He'll Never Tell (Parts 1-13 of...?)

[TheCakeIsAlive]

Ooh, lovely story. I do love your historic fiction Scion. Thank you for sharing.

[Scion]

Galaxy: Ugh, I seriously wish I could hug you right now! I love that you love Jones and Cora. Makes my life. Seeeriously. Would it be really weird/creepy if I said, THANK YOU for existing? LOL. You're awesome, is basically what that translates to, in non-creepy terms!!! Many, many virtual hugs!

Emily: Bahaha, and I love the fact that you always know what's gonna happen...even though you probably don't love that fact very much. Muahaha. I gotta have my sob stories. I'm addicted to them. Hah, autographing session. Perhaps. I may have snagged an agent, finally, but we'll see! And thank you for commenting! I LOVE IT.

Sigrith: Aw, thank you so much! I'm glad you like my historical stuff. It can be so fun to write.

Part Six:

London, England, 1880

“If you’ve caught cold, I’d prefer you keep out of the kitchen,” Edwin said to his brother, who was dabbing at his nose with his handkerchief.

“He makes a fair point,” Justina agreed. She’d changed into an absurd dress of bright purple and ruffles that made her look positively laughable.

“My lord is of course completely correct. I admit to having questionable judgment under the majority of circumstances,” Jones intoned, his expression eerily dead. “Please, accept my humble apologizes and allow me to take my leave.”

After Edwin nodded, Jones swept from the kitchen, leaving Cora alone to split her glare between Edwin and his sister. She was definitely re-thinking her earlier assessment of Justina; the woman clearly had a brain the size of a single rat dropping.

“As a guest in your home,” Cora said tightly, anger burning in her chest, “I feel obligated to be gratefully cordial toward you. But I assure you I’d rather not.” As Edwin and Justina made fish-faces at her, she set off after Jones.

- - -

Jones banged on the door again, vowing to have the hide of every single servant in the household, including Boggs himself. The man had to learn that butler did not equate to Master of the House.

It had been foolish of Jones to stay out so late. He’d known what would happen. And it was damned cold outside, too!

He bashed on the door some more with bruising force, feeling no pain in his injured hand. Feeling nothing at all, save a mild sense of annoyance. He needed to see Cora. She could fix that. “OPEN THE DOOR, YOU OLD COOT!” he roared, fury welling up inside him from seemingly out of nowhere. The torture would never end! Year after year, month after month, day after day he suffered. And for what?

The door opened and the old coot himself appeared. He peered at Jones through rheumy eyes, his wrinkled face scrunched up in a frown. “His lordship is not seeing visitors at such a late hour,” he said in his hoarse, creaky voice.

Then he shut the door in Jones’ face.

Resigned, he sat down on the steps and rested his head in his hands and didn’t bother lifting it even as his nose alerted him to an oncoming sneeze. He was simply too exhausted to move. The sneeze happened slowly, and the effort it expended was enough to leave him panting for oxygen. “Hhh…hmmKUSSHyuuu!”

“Good evening, sir.”

Jones opened his eyes to see an older man with gray hair and a large potbelly staring down at him He had wiry eyebrows that seemed to jump off his face, and nose hairs long enough to serve as broom-bristles.

“Good evening,” Jones returned flatly. “What can I do for you?”

The man’s fishy eyes grew conspiratorial. “As it happens, I’m on a search for my betrothed. Her name is Cora Grove. She’s a tall, elegant beauty. Dark hair, stunning blue eyes. Graceful walk.” He made a sighing sound, as if just recalling her gave him pleasure. “She’s a bit rough around the edges, I admit, but a little time with me will cure that right up!”

Jones felt vaguely ill. No one would be curing Cora. Not even Jones himself. “I’m afraid I’ve not seen anyone of that description,” he intoned.

The man looked skeptical. “I do assure you she is quite difficult to miss.”

Jones nearly groaned. The man hadn’t even introduced himself and he expected Jones to give up the one person in the world who seemed to care about him the slightest amount?

“I have not seen her.”

“Well.” After blustering for a moment, the man relented, “Fine, then. But if you do see her, please alert me immediately. She could be in grave danger.”

He handed Jones a card with the name Albert Litchfield, Lord Weatherford printed across it.

“Of course,” Jones lied smoothly. He summoned a smile to his lips. “You have my word as a gentleman.”

Mollified, the man nodded. “Thank you, Mr…?”

“Jones.”

“Mr. Jones.” With another nod, the man clip-clopped away into the night.

“That was mildly ominous,” he muttered to himself.

Brief seconds passed…then, with his face cradled between his palms, he fell into a feverish sleep.

- - -

Silly man, Cora thought for the thousandth time that night as she lay beneath the covers, fidgeting about. Absolutely insufferable!

He was probably out right now scavenging for women. The cad.

There was a soft knock on her door. For a moment she thought--hoped--it was Jones, but then the voice spoke.

“Ain’t meanin’ ter disturb yew, ma’am, but we ‘ave a problem,” Til said. He sounded on edge. “Milord…Jones ain’t come ‘ome yet, and I fear summins may be amiss.”

Cora scoffed, but got out of bed all the same. “Is it unusual for him to be out at this hour?” she inquired as she started to dress herself.

“Yes, quite!” the boy replied.

Still not entirely convinced, Cora joined Til out in the hallway. “Well, what’s to be done, then? Scour the local brothels?”

Til blushed. “Certainly not, ma’am.”

She poised her hands on her hips. “Well, what then?”

When he didn’t answer, she let out a frustrated huff and stalked off toward the main entrance. She would find Jones all right, and when she did…she was going to give him a very large piece of her mind!

“Ma’am?” The butler materialized in front of her, blocking her path.

“Oh, do get out of my way!” she snapped. She didn’t like the man, didn’t like the way he looked down his hooked nose at Jones. She would not show him the slightest courtesy. Smirking at the old man’s appalled expression, she stormed past him and out the door.

She nearly tripped over a man’s prone form. Til, who was right behind her, steadied her with a hand to her elbow.

“Jones?” Cora regarded the man at her feet, wondering if perhaps she was seeing things. She’d been so certain she’d find him fast asleep with some poxy strumpet, that finding him here seemed utter madness.

Addled, she knelt next to him. He was slumped across the steps, facedown. As fear shivered through her, she placed a hand on his head. He was probably just asleep, she reasoned. Nothing to worry about. “Jones?” she said, unable to disguise her fright.

When he twitched and made a little coughing sound, she nearly wept in joyous relief.

“Milord?” Til crouched beside her, concern knotting his brows. “Wot ‘appened? Why yew out ‘ere?”

As Jones began to sit up, Cora helped, placing a hand on each of his shoulders. He listed into her, eyes fluttering. “Ms. … Grove?” came his husky whisper.

“Yes!” she blurted, absurdly happy. She went to brush the hair back from his face, but her fingers paused on his fiery forehead. Apprehension surfaced. “You’re too warm,” she tutted. She sought out his injured hand, which he had cradled to his chest.

“Hhh…” Brows scrunching together, Jones tried to blink the moisture from his eyes. His mouth opened just a hint as he inhaled unsteadily through flaring nostrils. He floundered around a moment, and--unable to help herself--Cora reached into his pocket, sliding her hand over his chest, to pass him his handkerchief.

He lifted it to his face, issued a subdued “ih’kfshh! Hhh.” As he lightly swiped his nose, she took a closer look at his hand. It looked no better than she remembered. If anything, it seemed worse, a deep shade of red, the skin horribly blistered near the base of his pinky finger.

