Note: The 1981 story is written in collaboration with . 1981 is referenced here in ' The Antarctica Incident.

His dad had told him to keep an ear out for the door, but at some point, thirteen-year-old Grayson Harman had gotten tired of listening for a knock that was probably never coming. To pass the time, he entertained himself with his Walkman, and the Deep Purple cassette he'd bought on his last visit to Raccoon City.

Fuck, he thought, why the hell do I have to wear this stupid monkey-suit? Grayson frowned, gave his tie a tug; it felt like a garrote—a garrote that was choking every ounce of coolness out of him. He looked like a dweeb. He looked, Grayson decided with a shudder, like Alfred. Next I'll be wearing button-ups and dickies, and coordinating pocket-protectors with dorky sweater-vests ….

He turned down his music just enough to listen for the door, mostly just so he could say he'd been doing that the whole time when his dad came around to interrogate him. And froze.

Someone was knocking on the door. Someone was knocking loudly and repeatedly at the door, while it was raining outside. How long have they been out there in that shit? I'm toast. Grayson hurried to the door, fumbled with the lock for a moment, throwing it open.

A tall figure in a blue raincoat stood at the door, raising a hand to give it another go when it cracked open. Two large garden pots had been deposited at the top of the stairs behind the figure, the contents covered in a sodden burlap cloth.

Grayson stared. Did they just haul that shit up by themselves?

The figure stared back, then threw their hood back and squinted inside at him. They—she, he could see now that it was a pale young woman—gave him a speculative look that held traces of alarm.

"Hello," she said, "I don't think we've met? I'm expected today."

Grayson kept staring—and realized he still had his headphones on. Didn't even have a chance to take them down, however, before his dad appeared behind him and was tearing them off his head. He had the sort of look Grayson imagined Ted Bundy had given his victims right before he'd offed them.

"I gave you one job," his dad hissed, tossing his headphones back at him. His dad was a big man, dressed in a black suit. Grayson had often heard women compare him to a bunch of Hollywood stars: Gary Cooper, Rock Hudson, Cary Grant—old guys his grandfather would have watched on the big screen, but whom nobody gave a shit about anymore. The Arklay twang was slipping out too, meaning that his dad was pissed, the way Alexia got more English whenever she was super pissed.

"I'm doing my job!" Grayson shot back, and his dad, hearing him take that kind of tone, looked a vein-twitch away from slapping him across the face.

His dad turned to the weird lady at the door, the one who might've been a cousin or something of Alexia's (they looked so alike that Grayson was getting a little weirded out. It was like staring into Alexia's future), and he said, in a polite voice he associated with telemarketers, "I'm so sorry for my son's behavior, Marigold." The woman—Marigold—had stepped inside. She gave his dad a sort of grimacing smile in response, like the one Alexia sometimes used when she was being asked to stand on decorum, rather than be allowed to focus on her work. Then he turned on Grayson, flushed with embarrassed anger, and said, "Take her coat and get her something to drink and eat. Now."

Grayson nodded, mumbled an apology, and went to do just that.

His dad put a hand out to stop him. "Give me the Walkman."

"Dad—"

"I told you to give me the Walkman, Grayson."

He frowned, dug it out of his pocket and slapped it into his father's palm.

"You're not getting it back until you've earned it."

"Dad, come on!"

"Take her coat to the cloakroom, and get her some refreshments. This is your employer, Grayson."

Grayson carefully folded the raincoat, then turned to the woman named Marigold. "I'll show you to the parlor."

She nodded, and turned to his father. "It's good to see you again. Will Alexander be available shortly, or is he still working?"

His dad seemed to collect himself. "He said he would be wrapping up early today. I'll let him know you've arrived."

Marigold smiled, "Thank you. I brought a few things up to the door so they wouldn't wilt in the car. Please don't trouble yourselves with them, they're for the lab." She then turned to Grayson. "To the parlor then?"

