Alfred filled him in on what had happened. Rockfort had been attacked by the H.C.F, and at some point during the assault the T-Virus had leaked into the compound. This, Alfred continued, had happened not too long after Claire Redfield had been hauled in by Captain Rodrigo Juan Raval, a member of the USS who had, at the time, been stationed at the Paris Lab. In a desperate bid to take the H.C.F out, as well as Claire Redfield (who Alfred still insisted was a saboteur) and any evidence of the goings-on in the prison, Alfred triggered the self-destruct protocol in the labs where Umbrella manufactured BOWs used in the U.S.S and U.B.C.S training programs.

"Most of the prison is destroyed," Alfred told him, wiping the make-up off his face with the damp washcloth Grayson had provided him. He poured himself a whiskey from the crystal decanter on the coffee-table.

"But some people survived and, for whatever fucking reason, you thought it was a brilliant move to ship them to Antarctica. And some of them were infected, and now they've brought it here."

"This place is finished anyway," said Alfred, watching him over the lip of his glass. Grayson wondered when Alfred had last slept: his skin was an unhealthy pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes. "Spencer was going to shut the facility down, Grayson. 'Not cost-effective', the old man says, and now that the T-Virus is here, he needs no further justification to blow this place sky-high—we are officially a biohazard." Alfred took a measured swallow of his whiskey, then, sucking his teeth, said, "I had no choice but to send them here. They boarded the planes, and I couldn't let them escape. So yes, I think it was a perfectly brilliant move."

"And what if they contact someone over the radio?" he asked. "The power came back on, didn't it? They could do it."

"Who would they contact, Grayson? We use VHF radio here. It's short-range. And they're bloody criminals."

"What about the satphones?"

"Should the weather clear up enough to use them, this facility will be gone by the time a response is organized." Alfred finished his whiskey in one long gulp, then said, "This facility is doomed, chap, now that the T-Virus is here. But my beloved sister is awake—we can leave after we've taken care of Redfield."

"Alfred, come on."

"Don't 'come on' me," snapped Alfred, setting his empty glass on the table.

Grayson paced in front of the fireplace, the flames crackling and sputtering behind the ornate Victorian firescreen. The room was cozily lit, and smelled of applewood. Hard to imagine that, just beyond the mansion, there were zombies roaming the hallways. "Who was that kid with Claire?" he asked, looking over at Alfred. "Young guy with red hair."

"That would be Steve Burnside," said Alfred, crossing his legs in that old-man way of his, pinpricks of firelight catching in his eyes.

Grayson nodded. "The one with the dad who stole the data.

"That's the one."

"Have you seen Donald McNally at all, Alfred?"

"That bloody jock? No, I haven't." Alfred narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"He took something. Data," said Grayson. "Off the computer in the stasis room."

"Another useless sod who needs their skull ventilated. He can't have gone far. There's no way out of here until February, and the facility will be nothing but rubble by then." Alfred fixed himself another whiskey, then polished it off and added, "Besides, there's a good chance he's already turned. Most of the staff has."

"But there's gotta be some survivors," said Grayson. "The lights came back on."

"There are some. Guards, prisoners, researchers, inexperienced techs." He said that last part with particular disdain, and rubbed at his face, obviously tired and trying his best to stay awake. "They're the whole bloody reason we're having problems with the power in the first place. There was a coolant leak that overheated the generators and sparked an electrical fire." Alfred frowned deeply, then said, "Those fucking muppets don't know how to do their bloody jobs."

"Something you share in common with them," said Alexia, stepping into the room. Her hair was neatly brushed, and the dragonfly barrette—its filigreed wing restored—glittered in the firelight above her right temple. She wore a dark violet dress that looked very similar to Alfred's, but it was obvious hers had actually been tailored for a woman. It looked old, and Grayson suspected it had been the template for Alfred's Alexia-dress. On Alexia's throat, fixed to an antique choker, was a ruby, gleaming like a fat drop of fresh blood. Smiling at him, she asked, "How do I look, Grayson?"