She winced in sympathy. “You should let me treat this. Let’s go in and you can rest while I fix you right up. Does that sound okay?”

His haunted eyes burned her as he murmured, “Are you going to let me in this time, then?” in a small, almost childlike voice.

What? Cora frowned, worry seizing her by the throat. “Of course we’re going to let you in,” she soothed, running a hand down his arm.

“Truly?” His gaze pleaded with her. “No more laughs at my expense?”

She stared, taking in his hooded eyes, so blue and so awfully tired, so sad, and his pale, sweat-beaded skin. His hair was mussed, slightly damp. Still, she couldn’t deny he was beautiful. Or that she wanted to kiss him.

On second thought, she could probably deny that last bit.

“Truly,” she said, locking stares with him. “It’s your home, Kit.”

He laughed bitterly, resting his forehead on her shoulder. “It’s not my home, Ms. Grove. It hasn’t been for a very long time.”

It angered her that he felt that way. She made a mental note to give both Edwin and Justina a piece of her mind. “Come now,” she exclaimed, for lack of anything better to say. “That can’t be true.”

He appeared about to sneeze again, brows coiling together in anticipation. He caught his nose between his fingers and she felt his entire body shudder. “tCHhumpphh! Hhh…mKtsh!’uh ” He sighed, rubbed his eyes. “I’m weary. I think I should like to sleep now. For a fortnight. Possibly longer. Can that be arranged?”

Heart melting, Cora said, “Of course. You’re ill. You need rest.” Though hopefully not a fortnight’s worth of it!

She and Til helped him to stand, guided him into the house and up to his chamber.

All the while, Cora fretted. His condition did not look good.

- - -

As terror slammed into him, Cully squeezed his eyes shut and shouted, “They’re going ter kill us! Wot’s the point of bein’ rescued only ter die!?” He felt a whap to his head, and peeked open one eyes to see Rex glaring up at him as he ran, his face a purplish red in color as though he were about to have a fit.

“Don’t yew say that, yew little ninny! Yew ain’t dyin’!--at least not terday!” He hacked up a lung, then hollered, “But I just might!”

“Quiet, the pair of you!” Evans growled, dodging a wobbly-legged working girl who leered at him with teeth the color of aged cheese. “You trying to get us caught, or what?”

Cully flinched. “No, sir! Sorry, sir!” He was starting to feel as if he might pass out from the sensation of being rocked back and forth from his perch on Evans’ shoulder.

The jailers would be on them soon, Cully knew, and the thought was so terrifying he almost lost control of his bladder. Again. Pathetic.

Evans took a sharp left, sprinted for a good minute, then shot another left. Cully glanced over to check on Rex, and the fear already strangling him tripled.

His old friend was clearly unwell, sweat raining down his temples, coating his neck. And, even though Cully himself was being jounced rudely about, he could tell Rex was shaking. Badly. His raven-dark hair lay plastered to his brow, and his lips were snowy white. The freckles on his face were nearly hidden by a deep flush. He looked about to collapse.

Moments later…he did.

- - -

And, um, so you know, comments motivate me to write more. Just saying.

[BlueGirl]

I'm still interested! Hmm. Kit/Christopher/Jones still intrigues me, I can't wait for updates and more sneeziness :-)

[Strong_and_Wild]

and you amaze me again i am so in love with your writing! i dont know if i can wait for more!!

[Emily]

A little predictability in life goes a long way. To bring or not bring the umbrella? Well I always take it with me anyhoo, but that's the sort of thing it is. And plus, your stories are warmly familiar cause it feels like you. :3 That didn't sound creepy at all. :> Ohoho, an agent you say? I offer my utmost congratulations to you, good sir.

This story. It totally made up my mind. I am going trick or treating as an English gentleman this year. Mustache, monocle, top hat and all. AND THE PROSPECT OF FREE CANDY OHMYGAWD.

[Ace]

This... is... wow.

Neeeeeeed more! Pure brilliance, totally addicted, incapable of forming words...

[Scion]

BlueGirl: Oh, thank you! It seriously means so much to me that you like this and that you took the time to comment!

CrushCrush32: And I am in love with your comments! Thank you so much, really, really, really!

Emily: Lololol, creepy in a good way! That also sounded pretty darn creepy. ^^ And haha, thank you, but...it might not happen! Yet, anyway. But it's just good knowing there's an agent out there actually reading my story and keeping me updated on her progress. CRAZYness. Ahaha, trick-or-treating. Did I mention how ancient you make me feel? I think I may be on the verge of denchers! But seriously, do that! I wish I had!

Ace: Aw, thank you so much! I'm thrilled you like this so much! And you're so sweet for commenting.

Part Seven:

London, England, 1871

“You filthy whore!”

Cora cringed as her father’s voice echoed from down the hall. Her parents had been arguing a lot lately, enough to truly frighten her. Her father had never struck her mother, as far as she knew, but at times such as this he sounded on the verge of it.

“I’m not a whore!” her mother screamed back, sounding even angrier than her husband. “I bear no loyalty toward you, George, and I’ll never regret what I did! I love Robert. I will never love you!”

Backing away from her parents’ chamber, Cora began to cry. Her mother had no love for her father? But…why? Where had this come from? Was it something she’d done?

“I don’t care how much you love him, Margaret. You are my wife and you will remain my wife until the day you die. Do you understand that? I won’t be seen as a cuckold!”

“I should leave you. I still might!” her mother threatened. “Robert and I could take Cora and go away together. I’d never have to see your hateful face again!”

“YOU’LL DO NO SUCH THING!”

There was a crash, the sound of flesh being struck, then silence.

Finally, when Cora thought she’d faint from fear, her mother spoke: “Yes, George. You’re right. I’ll stay here. With you. Where I belong. You’re my husband and I’ll always do as you bid.”

And her father’s response: “Good. Make certain you remember that.”

- - -

London, England, 1880

The following morning, Edwin and Justina dined early and alone. He wasn’t looking forward to the news he planned to report, but it had to be done.

He pushed his plate away, cleared his throat expectantly.

Justina looked up at him, one eyebrow raised.

“I’ve news,” he announced. He shifted, cleared his throat again. “It’s in regards to Willis.”

Expression darkening, Justina said, “Don’t tell me he’s returned.”

“I wish I didn’t have to,” Edwin told her honestly. He’d never liked his step-father. Something about him unnerved the viscount, and he most definitely didn’t like the way his brother acted when Willis was around--which was to say even surlier than usual. “I received a missive from him,” he went on. “He’ll be arriving…today.”

Her eyes popped wide. “What!? Today!? But--but--he can’t! On such short notice?”

Edwin silently concurred, but… “It was all very…formal. Apparently he wanted to make sure he was welcome.”

“Well, he’s not,” Justina mumbled, sticking out her bottom lip. “Make him go away, Eddie. Please?” She donned her ‘cute baby sister’ face.

He smiled. His sister was used to getting her own way. “I can’t,” he said. “He’s our step-father, Justina. He should be welcomed with open arms.”

“Fine.” A scowl took over her face. “Whatever you say, brother.”

- - -

He had to tell Cora about Litchfield. He’d planned to do it the previous evening, but he’d fallen asleep before he could. The day was almost half gone now, and he’d spent it lying about in bed with the curtains drawn shut.

He felt weak as he padded round his room, dressing himself. His head was light, his hands trembling as he buttoned his waistcoat. Then there was his nose, which wouldn’t stop running and itching and twitching as though it had a life of its own.

