Gesturing to the covered cage. "Theodore, the bird prophet," the showman begins, to appreciative murmurs. "From the depths of the Amazon. Be careful what you ask him, ladies and gentlemen, for he speaks only truth." The showman then rattles off a list of "predictions"—the fall of the rupee, the death of Prince Albert, and other unlikely occurrences. For one, I doubt the bird was alive twenty years ago. For another, it seems unlikely that a such bird would be paraded around London as entertainment for the bored upper-classes.

I turn back to my brother, starting to comment on the unlikelihood that it is a fortune-teller, when I notice that his face has darkened at the sight of the cage.

"It won't stay in a cage," I say. Slightly fearful that I might have to defuse another scene.

He shakes his head a little in disbelief. Crossing his arms more tightly. "Are you amused," he says in a low, deadly tone, "by some poor animal on display? Trained to repeat sounds he does not understand?"

"It's just harmless fun."

"Also long as he's a novelty. And when the fun has worn off, off he goes—set loose into an unfamiliar world or consigned to a dark cage."

With the cage opened, the bird crawls onto the showman's forearm. Curling its talons into the leather wrist guard. Its eyes, as dark as the bottom of a well, unsettles Lady Jane, who makes a great show of her fright, as high-born women are wont to do. (How strange. I had thought the murder would have put her off parties.)

"He predicted my husband's death," she whispers to me, to my brother's annoyance. "A sudden fever. Theodore took one look at him and kept repeating the word 'heat.' And a week later, Albert died."

"That's a coincidence," I reply. "It's well known that parrots don't understand what they say."

She frowns. "But he spoke truly."

"Coincidence," I insist. "People die of fevers all the time. It's a statistical certainty."

"But he rarely repeats his words."

I pause but for a moment, studying the showman as the bird predicts Lord Andrew's future—a second child. "An act of ventriloquism, then. Notice how he keeps silent as the bird 'speaks.' One can see similar acts in the music halls."

She sighs. "Is there no room for the spiritual in that world of yours?"

In response, I smile. "I deal with facts, Lady Jane. Not fantasies."

"Why live in a mansion if you can't indulge yourself in fantasy," she begins, with a smile that tells me I have charmed her. She makes a sweeping gesture of the room, the chandeliers alight and the soft murmurs of the guests. "All this beauty. Why, it's like a fairy story."

"Fairy stories have their dark sides," I reply, holding up the mysterious feather. "Does this belong to Theodore?"

"Oh!" Her eyes widen at the feather. "No. It's from a smaller bird. A parakeet, I think. That must belong to Lord Gilroy's parakeets. He must have forgotten to have his coat brushed off before he left."

I frown; Jezabel had told me it was from a parrot. "He must have been in a hurry."

"Don't you know?" She glances around before leaning in. "His estate is—"

"Ruined, "Jezabel interrupts. "His wife wants a divorce; he lost the fortune to gambling. He is going mad; he's surprisingly sane, considering his wife sleeps with the footman; he lost his mistress; he has too many mistresses. Did I miss something?"

Taken aback, she stammers out something, before leaving. Returning her glass to one of the many trays being carried around. She's right-handed, I note, out of curiosity. Trivia like that stands out to me now, after Riff's dea—departure.

"Have you gone mad?" I cannot contain my irritation at his tactlessness. "Being rude to her won't bring us any closer to solving this."

"It's already solved. It's doesn't matter why he went on a murder spree, only that he did. " Jezabel shakes his head, contemplation hardening his face. "They're all the same. All concerned with magnifying their worthless affairs until it becomes a Greek tragedy. The real tragedy is that poor bird. It will spend its life being used—and discarded." For a moment, he looks as though he might start crying. "But what do you care? It doesn't affect you. It never has." And with that, he turns on his heel, breaking away from me.

I contemplate chasing after him, but decide against it. Instead, I watch him fade into the crowd, painfully aware of my inability to set anything to right. Weighed down by the guilt and anger and sorrow that I cannot surrender. All I want is a family again, but it seems that such a thing cannot be so. And my kingdom collapses into sand within my hands, always out of my reach.

True, I am vexed with him, for acting the petulant, spoilt child liable to fly into a temper, but I am more frustrated with myself. Why is being a family so difficult for me? I had never before realized just how crucial Riff was to my existence, and with his loss, I cannot even keep up a semblance of what we had. Perhaps we are too broken to make each other happy, the way families ought to. Perhaps we cannot imitate what we have never known.

I suppose he feels some kinship with the bird, projecting his fears onto it. As difficult as it may be for him to believe, I do not desire his unhappiness. But at the same time, I have never known the way back, before Father took what was never his. I wonder everyday, what a different man I might be—how much braver and kinder and stronger—if I had not had Father in my life. Jezabel can rant about how Father stole his life, but the benevolent Father he alludes to, in hushed, reverent tones—as if he might walk through the doorway any moment now—is a stranger to me. And in those moments of reminiscing, although Jezabel does not recognize it, his eyes soften and I can see the child he must have been. The gentleness that he hid.

The light was never extinguished.

I am sick with envy that he has some part of himself that existed before Father, for I can claim no such thing. Instead, I bear a personality that was shaped by him before I had words. Before I had sense. I am wholly his creation, for there is no part of me without Father's influence in its marrow.

I pass the time with a glass of wine, sunk into a silence—hardly enthused by the prospect of catching Lord Gilroy in the act of murder. The whole idea seems frivolous now. A fool's errand. So, it comes to no surprise when more screams break out, and commotion ensues as the remaining guests rush forth to see who has been picked off next. I suppose it must enliven their monotonous existence, to have a killer in their midst. Idly, I make my way to the crime scene, but my heart stills as I see the corpse.

Lying in a pool of his own blood, with leaking wounds, is Lord Gilroy.

Notes:

I don't think I'll be writing from Mary's POV again. Not enough angst and suffering for me. And don't worry, I won't be writing from Uncle Neil's POV, because it would be all boring household affairs and constant worry and annoyance about his terrible nephews. It would be like a less witty Downton Abbey, I imagine.
Also, have any of you read the first American Gothic, Wieland? If not, I recommend it. It is a trip, albeit a dense and not easy-to-read trip. It's also where the parrot gets his name.

As always, thank you for continuing to read. I'd love to hear from you!