Cain
The infection is no longer contagious, but the compilations have yet to clear. I've kept Jezabel company through the worst of it, if only because I am almost certain that if I left him alone for too long, I would return to find him raving about the people in the wallpaper or other assorted madness. He has a brilliant mind that tends to find something in nothing if left unoccupied. And to his credit, he has been a reasonable patient, despite complaining to me about the doctor's ineptitude—a condition that, I found, extends to every physician but himself. Mostly though, he's been asleep from the analgesic, an arm curled around the dog and his hair in a loose braid. And in those moments, he looks as gentle as a lamb.
Deceptively so, of course.
But that's not what worries me. Early into treatment, he used to have a sullen determination to prove the doctor wrong, but now there is a surrender to this childhood disease, this phantom he sees in his current illness. Now that his fever has broken, he should be moving about again, taking short walks and so forth. Instead, there is only a disinterest: he only stares at the wall, unseeing and unfeeling. Part of me wonders if this is from his near-constant sleeping and the disconnect from physical reality that such an act can bring about, and another part wonders if he has decided to will himself to die out of a desire to avoid his nightmarish vision of the future.
By the window, I only resume my perusal of a treatise on poisons of the tropics—hardly anything of note. From my place, I have a view into the garden: there, Mary and Oscar are having a game of cricket, albeit one-sided, as Oscar's fondness for her turns him into a bad player. At a particularly bad swing, Mary claps her hands to her mouth, unable to contain her laughter. The sun brightens her hair, and a lightness rises in my heart at the sight of her happiness.
"Want me to open the window?" I offer, already searching for the jar of birdseed to spread on the windowsill.
I remember the first time he showed me how he fed the birds. The room gave way to a whirlwind of chirps and feathers and life, as they circled him, eating freely from his hand. In his only act of consideration to this date, he gave me a palmful of birdseed, against my protests that I really did not care to feed his entourage of opportunists. It, however, was delightful to see the wrens and sparrows and larks bob their beaks and fly away with their chosen seeds, and by the time the birds had had their fill, a breathless joy had come over me, although I would never admit it to him. Then we took up the soiled newspapers from the floor for the compost, because, as Jezabel explained to me, God's creatures might have no shame, but Uncle Neil would certainly not approve of nature's workings. I wondered if he and Cassian ever spent the evening cleaning after the birds he allowed into his study. If that was ever a quiet respite from the chaos of Delilah. Although, in hindsight, it would most certainly have been Cassian who did the cleaning and not my brother.
This time, however, Jezabel only shakes his head numbly. "There's no point," he says finally, with an effort, not even averting his gaze. Limp as a doll.
I set the jar down. "Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?"
Jezabel gives me a long, sullen look in response. "You're not the one at the end of your life."
"You're the only one who believes that," I counter. "And if you want to make yourself unhappy, no one can stop you. But that's a choice. And—"
A dull crack against the window interrupts me, its source falling into the garden. I frown, slightly confused and perturbed: surely Mary knows better than to throw stones against windows when she wants attention. Was it Oscar, then? Were they careless with their game of cricket? I unlatch the window, preparing to scold someone, only to see Mary preoccupied with something below the window. She glances up at me, her hat askew and a question barely visible on her mouth, and then taking note of my presence, takes up what is, no doubt, the offending cricket ball, and disappears into the house.
Bemused but not alarmed at her behavior, I return to Jezabel, who is slightly more alert now, and I detect the beginnings of annoyance in him.
"It wasn't anything," I say, returning to the treatise.
He coughs again. "It never is with you." With that, the fight leaves him, and he resumes dully staring at the wallpaper, that lost look returning to him. Without hatred, the only thing left to face is the pain that birthed it. I suppose it must be awful to be aimless, to not know where one should be and should be doing. To lack a purpose after having one, albeit a horrid, selfish one, for so long.
Footfalls outside the door and a timid knock announces that Mary, for whatever reason, has made her way upstairs. A smudge of dirt soils her worried face, and her dress has become filthy. Eyes wide in alarm and concern, she shows me what must have hit the window. Oh. Certainly not a cricket ball, then. "You have to do something," she whispers to me, to avoid drawing Jezabel's attention.
"There's nothing to be done." I take the damp mass from her, examining it. "You shouldn't have brought it here."