Even now it plagued him, tingling insistently. “Huhh.” He would control this. He would. “HhhUMPHtchh! Damn it to hell!”

A soft knock came on his door and he snapped, “Come in!” thinking it was Cora back to check on him, like she’d done all through the night.

It wasn’t.

In walked a man in his late forties; he had a neatly trimmed beard and eyes like gray stone. A tight, taunting smiled brushed his mouth. “If it isn’t my favorite son.”

Jones felt queasy. It had been years since he’d seen his step-father, and he’d hoped to go the rest of his life without doing do ever again.

“Willis,” Jones said icily. “What an…interesting surprise. I hadn’t realized quite how old you’d become. I do hope your health is not at risk.”

Laughing, Willis remarked, “And you, my dear boy, are as beautiful as ever, with a tongue just as sharp as I remember.”

“Indeed.” The smile froze on Jones’ face. He stood still, trapped by his step-father’s malevolent stare. An empty, dark feeling cloaked him. Reality seemed to slide farther and farther away until he felt like a mere reflection of the man he’d once been.

Then he heard her voice, honeyed with concern: “Kit?”

And shame came crashing down around him, along with a devastating wave of fury so intense he could almost taste it.

Cora stood just inside the room, not knowing, not even wondering. He never wanted her to know. If she found out what he’d allowed to happen, what he’d caused, and what no one else knew, she’d think him a monster.

She’d be right.

If it weren’t for his own weakness, his mother would still be alive.

Without warning, Jones swung back his arm and clocked Willis square in the jaw. Caught unawares, the man staggered back into Cora, who tripped over the overly-long gown she’d borrowed from Justina and fell to the ground with a yelp.

“My goodness!” Willis, pretending concern, offered Cora a hand. Ignoring it, she stood on her own, eyeing the man suspiciously before scowling at Jones. Willis turned on him then, snarling. “That wasn’t very polite,” he ground out, veins throbbing in his neck as he rubbed his jaw.

“Wasn’t it?” Jones scratched his head. “I hadn’t realized. I thought you’d be pleased.”

Willis’ eyes bulged, but he managed to speak calmly. “Pleased that you hit me?”

Jones nodded, sparing Cora a glance. She dealt him a questioning look, which he ignored. “Yes,” he said to his step-father. “Was I mistaken?”

Smiling tightly, Willis shook his head of thinning hair. “Not in the slightest.” But his gritted teeth told another story.

“G--ghh--hh.” Jones paused, felt his jaw relax. Wanting to get this over with as soon as possible, he clenched a fist around his nose, bending forward a bit. “hG’xKchmm! Hh…hihh…”

Blood rushed to his face as his breath continued to hitch. Showing weakness in front of Willis was possibly the worst mistake he could make. He tightened his grip on his nose, threatening to pull it off his face.

Another sneeze slipped out unbidden and ruthlessly stifled. “hhuptFschtt!-uh.”

A hand landed on his neck, soft, gentle. He allowed his eyes to remain closed for another few seconds, but that was all the time he gave himself. Willis would be watching him, observing every nuance of his behavior, evaluating, scheming.

He didn’t want the man anywhere near his Cora. But what choice had he? He knew his brother respected Willis, though God only knew why.

“Well, it’s been lovely talking with you,” Jones said, taking Cora’s arm and guiding her into the hall. “Oh,” he called over his shoulder, “and you might want to consider investing in a wig. It would suit you.”

- - -

“What was that all about?” Cora demanded as Jones pulled her along beside him. “And release my wrist, please. I can walk on my own.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re referring to.” He dropped her wrist to rub the space between his eyes. “It makes no sense,” he muttered, looking at her inquisitively. “Why you?”

Puzzled, she asked, “Why me…what?”

“When I’m with you…” He regarded his feet, moistened his lips. “I could do with something sweet,” he announced. “What is your take on biscuits? Cinnamon or raspberry? I fancy a good raspberry myself. Yes, exactly. Care to join me?”

Cora’s mind was spinning. The man was so very confounding. But, she had to admit… “Raspberry sounds delightful.”

- - -

Jones had been right about this particular vendor. His goods were exceptionally delicious. She wouldn’t have thought eating a biscuit on the side of the road in the middle of the London bustle would be so enjoyable.

Just last night his fragile health had alarmed her greatly, but he’d seemed to make a miraculous recovery overnight, for which she was grateful.

“Huh’tCHnxx!-hh.” Pause. Shaky breath. “hhmffSHht!-ugh.”

Perhaps it wasn’t a full recovery, but at least he seemed aware of his surroundings. She grazed a single finger briefly across his arm. “Bless you!”

Jones smiled, brushing biscuit-crumbs off his fingers. “Thank you.”

Cora arched a brow. “I wasn’t aware you even knew the meaning that!”

He pouted. “You think me simple?”

Snickering, she replied, “I might.”

Before he could respond to her teasing, a scream loud enough to rise above the city’s incredible ruckus cracked the air.

Jones took off apparently without thought in the direction of the disturbance. With no other choice, Cora hustled after him.

- - -

“REEEEEEEEEEEEEEX!” Cully shrieked, banging his fists against Evans’ wide back. “LET ME DOWN! REX! REX!”

Evans, catching on, practically threw Cully to the ground in his haste to get to the fallen man. “Rex? Come on now, lad. Open your eyes.” He cradled Rex’s ashen face in his big hands, bowing his head low. As Cully reached them, he got a good look at the distress on Evans’ face, and his heart nearly withered right then and there.

“Father?” Rex mumbled, teeth chattering as he shivered visibly.

Cully bit his lip hard as grief struck him. Robert Mortimer had been a fine man, one of the kindest Cully had ever met, and Rex had worshipped him. Still did, even now that Robert had passed. Rex had taken his father’s death…very poorly. The last time Cully had seen him, he’d been…well, he’d been raving mad.

“Rex.” Cully gripped his friend’s hand, knowing they had no time to lose but unable to be brusque with Rex in his fragile state. “It’s me. Cully.”

Rex’s ocean eyes focused on him. “Cully,” he breathed. “You’re alive.”

Cully was about to respond when Evans’ tensed and muttered, “Someone’s coming.”

“WHO!?” Cully squeaked. “The guards?”

Evans frowned, shook his head as he cradled Rex protectively in his arms. “Look.”

He did, narrowing in on the two figures approaching at a rapid clip. A young gent and his lady companion. His eyes widened.

“Rex!” he exclaimed, a grin splitting his face. “It’s Cora!”

- - -

Whaddaya think? Please share your thoughts! And suggestions are welcomed as well.

[Emily]

WAIT WHAT. :whoa: If I want to have the mental capacity to understand what just happened, I need some sleep.

Oh yesssss, I am the epitome of creepiness, I am. I use the Facebook stalker bar to the best of my abilities, I do. :mustache:

Heh, confidence boosters do wonders for the fragile ego. I can't wait for the day we meet face to face at a book signing. :> It's never too old to be trick-or-treating. Just watch me, I'll be ringing bells and getting candy with the kids at 30.

[TheCakeIsAlive]

Hmm... I do wonder what the relationship between Rex/Cully and Cora is... and is there a link somewhere with Kit as well?

[Butch]

WONDERFUL. Please continue.