"Like the chick from Titanic."

Alexia blinked. "Did you mean to say I look like a woman from the Titanic? And by that, I suppose you mean I look Edwardian." She beamed proudly, then said, "Funnily enough, the dress is Edwardian. It belonged to my great-grandmother. I always admired it—and now it finally fits me."

"I mean, yeah, I guess? But that's not what I meant."

"I don't understand," said Alexia.

"He's referencing a horribly saccharine movie. The actress wore a similar dress," said Alfred, helpfully. He stood up and strode over to Alexia, arms spread, smiling like a yes-man. "You look absolutely radiant, dear sister. You would make our great-grandmother proud."

"I haven't forgiven you," said Alexia, withdrawing from Alfred with a scowl. "You're only alive because of Grayson, you bellend."

Alfred stopped short, his hands dropping to his sides. He looked like a lost, hurt child. "I see," he said, quietly. "Alexia—"

"I almost lost Grayson to another woman because of you," interrupted Alexia, the words dripping from her mouth like venom. "And why is that, Alfred?" She waited for him to answer, to tell her why, and when Alfred didn't, Alexia sneered, "I realize incest is very much a cultural institution among us European nobles, but some traditions are best left to die, brother ."

"I'm sorry, Alexia," said Alfred, after a moment. He was looking past her, at the wall, his features composed in a look of resignation. "I never meant"— he hesitated, then switched course—"I wanted to be the first to see you again," and he glared knives at Grayson. "He's already stolen so much from me. I wanted that one bloody thing, and he took even that from me."

"I," said Alexia, watching her brother with an icy look, "am not a thing. Things are stolen, and for something to be stolen, it has to belong to someone. I never belonged to you, Alfred." She stepped closer to Alfred, her demeanor curdling with every step. "Get that through your thick fucking skull," continued Alexia, never quite breaking the frigid tension of her voice. "You may be my twin, my blood, but that is where our relationship ends. This insistence of wanting more is growing wearisome. You are my brother. You are not my lover." She halted beside Grayson, taking his arm. "That honor is his."

Alfred set his jaw and lifted his chin, trying to preserve what little dignity Alexia had left him. "I don't understand what you see in him," he said evenly, nostrils flaring. "Grayson is a mutt, Alexia. Has our family truly sunk so low that you would choose him," and he gestured at Grayson, "over me?"

"This American mutt saved your ass," Grayson reminded him. "You're welcome, by the way."

Alfred ignored him, his eyes on Alexia.

"You are my brother, Alfred," said Alexia, and left it at that. Unhooking herself from Grayson's arm, she took his hand and started to pull him toward the door. "Let's get you cleaned up, Grayson. You look proper rank."

Alfred didn't follow them as they stepped out of the drawing room and made their way down the hallway, the floorboards creaking underneath them. Then Grayson said, "He needed to hear that."

"He did," agreed Alexia.

"When were you gonna tell me there were zombies here?" he asked, and looked at her. "Ms. I-Know-Everything-That-Happens-In-This-Facility."

"I didn't want to alarm you."

"I was in Raccoon City," said Grayson, and then he remembered Alexia didn't know anything about Raccoon City and what had happened there, and he was sorry he'd mentioned it. Now Alexia would want him to remember things he'd prefer forgetting. He braced himself.

She peered at him. "You mentioned it was gone," she said. "So it happened, didn't it? An outbreak."

"Yeah," he said, surprised. "How'd you know?"

"Predictive simulations," she said. "It's how Umbrella prepares for biohazard responses and contingencies. Raccoon City was always a dormant volcano, and now it's Pompeii."

"Yeah," he said, "I remember Annette mentioning something about that." Before he even realized the words had left his mouth, Alexia was staring, very intently, at him. Grayson mentally kicked himself, hating his big fucking mouth. The lid was off Pandora's box, and all he could do now was weather the consequences.

"Annette," she repeated, squeezing his arm hard enough that Grayson could feel it going numb. "Was that her name? The other woman."