"But—" Her eyes start to shine with tears, and I realize that, despite every hardship she has experienced, Mary is still a child, and most importantly, has the heart of one. To her, her big brother is the one who sets things to right, capable of solving any problem. "You have to—there must be—"
I consider taking her burden from her with a lie. As much as it pains me to be untruthful with her, the alternative is far worse, and I should spare her the ills of life to whatever extent I still can. I owe her that, at least. My heart sinks, and while I attempt to finalize the story I will tell her tomorrow, movement from the corner of the room catches my eye. Aided by sheer spite and sullenness from no longer being the center of attention, Jezabel crawls out of bed, still unhealthily pale. Arms crossed, he peers over my shoulder, a decidedly annoyed set to his face that softens with an almost inaudible inhale at the gasping bird in my hands.
Jezabel
It's a wren. A poor little thing, heaving in the shock of being handled by people and, no doubt, pain. Guilt burns at me when I realize that it must have been accustomed to the opened window, and I stare at its broken body with the horrid realization that I caused this. I hurt an innocent. I want to scream and rage at this sin, to make something match my boundless pain and broken insides, but the nausea from moving paralyzes me.
"Can't you do something?" Mary pleads, and it takes a moment before I register the fact that she is addressing me. How strange. I suppose her beloved big brother couldn't help, and the bastard brother was the next best thing. How typical of everyone around here. Despite my bitterness, however, something starts to stir within me, a possibility I had never considered. The wren's broken body no longer becomes an indicator of my depraved, stained state, but a puzzle to be solved—and a life to be spared.
"Mary," Cain begins, with more than a hint of reproach and weariness in his tone. "Jezabel needs his rest. He's very sic—"
"Nonsense," I interrupt, my mind reeling with possibility. "Her wing is broken. " I take the gasping bird from Cain, making a cradle out of my hands so that the innocent won't—can't—fall. "It can heal." For some reason, that notion thrills and pains me in all its possibility. It can heal.
Shushing the bird, as one might with a child, I gently extend its wing, feeling for the fracture. There. A slight swelling around the ulna marks the fracture. A simple bandage should suffice to hold the bones in place, while she heals. Birds heal so quickly, that recovery shouldn't take more than two weeks.
"Jezabel," Cain begins, half worried, half demanding, and I give him a level stare in response.
"I am going to fix this wing," I say, in my low, deadly tone. "And there's naught you can say to stop me."
"You think I can stop you from doing what you want?" He throws his hands up in frustration. "You wouldn't listen anyway."
You can't make me, I almost say, but it seems that further intimidation is not needed. And in my slight victory, my body chooses that moment to remind me of its current weakness, and I tremble just enough for Cain to notice. Concern crosses his face, and then it softens in what I could almost mistake for brotherly compassion. It, of course, is not. Such things do not exist.
"You're so stubborn," he says, half exasperated, as if he is begrudgingly reconsidering his opinion of me.
"It runs in the family," I retort, trying to ignore my trembling.
Cain exhales. "Sit down, before you collapse."
Another coughing fit seizes me, and chubby fingers lightly tug on my arm, guiding me back to the bed I detest for the way it reminds me of the death I will have. Nausea returns, my throat tightening. Large blue eyes watch me with all the quiet solemnness of childhood, and for a moment, I see myself in her eyes: I'm alien and incomprehensible to her, as all adults are to children, but more than that, I am the too-thin brother who is dying before her, one who cannot keep from constantly falling apart, the one half in love with the night. Fragile and angry.
"Tell me what to do," Mary says, simply.
"You can't set her bone," I manage, as my chest constricts with pain.
She gives this some consideration. "True. But you can." A pause. "And I can help you."
I don't want to let go of this bird because I am afraid of what will befall her, should I give her up—should I trust in people. Again. A life for a life is poor recompense for the immense, skinless pain of betrayal. But I'm still to weak to do everything on my own. True, I could set the bone, but I cannot see to the twice-hourly feeding the wren will need.
"Please?" Mary whines, in the high-pitched tone of a child accustomed to getting her own way. "I do so want to help."
Cain gives me a wry smile. "She won't stop until you agree."
At this, Mary fervently nods. "I won't."
I nearly groan at the prospect of having two uneducated helpers, but the weight of the gasping bird in my hand reminds me that such matters are of little import. "Why don't you bring me my bag?" I offer, pointing to my desk. "It has some gauze and material to repair her wing."
Her eyes light up at the chance of being included, and she scampers off, beaming. She lugs the black bag over, plopping it beside me, and then sits near me in a flutter of petticoats. She cups her chin with her hands, leaning forward in rapt attention.
"Now," I begin, "first, we need to make sure the fracture heals." As I explain the basics of setting a broken bone, she listens eagerly, her eyes bright. And I am not sure what to make of it all, let alone the strangeness of being listened to. "And we'll need an aquarium to keep her in." I look at Cain expectantly. "Like the one in the drawing room."
"You're not serious," Cain replies, arms crossed. "Where will the fish go?"