[Scion]

Emily: Ahaha, yeah. My mind is pretty twisted. OHMYGOSH. Facebook stalking. That is me. In fact, the first date I ever went on was the result of facebook stalking. Yep. See, there was this guy...who was really awesome...even though I'd never actually met him. And one thing led to another and... Yeah. That's me at my creepiest! LOL, you'll be arrested if you try to trick-or-treat when you're 30. My last time was when I was 17, I believe. I was hitting on this guy dressed as a shower. Who ended up getting with one of my good friends. You probably didn't need or want to know that. Aaaanyway.

Sigrith: You shall soon find out!

Mims: Haha, aw thank you for commenting on here! *a thousand hugs to you*

Part Eight:

London, England, 1870

Cully wriggled further up the narrow confines of the flue. With his cap pulled down low, he couldn’t see where he was going, but he didn’t need to. He felt around with his brush, scraping skin from his elbows as he clawed at the build-up of soot caked everywhere. Debris rained down over him, and although he was as used to such a thing as he ever could be, it still made him want to cough.

Trying to think of something more pleasant to distract himself, he thought of his mother, how she used to run her hand over his hair and tell him she loved him. How she would sing to him when his nightmares kept him awake. How her smile could bring sunshine to any rainy day and how sometimes she told him her smile was just for him.

Then one day he’d woken up and found her on her little straw mattress, vomiting blood. There had been no more smiles after that.

Crying openly now, he shimmied his way to the very top, scraping and brushing and scolding himself for the terrible direction his thoughts had taken. He had to concentrate on not getting himself trapped. He’d seen it happen before. Riley had been his friend, too. His only friend.

Cully remembered it all too well. Riley had been terrified, and in his terror he’d only managed to get himself more stuck. He’d suffocated long before they managed to free him. Seven-years-old, he’d been at the time. Only a year younger than Cully was now.

- - -

When Cully finished with the flue, he collected the fallen soot and brought it out to Master Merton’s cart. The man himself was nowhere in sight--probably off getting himself ploughed.

Leaning against the cart, he hunched his shoulders and attempted to cough up all the dust clogging his throat. As he was doing so, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Tensing, expecting to see the cruel face of Master Merton, he was surprised to find a boy of about his age, maybe a year or two older, staring back at him.

He had big blue eyes, a mop of black hair, and a light splattering of freckles, all of which combined to give him an impish quality. “’ello,” he said, his face very serious.

Uncertain, Cully returned, “’ello,” the word coming out like a piglet’s high-pitched squeal.

“Yew know…” The boy tipped his head to one side, wrinkled his nose. “Yer not supposed ter be doin’ that.”

Blushing, Cully looked down at his feet. “B-but…” He winced as his voice broke. “Master Merton…h-he gives me food. He--”

“Master Merton or whoever yer on about, is a rotter and don’t deserve yew; he ought ter be locked up in Newgate. Yew,” he said, jabbing a finger into Cully’s chest, “ought ter come wiv me.”

- - -

London, England, 1880

Fright unfurled in Cora’s chest as she realized who the fallen man was: her brother. “REX!” she shouted, scurrying forward, not noticing or caring when her foot collided with a rat and sent it sailing through the air.

Jones was right beside her, his presence an undeniable comfort. “Ms. Grove,” he said breathlessly, fingers curling loosely around her elbow.

He didn’t need to say anything else. She knew what he meant.

“Cora!” Carl Culpepper waved at her, grinning like a madman. “It’s really yew!”

Reaching them, she quickly knelt down next to her brother, took his face in her hands. “My dear brother,” she cried, so many emotions whirring inside her it was hard to breathe. “Oh dear God, I thought never to see you again! Where in the world have you been!? Have you any idea how worried I was? But you’re unwell!”

Turning to Cully, she demanded, “What ails him!?”

A gravelly laugh dislodged itself from her brother’s lips. “High strung as ever, I see.”

“Hg’nTshh!” Jones was there, stooping down on her right, his face open and vulnerable as he waited for the next sneeze. “Hhh…hh…” Chin to shoulder, he let out a stuffy “unffGsch!-uu.” His hand tautened around her knee.

“Bless you,” she murmured, giving his hand a caress before returning her focus to her brother, hoping his condition wasn’t as severe as it seemed.

After a brief, warm glance at Cully, she bent to brush her lips over Rex’s forehead, not caring if anyone saw--not that anyone was paying them any mind. They were all too preoccupied with their own tragedies.

“You’re coming home with us now,” she told him, “and I want to know exactly what you’ve been doing for the past three years.”

- - -

Jones stood outside the room Cora had disappeared through with the man she called Rex. Her brother. And two others, Cully and Evans or some such.

He was quite obviously not welcome. Cora was the one person who’d ever made him feel wanted, and now she too had no use for him.

“Careful not to drown in your own pity, Jones,” he muttered disgustedly.

“Sound advice.” Justina swept down the hall, sparing him a smirk as she hustled into the room he himself was forbidden from.

“I don’t believe there ever was a soul so greatly respected as I.” Stiffly, he removed his handkerchief. “Th--hh--this is not my best day,” he sighed. “NbChishh!” Pain flared behind his eyes. Honestly, what ever happened to the numbness? He was beginning to miss it! Even his damned burn had started to throb. “Hh..huh! Huhyisshuuu!”

“You are determined to share your ill-health with us all.” Edwin strode up to him, looking dreary as ever in his gray morning coat; a simple monocle graced his right eye.

“My lord,” Jones said, letting a hint of mockery color his tone. “You have my humblest apologies.”

Edwin’s expression remained blank. “Cora is a kind woman,” he said, staring his brother down. “I don’t want to see her hurt.”

Anger rose in him. “Nor do I.”

Narrowing his eyes, Edwin said, “I hope that’s true.”

- - -

Cully hovered by Rex’s bedside, aching inside. His friend looked so frail, a pale ghost blending with the white of the bedclothes. Sickness rolled off him in waves.

He wished there was something, anything he could do. The doctor had been called for, but he feared not soon enough.

“It’s all right, Carl,” came Rex’s feathering of breath. His eyes struggled open. Blue veins were visible beneath his skin. “Me pa’s waitin’ fer me.” A lone tear slipped down his cheek. “I miss ‘im ‘orrible. And me ma.”

Cully felt his own tears form. Rex never even knew his mother! “B-but I don’t want yew ter leave me,” he croaked. “Please don’t leave me, Rex. Please.”

Rex’s lips curved the slightest hint. “Now, hush yew ninny. Yew won’t miss me fer long. Yew ‘ave--yew ‘ave…” His eyes fluttered closed.

“No!” Cully insisted, curling a hand in Rex’s hair. “That ain’t be true!”

His friend didn’t reply. He was so…still. His dark lashes fanned across ivory cheeks.

“Rex? Did you hear me?” Cully squeezed his friend’s hand. It felt cold. Heavy pressure coiled around his chest as he stared down into the white face. The dull eyes. “Rex?” he whispered, his throat constricting.

Evans made a noise. Cully could give it no name, but it was the worst thing he’d heard in his life. It came again, and if the tearing of the human soul had a sound, this would be it.

“No.” Cora was there, face gray, eyes wet. She joined Cully and Evans by the bed as the big man pulled Rex into his arms and began to sob, rocking back and forth.

Cully and Cora’s tears soon followed.

Grief took form, grew and grew until it filled the room and each of their hearts.

- - -

Jones didn’t know how long he’d been sitting outside that damned door, waiting for his Cora to come out, but when she finally did…he almost wished she hadn’t.

She was hunched over, arms twined around her middle as sob after wracking sob ripped from her throat. Wetness streamed down her cheeks. When she caught sight of him, she let out a little moan and threw herself down into his lap.