Grayson led the way to the parlor. It was just off the foyer, down a short hallway decorated in things that wouldn't have looked out of place in a Hammer horror film. He seated Marigold, then took her raincoat to the cloakroom and hung it on one of the hangers. A few minutes later, he returned to the parlor and asked, "Did you want coffee or tea? Dad made some shortbread earlier." His dad watched him for a moment from the doorway of the parlor, then, satisfied Grayson was doing his job, strode off to find Alexander.

"Tea would be fine—Grayson, was it?" While she was speaking, her hands flashed. Did the twins teach you how to sign?

He blinked, a little surprised she'd bothered to even remember his name. Half the time, Grayson was pretty sure Alexander couldn't even remember his name—and he'd grown up with the twins. Duh, he signed back reflexively, and Marigold cracked a small smile. "Sure—I mean, of course, I'll be right back." He excused himself from the room and headed for the kitchen, and when he got there, he found Alexia already fixing herself a kettle. "Lex, seriously," he said, "you could've just asked me."

"I did," replied Alexia, giving him an unimpressed look. Alexia was a reedy girl dressed like a Sunday School kid, with hair so blonde it bordered on white. But she was still the prettiest girl he'd ever seen, although he'd never had the guts to tell her that. He'd been crushing on her hard since he'd started noticing girls. "You were too busy listening to your bloody Walkman." She stared at him for a moment, tipped her head on one side. She stirred too much milk into her tea. "You look handsome," she remarked. "What's with the suit? Scott usually has to wrestle you into one."

"Your cousin's here," he said, blushing.

She blinked. "What? I don't—"

"Marigold?"

Alexia stopped stirring. "And you didn't tell me? You absolute bellend!"

"I just told you now, didn't I? Nerd."

"Meathead," she shot back, but she was grinning.

He fixed some cream tea (clotted cream, scones, black tea), and plated some of the shortbread his dad had made that morning—after having to practically yank the cookies out of Alexia's hand. "You keep snacking these down, you're gonna get fat," he told her, arranging the spread on an antique silver platter. Then he gave her a once-over and added, "Actually, you could probably use some more meat on you, dork. You're a beanpole."

She snagged a cookie off the plate and scarfed it down. Then, "Who says beanpole, other than Scott?"

"Who do you think I picked it up from? And stop eating all the damn shortbread, Lex. Jesus."

"Are you my bloody nutritionist all of a sudden?"

"More like your pediatrician," he teased, making his way out into the hallway with the tea. Alexia followed, falling into step beside him.

"Har har," she said, before snatching another cookie off the plate.

"Lex, seriously! By the time this gets to your cousin, there won't be any left."

"She's not my cousin, you silly Yank," Alexia retorted. "She's my aunt. Auntie Marigold."

Grayson blinked. "Dude, she looks fucking sixteen or whatever."

"My family has very good genes, Grayson. Also, I'm not a dude."

"Shut up, dude." Grayson grinned, threw her a wink, and shouldered into the parlor. Then he put on his business face, and set the cream tea down on a low table of polished rosewood. "Here you go, ma'am," he said, internally cringing at himself.

"Auntie Marigold! It's so nice to see you," said Alexia, brushing past him and sitting beside Marigold on the sofa.

"Alexia? My god, girl, you're growing like a weed. How are you?" Marigold smiled warmly at her, and helped herself to one of the remaining biscuits. "Oh, these haven't changed at all since Harman worked with my father, haven't they?" She gave Grayson a curious little look, then turned back to Alexia. "Is Crow about? He's normally flying out the door when I arrive."

Alexia smiled. "I'm nearly 5'6 already," she said, sounding more than a little proud. Grayson snorted (he was already practically six feet tall), and when Alexia looked at him, he just grinned. She rolled her eyes, then turned back to Marigold. "Same recipe, as far as I know. As for Alfred?" She hesitated, glancing at the door. "He's about, yes, but he and Grayson had a little bit of a fight earlier, so he's pouting in his war-room."