"Outside, where they belong," I say, not dissuaded in the slightest. "Animals are not entertainment."
"Big Brother," Mary begins sweetly, her hands clasped in girlish supplication, but Cain cuts her off.
"That might work on Oscar, but not me."
A spell of mischievousness strikes me. "Little Brother," I begin, and at my echo of Mary's words, Cain opens his mouth in shock, while Mary stares wide-eyed at me, baffled to hear me borrow her words. Good. I hope they haven't grown too comfortable with their idea of me. I can't have them thinking me predictable. "Little Brother, " I repeat, carefully emphasizing the birth and hierarchical order here, "there is a bird dying here. Would you kindly get the aquarium from downstairs, so that she does not further injure herself?"
He shakes his head in disbelief, fumbling for a suitable retort. "You'll be the one telling Uncle Neil why the goldfish live in the pond now."
"Gladly," I reply. "They'd have died in the aquarium anyhow." Something compels me to add, "Better free than caged."
"Never thought I'd hear you say that," Cain says, with a self-assured grin on his face, his hand on the door, and I redden a little at the realization that he is alluding to my belief that I would never escape Father's cage. "But you seem to be saying strange things today. I suppose I should leave before you confess your fondness for me."
"I certainly am not—" But the door closes before I can reassure him that I do not care for him in the slightest, and I glare at the ceiling in annoyance, before returning to my task. As I unfurl the bandage to measure the length needed, Mary has burst into giggles over the entire affair.
"It's so strange to think of him as a little brother," she confesses, when her laughter has subsided. "But he is, isn't he?" She frowns, swinging her legs in thought. "I suppose that makes you my brother too. But what do I call you? I already have a big brother."
I shrug, uncomfortable. "I have a name." With the bird carefully cupped in one hand, I wind the bandage over her wing. It crosses over the center of the wing, and I tie it off, making sure that the bandage is not too tight.
"Big Brother Jezabel?" she tries, hesitantly.
I shake my head, grimacing at the prospect of being someone's "big brother," let alone being referred to as such.
"Jezabel?" she says, uncertainty hushing her voice. Still a source of fear for her, as it will probably be until her death-day, but there is something else unfurling inside it, the thin, rangy green of hope. And there is something to be said for the way she wills herself to stay in my presence, fully knowing the violence I am capable of.
I nod. "See how the wing lines up with the healthy one? You don't want a wing that is misaligned." I show her the three points where the wings should align, lightly tracing the three invisible lines of reference across the bird's body. "At the top, middle, and bottom of the wing."
"The top, middle, and bottom of the wing," she repeats, determined to remember, and I wonder if this is what freedom looks like.
Neil
"There's a bird in the house."
Still dusty and disheveled from travel, I stare at Mary; nearby, my new manservant busies himself with folding my overcoat. "Where?" I reply, handing off my hat to be dusted.
She smiles mischievously, before dragging me by the hand up to Jezabel's room. I make my way there slowly, still uneasy with walking. Inside, I notice that a strange set-up has been created: a single light bulb hangs above a glass aquarium with the lid taken off—one that suspiciously resembles the one used to be in the reception room. I suppose Jezabel managed not only to persuade Cain to free the goldfish that used to live in there, but also to partake in his plans. Well, as long as this animal liberation doesn't extend any further, I suppose I won't press the matter. As for the rest of the set-up, there's a washcloth lining the aquarium floor, and on it, lies a handful of dried leaves and a bowl of water. The bird, infamous as it is now, is curled up in a corner, breathing heavily as if it too has pneumonia. A single eye opens slightly, darting around, before closing again.
Instead of lying quietly in bed, Jezabel is sitting beside the newly minted bird hospital, watching his patient, and Mary plops down beside him, with the air of a co-conspirator. Jezabel, in turn, quietly regards me, taking note of my return. Although no longer flushed with fever, he retains that insubstantial, pale look, periodically trembling from either a sudden cold spell or weakness. Wisps of hair frame his face, having gotten loose from the braid draped over one of his shoulders. This one appears slightly more complex than his usual braids—Mary's work, perhaps?
"What's all this?" I begin, leaning on my cane for support and to relieve the ache in my lower back.
"Tell him! Tell him!" Mary urges Jezabel, childishly. Before giving him a chance to, however, she turns to me, a huge smile on her face. "It was me!" she announces proudly. "I found the bird. It flew into the window, so I brought it here. Look!" A chubby finger points to the huddled bird, and I peer a little closer: one of its wings is wrapped tightly in gauze. As she becomes more excited, her cockney begins to color her speech. "Her wing got broke—got broken—and Jezabel and I fixed it!"