“Oh, Kit,” she wept, latching onto him, burying her face in his neck. “He’s…he’s…dead!”

Jones didn’t move, didn’t speak. He hadn’t the slightest idea what he should do. Something unfolded within him, something dark and malicious.

Not knowing what else to do, he put his arms around her and held her until her final tear had fallen; then he tucked her to his chest and carried her to bed.

- - -

“Eddie?” Jones rested his forehead on the wood, swallowing convulsively. “Eddie. Can I…can I speak with you? It’s…hihKshhnn!…it’s your brother. C-hh--hih’USH!-uh. Christopher.”

Nothing.

Jones knew tears were meant for fragile females, but he’d reached the point at which he hadn’t the slightest care. There were simply no words for how he felt, and he couldn’t--could not--be alone.

“Please.” His voice caught. “Please, Eddie. Help me. Oh, God, please help me. Please,” he groaned, his implorations running together in his desperation.

The door opened.

Jones clutched his chest as if to physically prevent the sob from escaping. He bowed his head to hide the shameful tears as his brother gazed down on him.

Moments passed, rich with tension.

And then the elder brother, not the viscount, reached out his arms and wrapped them around Jones in the steadiest embrace of his life.

“I don’t know what to do,” Jones wept into his brother’s shoulder. “Eddie, Eddie, I don’t know what to do! I don’t--I don’t--”

“What is it?” Edwin asked, rubbing a hand down the back of Jones’ bent head. “Tell me what’s wrong, Kit. I’m right here. I’m listening.”

He grasped the older man’s lapels as he gasped, “Cora! It’s Cora. She’s so“--desperate breath--“sad, and I don’t know how to help her. How does one do that, Eddie? What can I do? I don’t--don’t understand and it hurts. Why does it hurt so?”

Jones was so used to the feeling of emptiness that this sudden influx of agony had him reeling, had him on the verge of eternal madness.

“Kit,” Edwin said on a moan, his posture sagging. “I don’t…know what to say.” His fingers bit into Jones’ back. “I’m sorry.”

“As am I,” Jones muttered. His knees wobbled as a rush of faintness floated through his head and he clung to Edwin’s shoulders for support.

“Kit?” Edwin spoke as if from the bottom of a well. “Are you all right?”

He opened his mouth to say he was, and he felt his lips move, but he heard only a dull roaring in his ears. Then even the roaring faded, and the world became soundless.

He thought he might fall, then. He didn’t. Arms were around him, lifting him, and he relaxed, knowing that, for the moment, he was safe.

- - -

So...don't hate me. Just...trust me. Have faith. I assume you all know me well enough to...know what I do and don't do. So. Yeah.

Please comment if you can. It really means a lot to me.

[Strong_and_Wild]

: O I. am. crying! Congratulations, you have succesfully brought me to tears with your story. It's heartbreaking and touching, and beautiful and still stays true to what this whole site is about, you my dear have a gift!

[Emily]

ASDFGHJKL. -insert comprehensible English words here- brotherly love is my favorite kind. But Rex! I was having a total "whut" moment and I had to reread that part and then I was like .

LOOOL YOU AND I ARE AKIN. Ever since the advent of Facebook, my hours of sleep have depreciated greatly. Makes me wonder what kind of nerd I'd be now without my computer and the internet. And I have yet to have my first date. Maybe it'll be something wonderful that comes from Facebook stalking. D: What law says I can't go trick-or-treating when I'm 30? I know my rights, woman. Well, at least I think I do. And awww you. <3 I'll always be here for you. We can be wed here with all these witnesses and we shall be together forever. And we'll hand out candy to the little children when we get old and ripe.

[Scion]

Ruskie: Ahaha, aww. I was crying when I wrote it, too. And thank you so much. That is such an amazing compliment. I can never thank you enough!

Emily: Hehe, I have a bit of a thing for brotherly love as well. Not sure why I don't use it more. I should. It's officially on my list. Well, I didn't actually go on my first date until I was 20...yeah. But Facebook is actually a really good way to get to know people. I knew more about this guy before I ever met him than I do about my best friend LOL. Hmm, well, you might get arrested simply because parents would find you extremely creepy bahaha. "How old are you?" "13." "Don't you mean 30?" "No." "Excuse me, I just need to refill the candy bowl." *calls police* Or something like that. And same to you! I am open to whatever future talks you wish to have. And marriages.

Disclaimer: I do not speak anything other than American English, so...there may be many mistakes riddled herein.

Part Nine:

London, England, 1880

Two days later.

Rex awoke to a horrendous darkness, his thoughts muddled together. He lifted his hands to rub his eyes, and his knuckles collided with something hard and rough. Confused, he tried to sit up; his head rammed into what felt like a slab of wood.

While pain echoed in his skull, he mashed his fists into his eyes, wondering if he’d gone blind. Keeping calm as best he could, Rex reached up and pressed his palms to what he now realized to be a wooden board. He let his hands slide along, seeking an opening that wasn’t there. After a few seconds, he lowered his hands back to his sides.

Don’t. Yew. Panic.

Allowing a trickle of air past his lips, Rex assembled his thoughts. He was buried under the earth. In a coffin. It could have been worse. This wasn’t so bad, he told himself. All he had to do was figure a way out. Simple.

But what if he didn’t make it out in time? What if he ran out of air and--how much air was left, anyway? How long had he been down here? What if his time was almost up!?

Terror set in, making it hard to breathe. The more he gasped, the less air there seemed to be until there was none at all and a black fog invaded his head and he…

Rex, son, try tae calm doon.

He went still, listening. Had he just heard his father’s voice? But that was impossible. His father was dead.

That’s reit, me laddie. Jist breathe, nane ay 'at flailin' abit loch a fesh.

…Pa? Rex thought, heart clenching. Is that really yew?

- - -

The funeral had been horrible. Worse than Cora could have imagined. Evans kept plying himself with drink, while Carl had simply stood in a daze, looking like nothing so much as the walking dead. Justina had done her best to comfort Evans, acting more improper than Cora had thought possible for a lady of “polite society.”

Now, Cora and Jones sat side-by-side on the library’s settee, staring at the rows of dusty books. She kept waiting for him to say something, hoping she wouldn’t have to. Eventually, though, she decided the silence could no longer continue.

“My mother had a…tryst…with a man named Robert McLean…while she was with my…father. Although, really he wasn’t my father, was he?”

Jones settled his gaze on her, quiet and intent.

She continued haltingly, “She never loved my--her husband, you see. She was in love with Robert. My…real father, I should say. Robert had a son. Rex.”

Starbursts of pain exploded beneath her breastbone. How could Rex truly be gone? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all!

“Hhh…ihh…”

Cora glanced up to see Jones struggling to withhold a sneeze. He screwed up his face, wiggled his nose from side to side, ground his jaw. Nothing worked.

She put a hand on his knee. “It’s all right. Go ahead and sneeze. I don’t mind.”

At her words his nostrils flared wide and he wrenched to the side, muffling a “huunkSstchieew!” in his handkerchief. His leg muscles contracted beneath her sensitive palm as he was overthrown by another desperate sneeze. “TchmffSHH!-hh.” Clutching the white linen to his face, he pinched and prodded his nose, but didn’t blow, most likely on her account.

“Bless you,” she whispered, concern for him overshadowing her grief.

He tried to smile at her, and she saw fatigue clearly drawn in the lines of his face. His eyes were hooded and sleepy, color adorning his cheekbones.