"That's what he calls the playroom with all his little military toys," said Grayson, helpfully. "He got mad because I accidentally stepped on a Prussian grenadier. But that's his fault for leaving it on the floor."

"Grayson, why were you in there pestering my brother in the first place?"

"I wasn't trying to bother him," said Grayson. "He asked me to hang out, then got mad when I started beating him at Risk."

"How did you even manage that? Alfred's quite good at that game."

"I cheated," said Grayson, matter-of-factly.

"Perhaps that was why he was angry, not because you stepped on a grenadier," said Alexia, with a sigh.

"If you want," said Grayson, looking at Marigold, "I can go get him. But I'm pretty sure he'll be coming in here with Alexander, any minute now."

"Are you not supposed to cheat at Risk? I may have been doing it wrong then," said Marigold, in a sugary voice. Then: "They'll be along shortly, don't fret." She seemed to be listening for something distant, then took a breath, picked up the tea that had been set out for her, and straightened in her seat.

Grayson turned to the door, hearing nothing at first. Then came the steady thump of people down the hallway, the drone of muted conversation. Marigold looked sidelong at Alexia with a conspiratorial grin. "Game faces on, then."

Alexia rolled her eyes slightly, smiling in amusement. She sipped her tea, then said, "Always, Auntie. Someone once told me a good poker-face is a necessary survival tool."

The footsteps grew louder, and the door to the parlor creaked open. Alexander Ashford appeared, lit from behind by the greasy light of a kerosene sconce. "Marigold? We weren't sure when to expect you, with the weather as it is."

Marigold seemed to suppress a smirk. "What, that little spatter? Heathrow would have a time of it if that were enough to ground flights." She sipped her tea. "You're looking well, little brother."

Alexander waved away the comment and moved to take a chair. Quietly, Marigold cleared her throat before he could sit, then snapped the fingers of her free hand to point to the tray. Grayson glanced nervously at his dad. He hadn't done anything wrong here. Scott caught the look and shook his head a little with a small smile.

The two elder siblings glared at each other a moment longer before Alexander relented, and helped himself to a small plate. Marigold simply raised her eyebrows at him, glaring until he started to tuck in. Then she sighed and looked at her tea. "You've been forgetting to eat again." It wasn't a question.

Alexander cleared his throat, changed the subject. "Scott said you brought the samples up from the driveway? You didn't need to do that."

Marigold laughed. "Why not? They would have wilted in the car, and it wasn't a bother. How do you think I got them across the bloody moor?" She glanced back at Scott, then back to Alexander. "Anything else would have been an unnecessary risk."

"Still, someone could have—" Alexander cut himself off as if second-guessing himself, then shook his head. "No, I suppose you're right."

A moment later, Alfred made his way into the room, bee-lining toward Marigold—pointedly ignoring Grayson, who just shrugged from his place by the wall, and gave Alexia one of those what're-you-going-to-do looks.

"Aunt Callie!" beamed Alfred, throwing his arms around Marigold in a tight hug. Marigold seemed to freeze for a brief second before giving him a gentle pat on the back with a fond little smile. He, like Alexia, was dressed like some sheltered church-kid in an argyle sweater and black slacks. All he needed was a cow-lick, thought Grayson, and the dweeb-look would be complete. "Sorry I took so long," said Alfred, drawing back to look at Marigold. He leveled a scowl at Grayson, and said, "I had to clean up after bloody King Kong over there."

Grayson feigned innocence, and his dad looked just about ready to throttle him. He knew he'd hear it later, and probably be stuck with bathroom duty. He stuck his tongue out at Alfred once his dad wasn't looking, then pretended to not have moved at all when his dad turned to scrutinize him again. "So help me, Grayson," he heard his dad mutter under his breath, "if you don't shape up, you'll be cleaning toilets with a toothbrush."

