The fire burned brightly in the grate but its warmth and light did little to lighten his mood as he sat in the darkest corner of the drawing room of Grandage Place staring though the slightly ajar door into the hall. His third whiskey of the past half an hour was clutched in his hand and he had to fight the impulse to throw it back as he'd done the previous two. The sounds of the house were muted, the silence oppressive and he felt increasing cut off from humanity not that he had any wish to be social. He brooded knowing he should leave the house to return to his lodgings where he could privately drink himself into oblivion and to save himself the sight that he dreaded and yet longed in his sickness to see. But the strength to do so alluded him and he knew that he could not leave until he'd wounded his soul upon the sight of her. The sight of her returning from dinner smiling, happy and secure in the affection of another, the man she called her husband. The man who had the right to escort her, to take her hand, to kiss her lips, to lay her down in their marital bed and love her in every way it was possible for a man to love a woman. The right denied him. The right that he walked away from and which sawed like a blunted blade grating, shredding his soul.

His memory returned to that night of the downpour in front of his fire, his hands in the silk of her hair, her body a mere hairs breadth from his, her voice soft and full it seemed of unspoken words and wants. Christ he relived those moments a thousand times a day constantly mulling over what might have happened if instead of being interrupted her hand had reached his face. How her fingers would have felt against his skin moving along his jaw line cupping his cheek. And then the imagining of her eye's darkening, her mouth opening as her breath quickened. How she'd pull the plushness of her lower lip into her mouth her body leaning forward before….

The banging of the front door destroyed the image he'd so carefully constructed and he stiffened, girding himself to face the happy couple to watch them in their domestic bliss his ears straining to hear their conversation, the shared endearments, the private talk of newlyweds still in the honeymoon period. But he quickly realised that only one person had entered the house and the light tread informed him that Vanessa had returned from her evening alone. He knew Bennet was upstairs helping Sir Malcolm ready himself for bed and that if she entered the room as she was want to do, they would be effectively alone for the first time since that night.

He'd seen her, of course but always in the company of others. He was desperate to talk to her about what had passed between them to somehow recapture just a glimpse of what he thought he'd seen, felt from her as she'd sat in front of his fire on that rain swept evening. Her manner had seemed to warm towards him since that night, she would at least remain in a room that he was in rather than leave immediately which had been the pattern of their existence previous to that encounter.

He heard her stop, the rustle of her coat being removed and listened intently to see if she would climb the stairs for the night sending a silent prayer skyward that she would decide to come into the drawing room for a nightcap or maybe a smoke. He lacked the courage to go out into the hall to face her rejection or to feel that he'd forced her hand in anyway. He wanted her to decide to be on her own again with him rather than coerce her into being there.

Finally after what seemed to his impatient brain an eternity he saw her shape through the gap in the door and after pushing it wider she walked through still carrying her coat a slight frown etched onto her beautiful face. Greedily he swept his eyes over her, taking in the form fitting, deep green evening dress cut in a way to leave her graceful shoulders bare the merest hint of the top of her breasts showing, pushed high by the clinch of her corset. As always her slender arms were un-gloved, the only jewellery that adorned her was her simple gold crucifix and the wedding band that seemed as ugly to him as a brand against the purity of her skin.

She laid her coat along the back of the sofa and then drifted over to the sideboard to open the small, silver box and retrieve one of her cigarettes. He was certain that he remained unseen and she made no reaction to his presence until, without turning, he heard her say,

"I don't suppose Mr. Chandler that you have the means to light this about your person?"

He leapt from his seat, moving towards her his hand fumbling in his pocket to remove the lighter he knew, she knew he always carried. As he closed the gap he watched for the almost imperceptible stiffening of her stance which had become in the weeks since his return a characteristic of their relationship but in fact she seemed to relax as he came closer. He flipped the top off the brass lighter sparking the wheel and held it out the flame highlighting the sharp edges of her face and casting shadows into the hollows of her cheekbones. She leaned forward folding her hand around his to steady the lighter and inhaled the paper catching light. He watched as she drew the vapours deep into her lungs her eyes closing for an instant relishing the soporific effect and he could almost see the relaxation flood through her. Her eyes opened, the blue lacking her usual clarity and her lips curled into slight smile. She drifted past him and sat on the sofa.

"Would you join me Mr Chandler, if you don't have anywhere else to be? I'd appreciate the company for a while." Her voice was soft and there was an edge to it which for a moment he failed to recognise but as he joined her, and she passed him the smoking cylinder he thought he saw a trace of what he could only describe as sadness flicker over her face. He had to fight down the immediate response to take her in his arms, to brush his thumbs over the edges of her face. To feel the bone sharp under the silk of her skin, to watch the inevitable colouring of the ivory to pink at the rasp of the callouses on the pads of his fingers. To smooth away her pain and inflict sever pain on the being who'd caused her sadness.