Guilt ate at her. “How are you feeling? You don’t look well.”

“Your concern is touching, love, but I admit I’m rather more worried about you at the moment.”

Cora shook her head. Was this the same man she’d met only days ago? She never knew what to expect with him. One moment he’d be kind, the next cutting.

“I’m not all right,” she admitted. Not in the slightest. “And I won’t be for a while. But knowing you’re well will ease my mind.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Would you perhaps…like to talk? Edwin mentioned that might be helpful.”

Moved but not wanting to let on, she said, “You’re avoiding the subject. I think you should be abed. I can’t…” Her voice wavered. “I’ve already lost my brother. I don’t want to lose you, too.”

Questions danced in his eyes. “I don’t know how you do it,” he mused. “Make me so…” He shrugged helplessly. “Whatever this is.” He waved a hand at himself.

She stared. What was he saying?

He laughed. “I’ve mystified you.”

“No--”

Jones held up a finger, offering her a view of his profile as his lips slowly parted and his eyebrows pulled together. “Hihh…hihehh…”

Cora laid a hand on his back, feeling it tighten.

The handkerchief came up, poised. “HzTschff!-shuhh.” He slumped a bit, tiredly rubbing his forehead. “Perhaps you’re right. Some rest couldn’t hurt?”

Frowning, she said, “Is that a question?” And was that…a blush? From Jones?

He cleared his throat. “Of course not. You’ve made your opinions quite clear, and I’d appreciate it if you stop implying that I’m a simpleton.”

Exasperation made her voice sharp. “You must have a very low opinion of yourself, since you find insult in every nuance of my behavior.”

With a wince, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m not going about this in the right way. I never do. And I’ll lose you, too.”

Cora felt like weeping, but she knew once she gave in, she’d never be able to pull herself back out. “You’ll not lose me, Kit.” She reached up, tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “No matter how much you try.”

“But you see,” he said, staring into her eyes, “I’m not trying. It’s not something I plan. It happens over and over but I never mean for it to. Justina hates me. Edwin thinks me a heartless villain. The servants think whatever Edwin tells them to.”

What could she say to that? Every bit of it was true.

“Breakfast?” she said with faux cheer.

His lips twitched. “Indeed.”

- - -

Edwin and Justina were in the dining room, both of them clad in black, Jones noted with some surprise. They glanced up at Cora and Jones’ entrance.

Embarrassed by his previous show of weakness, Jones didn’t meet his brother’s gaze. He sat without a word, Cora descending on his left.

Not long later, his step-father strolled in as if he owned the place. Which he didn’t. He sneered at Jones as he took the seat next to him. “How’s the lady?” he asked. “What’s her name? Missy?”

Edwin went rigid. Justina scowled.

Jones wanted to wrap his hands round the man’s throat and squeeze until his eyes fell out. He didn’t. He ignored him.

But the bastard persisted. “Did I get her name wrong? I’m sensing a measure of tension in the air, gentlemen--and ladies, of course.” His mouth formed a slimy smile.

“HhUMPtch!” Jones skittered back from the table, burying his face in his upper arm. “uHysshnnk!-hh.”

“For God’s sake, man, not over breakfast!” Edwin snapped.

“I’m sorry!” Jones said in a rush. Unnamable emotions warred inside him. He’d thought he’d purged himself with his little breakdown last night, but apparently not. Sweat broke out at his temples. He gripped the edge of the table, needing to feel something real. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he chanted, staring down into his plate of food. God, what was that? Some type of feces?

After a few minutes of silence, Willis began to laugh. It grated on Jones’ nerves, made him want to tear off his own skin.

“ENOUGH!” Edwin shouted. Jones hadn’t thought his brother knew how to shout. “Nothing about this situation is amusing.”

“Hh!” Jones made it to his feet and halfway across the room before succumbing. He braced himself against the wall, making sure to capture the sneeze in his handkerchief in hopes that Edwin wouldn’t murder him. “NffKshhuh!”

“Kit.” Cora came up behind him, touched his back with the tips of her fingers. “Come with me. All right?”

He nodded and followed her out of the room without a backward glance.

- - -

Also, I'm kinda paranoid, so I'm going to assume you're bored with the story or that you hate it if you don't tell me otherwise LOL.

[obsessed]

!!

<3

yay scion updates.

[TheCakeIsAlive]

Wait... Rex is still alive?

Poor Kit.

[Weirdo Girl]

I'm loving this so much. I hope you never stop updating <3

[sneezytwilight]

Wow!!! Scion!!! I can't believe I've missed like the whole story....but Like always I love this one. Its different and adorable!!

[Butch]

Scion - *a thousand hugs to you, too!*

Wow..this story gets better and better. Can't wait to read more!

[Scion]

Thanks, guys. I'm suuuuuper glad you like this (still!). Hope you all like this part, too. *hugs*

Part Ten:

London, England, 1880

Aye, it is, lad, came the voice of his father. I’ve missed ye.

Tears threatened, but Rex would not allow them to fall. Yew…left me, he thought. Why did yew ‘ave ter leave me?

He heard his father sigh. It’s nae whit ah wanted, an' I’m sorry fur leavin'. But yoo're nae aloyn. Ye hae yer sister. An' Carl.

But I want yew! Rex insisted petulantly.

A low laugh. Ah want 'at tay, Rex. But we dornt hae much time, sae ye hae tae listen tae me. Can ye dae 'at?

Rex sniffled. Yes.

Guid. Noo, this is whit ah want ye tae dae.

- - -

Cora’s eyes flew open, her heart racing. What had woken her? She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and saw Jones curled up in the middle of his bed, shaking.

“Kit?” Scrambling onto the bed, she rested a hand on his head. “Wake up, sweet. Come on, now. It’s all right. You’re all right.”

He groaned, eyes laboring open. His hand circled her wrist as if seeking a connection to the real world. A pink tongue came out to moisten his chapped lips. “What’s…what’s happened?” he slurred, trying to sit up.

“Careful,” she said, supporting him. “Here, lean back.” She stacked a bunch of pillows behind him and he eased himself back against them. “There now. How are you feeling?”

He peered at her from beneath a fall of gold curls, his skin beaded with sweat. “You’re still here,” he murmured wonderingly. “I thought…” His lashes dipped down. “I thought you’d be gone. I thought…I don’t know. Terrible things.”

“Silly man.” She gently combed the hair from his face. It was soft, like silk. “I told you I wouldn’t. I meant it. I still do.”

“Ah.” The dark smudges beneath his eyes didn’t sit well with her. “But…why?” His eyes opened the slightest amount, but she felt his gaze like a hot poker straight to her heart. “Why are you different?”

She didn’t know. But she did know she cared for this man--more than she should. She knew when his breath stuttered that he was about to sneeze, and her concern doubled.

“Hihh…” He disappeared in a flurry of bedclothes. “Hh…hihhisshhhIHH!” His head poked out, his features arranged in a grimace. “That hurt.”

Part of her wanted to laugh, but most of her wanted to cry. She smoothed her hand up and down his chest, feeling the crackling wheeze of his breaths. “Poor dear,” she fussed. “Shall I have Cook heat up some water for you? It might help with your breathing. The steam, that is.”

He looked at her quizzically. “You’d do that? For me?”

“Certainly. Would you like me to?”

A little hesitantly, he nodded. Sniffled endearingly.

Oh, Lord, Cora, when did such a thing as sniffling become endearing?