Grayson rubbed the space between his eyes. "Yeah," he said, "it—fuck, that hurts. Please stop wringing the sensation outta my arm."

Alexia apologized and relaxed her grip. "Why does that name sound so bloody familiar?" She stopped to think, realization unfolding on her face like a slow origami trick. Then, "Oh, God. That mousy plain Jane from Arklay?" She looked both astounded and utterly amused, as if he'd just told her a clever joke. "The junior researcher who was working with William, back when I was consulting on that project with Henry Sarton. The one who looked like she was always a twitch away from a nervous breakdown. That Annette?"

"Yeah," he said, "that Annette."

"She was a decade older than you!"

"Six years," he corrected, swallowing the lump in his throat. "She was six years older than me. Can we not talk about this, Lex?"

Alexia, however, was relentless. "Wasn't she dating William?"

"She married him. Stop, please."

She stared at him, astonished. Then she erupted into laughter, and said, "You cucked William Birkin?"

"Alexia, fucking get off it."

"Oh, God, I'm not even mad anymore. I'm bloody proud," she said between laughs, her face turning the same shade of red as the antique wallpaper. She leaned against the wainscoting to keep herself from falling over, guffawing until her cheeks were wet with tears. "That's absolutely brilliant," she wheezed, dabbing at her eyes with a silk-gloved finger. "You cuckolded William Birkin. That is absolutely brilliant—oh God, my sides hurt."

Grayson strode off ahead of her, saying nothing, his whole body tensing with anger.

"Grayson!" she called after him. "Come now, don't be such a sourpuss."

He closed the bathroom door on her, undressed, and stepped into the shower. Grayson fiddled with the knobs, ignoring Alexia's muffled apologies on the other side of the door. Hot water sprayed his chest, clouding the tiny room with steam.

Reaching behind him, Grayson probed, experimentally, for the wound he'd gotten from the hibernaculum's door, and then he twisted around to inspect it; but the flesh had already healed. He washed himself, heard the door creak open, then close.

"Grayson," said Alexia, on the other side of the shower curtain, "I didn't mean to hurt you." He could see the translucent shape of her through the curtain. She sat down on the toilet lid, waiting for him to say something.

"It's fine," he grunted.

"It hardly sounds fine." The creep of awkward silence, the hiss of the shower. Then Alexia said, "You said you'd almost had a child with her? With Annette."

"Why does it matter, Lex?"

"I haven't seen you for fifteen years. I'm curious."

"Last year," he said. "It was a miscarriage. Her second trimester." He paused, then asked coldly, "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"And did William—"

"He thought it was his," answered Grayson, rinsing the suds off his skin. "It was better that way. Just until they finished their project. Annette served him divorce papers the night before he died." He paused, then corrected, "The night before he mutated."

Alexia didn't say anything for a long time. Then, "Her daughter knew about the affair?"

"I hate that word," he said, even if it was true, it had been an affair. But it had never felt like one; affairs happened because people were bored, and his relationship with Annette had been so much more than that. "Sherry was a smart kid," he told her. "She figured it all out before Annette even told her."

"Where is Sherry now?" asked Alexia.

"I dunno," he said. "The last time I saw her was outside the room Annette had died in, down in NEST. I handed her off to this girl, a college kid named Claire Redfield." He turned off the water, then said, "Claire really helped me and Sherry out, back in Raccoon. I could trust her to get Sherry somewhere safe."

"The girl who shot Alfred in the leg," said Alexia.

Grayson stepped out of the shower. Alexia's eyes drifted down to his flaccid cock, and stayed there. She bit her lip (Grayson loved the way she did that), absently twirling a pale lock of hair around her forefinger. "Quit ogling, you perv," he chuckled, wrapping a towel around his waist. Then he said, "So you heard that? About Claire."

"Also about Donald," said Alexia, prying her gaze loose and forcing it up to his face. She trailed a finger along the line of her clavicle, her pink lips curling into a smirk. "Can you blame me for ogling? I bet you constantly have women rubbernecking—and now you're mine."