They sat for a moment in silence passing the cigarette between them. She'd kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet up on the sofa under her skirts resting her chin on her knees her arms wrapped around her legs. He watched her for a moment, it was almost as if he wasn't there and he didn't know whether to rejoice in what could be construed at her comfortableness at his presence or despair at her lack of care that the impropriety of the way she was sitting seemed to suggest.

"Did you have a good evening?" The silence had become uncomfortable for him although she did not seem to find it so, and although he did not really want to talk about her evening with her husband he needed to find out why she'd returned alone. Whether the unthinking bastard had caused her obvious upset, to add yet another reason to the ever growing list of reasons to hate him despite most of them being of his own imagining and making and not Victor's.

She laughed and reached over to take the cigarette from him, her fingers brushing his in her seeming impatience and inhaled deeply.

"It was very pleasant up until Victor was called away. There was an urgent case at the hospital and the doctor who was on call couldn't be found. Knowing him he is drowning his ineptitude at the local pub or his lust in the arms of some whore."

His own conscious prickled at her last statement remembering his recent encounter with the raven haired prostitute fuelled in part by his own need to feel like a man, a man that could satisfy a woman like her.

"And he left you at the restaurant?" He knew his voice sounded accusatory but he couldn't help it. The idea of her being left for any reason, that something else could be more important than spending time in her company was abhorrent to him. The fact that he had done worse was pushed to the back of his conscience, he needed reasons to keep the hatred of her situation alive.

Her eyes flicked towards him for a second and a slight frown creased her forehead in between her brows. His hand instinctively twitched to brush it away with his thumb.

A quite laugh bubbled out of her throat but he could tell it was forced, the sound harsh and unnatural to him, who'd been one of the very few people ever to hear her laugh honestly.

"Do not be so hard on him Mr Chandler. He has little choice. He is as incumbent to duty as we ourselves are. No, he saw me home but I doubt if he will return tonight. Medicine is a tempting mistress I have found and she is difficult to compete with."

It was then he felt her hand upon his so unexpected that without thinking he flinched, but she did not remove it only exerted a slight pressure, her thumb brushing lightly over the back of it.

"Do not hate him. He does not deserve your hatred. You owe him more than anyone Ethan. And although you know the truth, in this you choose to obscure it with loathing. You focus on him to move the actual target away from its true focus, the fact that you hate yourself and what you have done. The fact that your act of what you construed as selflessness, was in fact pure selfishness and through it we all have suffered, and continue to suffer. You make your choices my….." she hesitated for a second and then continued, "Mr. Chandler and we all live with them."

He gazed into her eyes and behind the carefully constructed façade saw for the first time grief and just the hint of something else until she slammed up the barriers, the blue becoming cold and her hand was removed from his which felt like a bereavement.

"I must thank you for your company Mr. Chandler but must suggest that you now return to you home for proprieties sake. I understand that Sir Malcolm has need of your services again tomorrow, so I wish you good night." Her voice and smile was polite and she moved from the sofa in a fluid movement to place herself before the fire her back a brick wall of solitude and rejection.

He had nowhere to go but to leave and he stood aching for the easy companionship that had been given so unexpectedly and then again torn away. He retrieved his coat and hat from the chair he'd vacated upon her arrival and walked towards to door.

At the last minute, as he reached the parlour door, he turned back to look at her. The long line of her back, the wisp of curls dark against the whiteness of the nape of her elegant neck and it was in that moment he truly understood what he had done and the pain he'd so longed for crashed like a storm upon him, crushing him with such a force that he understood pure suffering. But he could do nothing; he was powerless against her, against it.

"Good night Mrs. Frankenstein."

"Mr. Chandler."

Pulling his coat on he crossed the hall and flung open the door pulling into his lungs the cold of the night air enjoying the burn and then stepped out into the darkness walking quickly to put distance between him and the unutterable pain that knifed through him when near her.

"Ethan."

Her voice rang out and he turned to see her framed against the doorway. His heart leapt for a moment but it was short lived as he saw in her hand the dull gleam of brass. His lighter.

He walked back to retrieve it forcing his mouth into a smile of thanks, but just as he reached her he felt a sudden change in the atmosphere and a harsh tone rang out.

"Chandler. Heard you were looking for me. Well here I am you bastard."

He turned to see the dull sheen of metal raised and with horror realised that the gun was pointed away from him, directly at Vanessa.

As the shot rang out in the darkness he threw himself forward. The bullet hit him with such force that for a moment the shock deadened the pain and then blossomed in his chest pure and sharp as a dagger. As he fell her heard her cry out his name, the sound of pure desperation and felt his body connect with hers, her arms going round him as them both collapsed to the floor. As darkness began to steal his sight and numbness seeped through him he watched the crimson of his wound stain the fabric of her dress and a river of tears pouring from the endless blue of her eyes.