“I’ll back in a moment.” She surprised herself by leaning down to bestow a kiss upon his fevered brow. “You’ll be okay?”

“Ah--of course,” he said, flustered, coloring. “But do be careful around Cook and her Spoon. She can be quite dangerous.”

“I’ll take that into account,” she assured him, smiling.

As she went to leave, he spoke. “Ms. Grove?”

She stopped. Turned. “Yes?”

“There’s something…” He pulled the bedclothes up to his chin as if wanting hide his face. “There was a man. Litchfield, he called himself. Lord Weatherford.”

A sudden chill swept through her. Litchfield? Here? “He’s found me,” she said numbly, feeling as though she’d just received a dreadful blow to the head. “So soon.”

“I told him I knew no one such as he’d described,” Jones went on, propping himself on his elbows. “He left. H--he--hhuuhhUSHsshh! He--” Once more his face closed up, then opened all at once before clenching tight yet again with a drawn-out “heeyMMphhtshuhh!”

Worry for Jones eclipsed her own self-pity as she offered, “Bless you.”

“Thank you,” he sighed, sinking back into the bed.

“Careful.” She tried for a teasing grin. “You wouldn’t want courtesy to become customary.”

“You bring up a good point, love. I shall have to think up some cutting remarks during your brief period of absence. You did agree it would be brief, did you not?”

Her smile grew more genuine. “I believe I did, yes.”

“And Cora?”

Cora. That was the first time he’d used her name. It sent flutters through her middle. “Mmhm?”

“That man, Litchfield. He can’t get to you. You’re with us, now.” He hesitated only momentarily before concluding, “With me.”

- - -

Edwin strutted down the third floor hallway, running his speech through in his head. It wasn’t a speech so much as an ultimatum. Only that wasn’t quite right, either. But it was something in between.

He’d passed Cora on her way to the kitchen, and she’d given him a glower thinly veiled as a smile. Of course, she didn’t understand. He had his reasons for keeping his brother at arm’s length; it was best for everyone.

He hadn’t forgiven Jones for his transgression, and Willis’ harsh reminder had brought with it a surge of fresh anger that had hit Edwin straight between the ribs. He loved his brother, always would, but never would he trust him. Never would he respect him.

It was his intention to make that clear to Jones. Edwin may have been there for his younger brother in Jones’ time of grief, but that didn’t mean things would go back to the way they were before…

He gritted his teeth.

Giving Jones’ door a brisk knock, he stepped inside and immediately stationed himself at the head of the bed. “Christopher,” he said formally.

“My lord!” Jones returned. He was sprawled under the covers, cheeks dotted a rosy red. He did not bother to rise.

Peeved at this lack of respect, Edwin remarked, “Back to your old ways, I see. That didn’t last long.”

“Oh!” Jones feigned shock. “I’m sorry, did I somehow offend you? Please, tell me where I went wrong. Was it the ‘My lord?’ Or the friendly smile of greeting?”

Do not let him anger you, Edwin told himself. It’s what he wants.

“Wait a moment! I think I’ve got it. You’re upset th--that--hh--that I d-d-hihhh.” Reddened nostrils flickered in time with the fluttering of dusky lashes. There was a flash of pale white as his hand shot up to his face. “hnnuss’shhuuhh!”

Do. Not. Soften.

“I--I have something I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Indeed?”

“I want to make it clear to you that although you are my brother and I harbor a certain amount of affection for you, that does not mean we have reconciled.”

Jones arched an eyebrow. “Oh, is that all?”

Edwin nodded firmly.

“Well, then. I completely understand.” The smile he delivered then was bone-chilling. “I am of course the only one to blame.”

What did that mean? Feeling uncomfortable, Edwin said, “About Ms. Grove. I’d like to know your intentions toward her.”

Jones laughed scathingly. “My ‘intentions,’ is it?”

Silence reigned, heavy with expectation.

“That’s it?” Edwin was incredulous. “You’ve nothing else to say?”

“Hfchxshhooo!-uhh.”

“Anything other than that?” Edwin sighed.

After scrubbing a hand down his face, Jones yawned. “Might we discuss this later? I’m feeling ill-humored and incapable of withstanding your unfounded accusations.”

“Unfounded!?” Edwin demanded furiously. “Unfounded!?”

But Jones made no reply. He’d fallen asleep.

- - -

London, England, 1866

“Does it hurt?”

Kit looked up into his step-father’s gap-toothed leer, clasping his burned arm to his chest. He shook his head.

Anger narrowed Willis’ stone colored eyes. He snapped out a hand, catching Kit around the wrist. With a great shove, he sent Kit stumbling toward the hearth. Falling to his knees, Kit squeezed his eyes shut.

His step-father’s hands curled under his arms, twisting him around until his back was mere inches from the shimmer of orange and blue flame.

“Does it hurt now?” Willis demanded, eyes aglow. His fingers sank into the skin of Kit’s upper arms, his long nails drawing blood.

Again, Kit shook his head, unwilling to give in even as pain and fear burned his last remaining shards of hope to cinders. His knees skittered over rough brick as Willis urged him closer to the fire. He inhaled a draft of smoke, his eyes burning as he tried to cough away the irritation.

Pins of pain bombarded him as the blistering heat melted through his beeches and began to eat away at his flesh. A sob lodged at the back of his throat.

“Say it!” Willis snarled, spittle flying from his mouth and dappling his whiskers. “Say it and I’ll let you free!”

“NO!” He would never give in. Never. Not to this man. He’d rather die!

Releasing a suppressed roar, Willis gripped Kit by the arms and threw him across the room as if he weighed nothing at all. Agony split his skull as he bounced off the wall and crumpled to the floor. Immediately he curled in on himself, arms folding round his tucked-up knees.

“Don’t think,” Willis whispered into his ear, his breath smelling of brandy, “I’ll forget about you, little devilling. You will beg for my mercy.”

Kit shivered, nauseous and dizzy. All he wanted was for this man to go away and leave him alone.

“It’s only a matter of time,” the man vowed. “I’ll not go to my grave until I’ve seen you weeping on your knees.”

- - -

[Emily]

Oh my freaking god, this kid. Tell me again why I fall for this trap every single time. Really. I fall into them as often as my brother falls into my hide-and-seek traps. I have our marriage papers all ready, dear. Shall we have a ceremony or elope? I have candy and cookies and ice cream too. So basically what I'm saying is this: Jones! ♥

[Strong_and_Wild]

Dear goodness me!!! this was fantastic! How do you do it? I simply cannot wait for more!

[Scion]

Emily: LOL, which trap are you talking about? Whichever it was, I'm glad you fell into it muahaha. We should totally elope. To Gretna Green we go! Ohh, yay, you've fallen under Jones' spell. How was trick-or-treating? When I answered the door I got hit on by a 14-year-old dressed in his football uniform...once again, I'm practically a grandma. And apparently I smell like apple pie.

Ruskie: Thank you! Your comments always make me so happy. I'm really glad to know you still like this!

Part Eleven:

London, England, 1868

“Mother? Mother!?”

Kit looked up and saw Edwin standing in front of him. His face was awash with horror. Unsure what his brother was so upset about, Kit frowned.

Their mother lay asleep on the floor, her blonde hair fanned out across her back. She was the only woman he knew who ever wore her hair down; it looked so pretty that way.

“WHAT HAPPENED!?” Edwin fell to his knees in front of their mother, his hands shaking as he raked them down his face. Kit didn’t reply as his brother gently rolled their mother onto her back and began shaking her shoulders. “Mother? Mother, wake up! Wake up, please!”