Knew that was coming, Grayson thought. His dad knew how much he hated cleaning the bathrooms. And without his Walkman, it would be an even more miserable experience than it already was.

"Go top off their drinks," his dad instructed, and he gave him a stern shove in the direction of the Ashfords.

Grayson stumbled slightly, caught himself. His dad shot him one of those no-nonsense looks, and he quickly hurried over to the Ashfords at a pace just slightly below a power-walk. Alfred was quick to make demands: "Get me a bloody tea, Grayson—and don't overdo it with the sugar."

Alexia bristled, shot her brother a venomous look. "Alfred," she warned, her voice stiletto-sharp.

Alfred shied a little, and plopped down beside Marigold on the sofa. Alexander said nothing about his son's conduct, which didn't surprise Grayson; most days, he doubted Alexander even remembered that he lived here. Grayson topped off their teas (and snuck Alexia a few cookies while the adults weren't paying attention), and Alexander said to Marigold, "This is your first time meeting Grayson, isn't it?" He darted a look at Grayson, who smiled awkwardly, before fixing his eyes on Marigold. "Not a bad lad," he said. "He has potential, at the very least."

Marigold sneezed twice, and Grayson blinked. "Can—" he glanced back at his dad, who furiously shook his head and mouthed may, kiddo, not can—"may I get you a tissue, Ms. Ashford?"

"No…no, that's not necessary," Marigold replied, politely waving him off and holding back another sneeze. "Just allergies, I suppose." She darted a questioning look at Alexia, who was looking back at her sidelong in a way Grayson associated with Ashfords and secrets. Marigold huffed a little, then produced a handkerchief to dab at her nose while turning to say to Alexander, "I'd half-wondered if you'd had another one in my absence, little brother."

Alexander snorted in amusement, and said, "No, hardly. He's Scott's boy." He regarded Grayson for a moment, who straightened up and tried his best—and barely managed—to look professional. "They look alike, don't they?"

"No," said Alfred, from his place beside Marigold, "Grayson looks like a bloody gorilla."

Grayson fought the urge to drag Alfred off the couch and pop him in the nose. He just smiled, sardonically. "Yeah, well, guess evolution skipped me over," he told him. "I live in a cave under the house, too. Just like my ancestors."

"Grayson," hissed his dad, from by the wall.

"And, you know," continued Grayson, ignoring his dad's implied threat, "sometimes I just like to fling my-"

"Grayson," snapped his father, making his way over and looking absolutely mortified. "Forgive my son's rudeness," he said to Alexander and Marigold, taking Grayson by the ear and twisting. Grayson yelped. It didn't hurt exactly, but it didn't feel great either—having his ear corkscrewed between his dad's thumb and finger as if he were tightening a wingnut. "I'll take this one back to his room."

Marigold had pinched the bridge of her nose, seemingly nursing a headache. "Not that I don't appreciate the boarding school flashback, but I wonder if everyone could just settle down for a moment?"

His dad looked back sharply, letting go of his ear. She hadn't raised her voice. There had been a slight edge to her words, but Alexia—fuck, everyone who lived here—wielded sharp words as readily as the messer duelists she'd liked to watch.

Which begged the question: why had everyone in the room frozen as if she had just pulled out a loaded gun?

Marigold glanced up, then grimaced, slowly setting down her teacup. The clink of china seemed to break the tension. She very carefully set her hands back in her lap, like she was afraid of breaking something. "Sorry…it was a very long flight." The twins had both shrank back from her, just a little.

Alexander, however, seemed unperturbed, and he waited for the moment to pass before he asked, "Are the symptoms worse?"

"They're…progressing," Marigold said a little mulishly, looking askance at him with hands balled in loose little fists in her lap. "We can go over those later—no, we should. I might want to set up a Teig O'Kane protocol for next year."

Alexander seemed to want to argue, but sidestepped the request. "Still on with the folklore?"