I blink in shock to hear her refer to Jezabel by name, and not the oblique way she usually does. "You helped?" I give Jezabel a questioning glance, wondering why he decided to let Mary assist him with such a delicate procedure.
"Yes, she made sure the bedding was suitable," he confirms quietly.
"I got the leaves and everything!"
Cain smiles at her infectious joy. "You're becoming quite the disciple. When are you going to start parading around in a white coat," here, he catch Jezabel's gaze, "and telling others you know best because you had years of medical training?"
Jezabl scowls, but before he can find a cutting remark, his face whitens with pain, and at this, concern replaces self-satisfaction on Cain's face; he puts a hand on Jezabel's back, earning him a strange look from his brother. The moment goes entirely unnoticed by Mary, who is explaining to me, with all the enthusiasm of youth, how to set a bone. I suppose Jezabel must have shown her how.
I take this as my cue to usher Mary out of the room, as Jezabel still needs to rest. When she has left, I ease into a chair, my old injury paining me too much. "We have a guest, it seems."
Jezabel shrugs. "Someone has to feed her twice an hour."
"Twice an hour?" I survey the huddled bird.
"For two weeks," Jezabel insists. "Until her bone heals."
"And then, it can leave?"
For a moment, a certain sadness returns to him, and he nods, already anticipating his loss. "Yes."
"I'll see that one of the servants manage it," I reply.
For some reason, alarm comes over Jezabel. "I can take care of it," he says a little too hurriedly. "It's not a bother."
"You need your rest," I insist. "There's no point in making yourself sicker over an animal."
Before Jezabel can reply, Cain rejoins the conversation. "You heard Uncle Neil. Now, if you don't start on that," Cain says, gesturing to the dinner tray, "I will spoon-feed you." And at Jezabel's tight-lipped, sullen gaze, Cain decides to prove his point; he shuffles some roasted vegetables onto the fork and begin moving it in his direction, bobbing it around in the manner of a nurse feeding a young child. In an exasperated huff, Jezabel takes the fork and tray from him, and the dog snorts, eyeing Cain and then Jezabel as if deeply amused.
"It certainly does not serve me right," Jezabel says to the dog, flustered enough that he has colored a little.
Cain cannot keep from smirking, and as Jezabel picks at his dinner, Cain launches into an anecdote concerning a trip to London, although I recognize it as the subject of a heated letter from Lenora's sister. It's not a recent one, given that Riffael is alive during it, and while I listen to it, I muse a little on the gentle expression Jezabel had when he was caring for the bird, and how different it is from his usual detached one. In that moment, he seemed alive, and there was a tenderness to him that moved me.
"There's a veterinary school in London," I begin, when Cain's anecdote has ended. "The Royal Veterinary School, I believe. I doubt it would be too difficult."
Jezabel's pale eyes go wide at the possibility that I'll wager he has never considered, and then he shakes his head. "Certainly not."
"Why not? Imagine all the people you could lord over," Cain replies. "Animals and people? They'd have to erect a shrine to your ego." He moves his hands to illustrate a mock-description. "Doctor Disraeli, healer of animals and people. Spent years in medical school and knows better than all of us."
"As opposed to what?" Jezabel counters. "Cain Hargreaves, darling of the gossip columns and bane of Scotland Yard? Burned down the London residence and pretends to be the paragon of moderation?"
"Settle down," I scold. "The school might be worth pursuing."
"No one wants a horse doctor in the family," Jezabel says abruptly, if not a little sullenly.
"No one wanted Oscar in the family, and there he is," Cain points out. "I don't care what the family thinks."
"It's a pity," I say lightly. "Anyhow, I mention the school only as a suggestion. It, of course, depends on your recovery."
Jezabel's face falls at this, and for a moment, I wonder if he is about to cry or rage. The dog whines softly to divert his attention.
"Come now," Cain says. "You'll be better in a month, surely. Spite is a wonderful thing."
At this, Jezabel rolls his eyes in exasperation, but he seems less worried, and I muse on the close bond of Alexis's sons, wondering if that will be enough to sustain them after I am gone.
Notes:
I like bonding scenes. You all probably have a pretty good idea what I like to see in a fic by now: a lot of pain, a lot of angst, and a lot of comfort/bonding to balance it out. And the obligatory Cain-Jezabel conflict, because it gives me life. I suppose that I should probably rename this fic "Count Cain: The Secret Garden, Part 2," for all the massive debt this fanfic owes that book.
This was a tricky chapter to write, until I realized that it was actually a sibling bonding chapter, and not what I was trying to force it to be. The chapter after this one is another of my favorites. We're nearing the end.
And as always, my eternal gratitude to my amazing, sweet readers.