Time passed. He couldn’t say how much. Edwin was shaking him, saying something. No, screaming something.

“DID SHE FALL? WHAT HAPPENED!? ANSWER ME!”

Kit blinked slowly, glanced over his shoulder at the spiral staircase. “I…what do you mean?”

More voices, then, frantic and dismayed.

“Mother!”

“Belinda!”

“Someone send for a doctor!”

“What’s happened!?”

“Where’s Willis?”

“Nooo! Mother, please! Mama! Mama!”

- - -

London, England, 1880

Jones expected to be awoken by Cora, expected to lose himself in her vibrant eyes. Instead he found himself stunned by dull, gray stone.

“Hello, my little devilling,” his step-father said. “Time to play.”

- - -

Edwin had reached the first floor before he decided on waking Jones after all. It was more than likely his brother was merely feigning sleep, and Edwin had no intention of letting things slip that easily. Ms. Grove deserved better than Christopher Jones. True, he didn’t begrudge his brother his happiness, but the same applied to Cora.

He turned and began climbing the stairs once more. He knew it strange that he didn’t take the lift, but he’d always prided himself on his code of ethics, which often did not align with the strict, sometimes suffocating rules of society. He’d never admit that aloud, of course, but that was beside the point.

“This has to be done,” he muttered under his breath as he came upon the third floor. “The sooner the better.”

As he neared his destination, his ears alerted him to some sort of disturbance. Muffled groans, an angry voice. “TELL ME TO STOP! BEG ME FOR MERCY!”

And the strangled reply: “NO!”

The hair on the back of Edwin’s neck rose. “Kit,” he breathed.

“My lord?” Cora came to stand on his right, a bowl clutched between her hands, her eyes holding a flurry of questions.

He shook his head, an odd sensation crawling through his skin. Vibrating with some unnamable emotion close to fear, Edwin ran the rest of the way to Jones’ door and burst through without so much as a passing thought about knocking.

What he saw made his world tilt, made fury boil up inside him, made him want to take his head in his hands and break his own neck.

Willis had Jones pinned to the ground inside the hearth, had his disgusting pig-hands on Edwin’s brother as he exposed Kit’s pale, vulnerable back to the crackling flames.

Edwin roared, “GET OFF HIM, YOU SWINE!”

His step-father’s head whipped around. Eyes darting, he released Jones just as Edwin lunged for him.

“Kit,” Edwin said frantically as his brother crawled from the hearth, “Kit, are you all right?”

“Huh…huh…huuhhMMsshhuuh!” Gasping, Jones stumbled to his feet, arms swinging out to either side as he faltered. His face was bright red and creased in a helpless expression. “Hih…hihh…” He crinkled and uncrinkled his nose. “Hih…hihhhTISHhhiihh!” Leaning against the mahogany washstand, he was beset by deep, rasping coughs that seemed to consume him entirely.

Edwin went to him, circling a protective arm round him. “Breathe, Kit,” he instructed gruffly.

Continuing to cough, Jones slouched into Edwin’s hold. “T-hhh--trying,” he puffed, then shuddered with another throaty sneeze. “UhhhkkTSCHhhmphh!-hh.”

“HE DESERVED IT!” Willis shouted to Edwin, jumping upright. “You should have heard the vileness dripping from his wicked lips! Absolutely appalling, my boy!”

“You foul, loathsome scum!” Cora exclaimed, and upended the bowl of steaming water she’d been carrying over Willis’ head.

“What the devil!?” Willis wheezed. Turning pink, the man let loose with a wail and threw himself to the floor, pounding his fists against the sides of his balding head.

“Eh--huhh--Eddie, can’t--can’t--huuupGsshshaahh! Breathe! Hihyiisshh!” Jones swayed forward, fingers scrabbling at his chest.

Feeling akin to a blockhead, Edwin was relieved when Cora suddenly materialized beside him. She arranged herself on Jones’ other side and together they herded him to the bed, on which he sat with another sharp cough followed by an unhealthy sounding “HgNFFtssshhhaaahh!”

Edwin grimaced. He’d never seen his brother so ill--not since their mother’s death. It concerned him more than he’d ever admit.

“You whore!”

Closing his eyes, Edwin sighed. What was he supposed to do? Kick his own step-father out onto the streets? He nodded. That’s exactly what he’d do.

“You snaggletoothed villain!”

He almost laughed at that. Cora could certainly hold her own.

“IhhCHfftt-shhh!”

Jones, on the other hand…

“Kit?” Cora flitted over to Jones, put her hand to his brow. She pulled her lower lip between her teeth. “I’m going to murder him,” she hissed, sliding a glare in Willis’ direction.

“Although I’d love to bear witness to such an event, I’m afraid it shan’t be possible,” Edwin announced. “I can’t allow you to commit murder. It is far below you, I’m sure.”

“It may be below Ms. Grove,” Jones said in a deadly whisper, “but it’s rather far above myself.” So saying, he cringed with a severely stifled “Mkkt!-uu. Truthfully,” he went on breathlessly, “I’d fancy the pleasure of wringing his thick neck.”

It wasn’t until later that the shock finally set in, that Edwin realized just how foolish he’d been, how utterly blind. He’d allowed Willis to come into their home. He’d allowed his little brother to be harmed, to be tormented mentally and physically.

Essentially, he’d failed dreadfully in his duties and it made him sick. Willis was gone now, and Edwin would make certain he never came back. But it was too little, too late. He couldn’t undo what damage had already been inflicted.

He did, however, have a slightly better understanding of his brother.

Or so he hoped.

- - -

Moving carefully, Rex lifted his tunic up and over his arms, then tied off the end with the sleeves, forming a sort of bag around his head.

Noo, his father’s voice said inside his head, use yer feit tae kick a hole in th' wuid. Th' center will be th' easiest tae break.

Right. One step down, he reassured himself. Everything would be fine. Like Cully, he’d once been a climbing boy. He was used to tight spaces. And he had his father with him.

Rex coiled up, then used the heels of his feet to batter the middle of the board. He kicked up in steady, controlled motions, hearing wood splinter.

Soon, dirt began dripping in, and Rex shoved it to either side of the coffin. The more soil he trapped in the coffin the less he’d have to wade through when he got free.

That's reit. Keep daein' 'at an' yoo'll be free in nae time.

He continued to jam his heels into wood, using his toes to determine how wide the opening had become. It was an uneven, jagged hole, but it was getting there. More earth came tumbling down on top of him, and he took the time to distribute it around him, packing it beneath his body.

Rex couldn’t say how much time had passed when he finally made the hole wide enough, but he didn’t much care. His father hadn’t spoken to him in a while, and Rex was beginning to fear he’d gone away again.

Pa?

I’ve nae left, was the short reply.

Rex closes his eyes in relied. Reaching his hands up through the breach, he unhurriedly pulled himself to a crouch.

Pa?

No response.

Heart sinking, he swam his hands up through the dirt, which was thankfully fairly loose; it lodged itself cunningly under his nails.

Pa? he tried again.

Ah love ye, son.

A lump formed in Rex’s throat. “I love yew, too,” he said aloud, knowing he’d never hear his father’s voice again.

But he did hear something.

He heard a scream.

- - -

[Butch]

Excellent! Bravo! more more.

[TheCakeIsAlive]

*hugs Christopher* Poor boy. I do hope he'll be all right.

... and why again did they bury Rex alive?