"The folklore is useful, and it makes encoding information easy. Don't think I haven't heard about those dusty old natural history journals the elders were always pouring over."

"I think we can arrange something," said Alexander, with a nod. He polished off his tea, then set the cup on the saucer. "Shouldn't we move the pots to the laboratory first, however?" He tipped a knowing look at his sister.

The Ashfords, Grayson thought, seemed to have their own language, one made of looks instead of words. Made things feel a little Jonestown, Grayson decided—like there was some weird cult-shit going down in the house. Or they were all secretly a bunch of cannibals. The Ashford Chainsaw Massacre. Absently, he wondered, of the four Ashfords, who would play Leatherface? He looked at Alfred. Yep.

"Grayson, you look like you want to say something," said Alexia, watching him with an expression that both said she did and didn't want to hear whatever it was he wanted to say.

"Hey, Alfred," said Grayson, "how do you feel about chainsaws?"

Alfred blinked, exchanged exasperated looks with his sister. Then, "Can we fire him? Please?"

"No," said Alexia, "we're not going to fire him. Even if he drives me bloody mad sometimes."

Alexander shook his head. "Hardly her call to make," he remarked, ignoring the scowl Alexia gave him. But when she wouldn't stop scowling at him, Alexander heaved a sigh of resignation, and looked at her. "We're not going to fire anyone, sweetheart. Goodness." Then he returned his gaze to Marigold, and said, "Did you need any help with those pots, or do you have a handle on it, Marigold?"

"It's best if they have some time to settle after that trip, in the open air," Marigold allowed. "Do you mind if I take some time to go for a run before then? It looks like there's been some work done down around the track."

"On the Matilda, I take it? That's fine." Alexander stood up and smoothed his tie, mostly out of habit than anything else. Grayson had never seen a single wrinkle on the guy's suits, because his dad was a zealot when it came to good dry-cleaning. Alexander fiddled with his beard, and glanced over at his dad and said, "Scott, get the gate for Marigold, will you? I'll be down in the laboratory."

Alfred mumbled, "Father's been down there all bloody week."

Marigold stood, and gave Alfred a gentle pat on the shoulder. "Sorry, Crow. That's a little bit my fault. There's a lot to do to get ready for the move next year, and we both want to make sure it's as safe as possible if I'm to come along. That means some extra work ahead of time." She glanced around at the three kids and grinned. "I could use a few spotters out there once I've got this settled. I haven't run the course in an age, and I think I might be able to add a new skip point on this trip." She started to follow his dad out of the parlor, calling over her shoulder, "Make sure your friend knows the rules!"

Grayson frowned, watching Marigold and Alexander go. What's so important about a bunch of dumb pots? He looked at Alexia who, as if reading his mind (but more likely just reading his face), said, "Don't concern yourself with it, Grayson. It's not your place."

He wrinkled his nose. "Now you sound like your dad."

Alexia glared at him.

"Sorry," he said, defensively.

"That's not how I meant it, and you know that," she said, in the sort of fussy tone his dad often adopted whenever Grayson was getting on his last nerve. "Just mind yourself when it comes to Auntie Marigold's business." She leaned toward him, peering at him as if he were a criminal she was attempting to profile. Then she added, "I know how you are."

"Aren't you just the teensiest bit curious?" he asked her.

"You heard what my dear sister said, you slope-browed neanderthal," said Alfred, puffing up like an angry blowfish. "Stay out of Aunt Callie's business!"

Grayson, now that the adults had cleared the parlor (his dad had cleared away the dishes and taken them back to the kitchen), put Alfred in a headlock. Alfred scrabbled and pulled at his arms, but Grayson was bigger and stronger than him; he made it a point to remind Alfred of that whenever the opportunity presented itself. "Call me a slope-browed neanderthal one more time," he warned, grinding his knuckles, hard, into Alfred's soft scalp, "and I'll do worse than give you a noogie."