"Way to make me feel like meat," he teased, and they walked out into the corridor. "You don't sound too worried about Don."

"Why should I be? Alfred already told you: we're a biohazard. This place is finished."

"Aren't you even a little upset?" he asked, looking at her. "This was our home."

"And we'll find a much nicer one in a much more temperate climate," Alexia assured him, slipping her arm around the tapered trunk of his midsection.

"Already making plans?"

She grinned up at him, and leaned into his arm, pressing a cheek against the bulge of his bicep. "I am," she said.

"You know," he said, as he opened the door to his bedroom, "I like you like this."

"Like what?"

"Just… like this," he said, and kissed the top of her head.

An empty whiskey bottle rolled away from him as they stepped inside, and Grayson sheepishly began gathering up his trash (mostly bottles) and depositing them into the bin by his TV set. Then he went to his closet where his dad, presumably when he'd heard Grayson had agreed to take over for him as the butler, had hung up several three-piece suits still in the dry-cleaner's plastic. His dad had always harped on him about his lack of a professional wardrobe, and so he'd taken it upon himself to correct that problem. He changed into a charcoal Italian suit, then combed his hair in the mirror.

"It's absolutely disgusting how well you clean up," said Alexia, her reflection studying him with a pleased look.

"You used to like my Rob Lowe hair and badged-up denim."

"When you were fifteen and I was thirteen, certainly. But we're adults now." Then Alexia cast a look around his room and said, "Can't say your room cleans up as well as you, however." She toed aside an empty beer bottle he'd missed, wrinkling her nose.

"Yeah," he said, ashamed. He picked up the bottle and chucked it into the bin with a loud clink. "Not really proud of it." Then Grayson shifted the subject: "You know everything that happens in this facility, right?"

She gave him an odd look. "Yes. Why?"

"Any idea where we can find Don?"

"Strangely enough," said Alexia, "I don't have the vaguest clue."

"But you said you knew everything that happened here."

"I can tell you when people are moving around and how many, yes, but I'm not the bloody Eye of Sauron."

"So if someone was standing really still or moving as little as possible, you wouldn't know they're there?"

Alexia thought about that, then said, "No, I suppose not. The hyphae's mechanoreceptors rely on touch and movement, and chemotropism is useless unless they brush up against said hyphae."

"Why's that?"

"Everyone has a unique bacterial microbiome on their skin," said Alexia. "Think of it as taking their fingerprints when they brush up against the hyphae. It makes it much easier to track them."

"You think Don's just being real careful?"

"That," said Alexia, "or he's bunkered down somewhere I'm not looking."

"So you don't know everything that goes on here," he said.

"I know enough," she said, indignantly.

"One other question, Lex."

Alexia sighed. "What is it?"

"How long do we got until the place blows?"

"Technically, not until I activate the self-destruct protocol," she said. "But if I take too long—it was designed that way, should the facility head die in a biohazard—Spencer can remotely activate the dead man's switch via satellite."

"What's your best estimate?" he asked.

Alexia shrugged. "A week at most. There's a process even Spencer has to follow. The Board has to vote on the motion, and if the majority is in favor, then the facility is gone."

"If they vote against it?"

"They'd send a clean-up detail to clear out and salvage the facility before stocking it with fresh bodies. But that won't happen." She frowned, then said, "As much as it pains me to admit it, this facility hasn't produced any noteworthy research since my grandfather's day. As it stands, this place is a money-sink."

"Why not put your research forward?"

"Because I don't want this bloody shithole anymore," said Alexia. "This place was Alexander's legacy and Alfred's mistake. It won't be either of those things for me."

For some reason, hearing her talk like that about their childhood home bothered him. He sat down on the edge of his bed, looking at her. "Where're we gonna go?" he asked.

"Personally," said Alexia, "I'm eyeing NEST-3 in Arklay City, where I can continue my work with the T-Veronica. My grandfather built a home near there, a year before Spencer's mansion was completed." She sat down beside him and squeezed his knee. "We'll be fine, Grayson. I promise."