"Grayson, let him go!" snapped Alexia. "Stop throwing your bloody weight around. You're acting like a troglodyte."

Grayson let Alfred go, and Alfred rubbed his scalp with a wince, pinpricks of tears in the corners of his eyes. "Stop crying," said Grayson. "You're acting like a little baby. It was just a noogie."

"And you're acting like a bully," said Alexia, and she shoved him. "Leave my brother alone."

"He started it!"

"You're twice his size! Just bloody ignore him," said Alexia, bristling. She turned to Alfred, straightened him out. Alfred sniffled and wiped his eyes, and glared knives at Grayson. Then she asked, "Are you all right, Alfred?"

"I'm fine," said Alfred, stiffly. He stalked out of the room, slammed the door shut behind him.

Alexia turned to Grayson. "You," she said, stabbing a finger into the middle of his chest, "are a bloody arsehole."

"If Alfred would stop calling me names all the time, maybe he wouldn't get noogied."

"You are twice his size," she repeated, her voice coming out like a scrape. "Stop it, Grayson. Stop letting words get under your skin. You're not a child."

"I'm thirteen!"

"And I'm eleven! Your age isn't an excuse for your immaturity."

"You don't count," he argued. "You're a super genius. You're not a normal kid."

That rankled Alexia; Grayson could see it, plain as day, on her face. Before he could get the first to syllables of an apology out of his mouth, Alexia was already halfway across the parlor.

"Lex!"

She slammed the door on him, and Grayson sighed. "Man," he said to himself, sulking, "I didn't mean to—crap."

His dad came back into the parlor, probably to collect him. He thumbed toward the door, and said, "I just saw the twins heading out to the Matilda. They looked angry." Then his dad gave him a disappointed look, as if Grayson had just handed him a bad report card. "What the heck did you do, Grayson?"

"Nothing—forget it," he said.

"Don't take that tone with me, Grayson Rainer Harman."

Grayson grimaced at hearing his middle-name out loud, and said, "Sorry, sir."

"That's better. Now tell me what happened."

He hesitated, then told his dad. When he finished, his dad was rubbing at his face in frustration. "Alfred called me a neanderthal, dad. What was I supposed to do? Just take it?"

His dad's hands dropped away from his face, hanging at his sides. "Yes, Grayson," he said, looking very tired and very old all of a sudden. "Alfred is my employer's son. You could have handled it without putting your hands on him."

"Alfred doesn't listen unless I put my hands on him."

"Grayson, do you understand what sort of trouble you and I can get into if you hurt Alfred?"

"Why would you get in trouble? You're not putting your hands on him."

"But I'm your father, and the Ashfords expect me to keep a firm handle on you," he said. "You're getting out of control. Ever since you had that growth spurt and put on some muscle, you think you're untouchable. You're not, kiddo. You keep this behavior up, I could lose my job—or worse."

Grayson blinked. "Worse?"

"You don't—Umbrella, it's a complicated situation."

"What does Umbrella have to do with anything?"

"It has everything to do with it, Grayson. Just, please, temper your behavior."

Grayson frowned. "Fine," he said, "I'll try."

"Don't try. Do," said his dad. "Now I have to speak to Alexander and Marigold. Alfred will have told them what happened by now." He stopped in the doorway for a moment, turned to him. "If you don't shape up soon, kiddo, then think of it this way: you won't be seeing Alexia anymore."

Watching his dad go, Grayson felt a pang of guilt in his chest. Alexander probably wouldn't do much—this hadn't been Grayson's first scuffle with Alfred—but he wasn't sure how the aunt would take the news. Marigold was the older sibling, which probably meant she wielded more power in the family than Alexander did, and maybe she could fire his dad, and then they'd be homeless and he wouldn't see Alexia anymore. Fuck, Grayson thought, chewing on his bottom lip. I screwed up, didn't I?