by SincereJester

[Author’s note: I had meant to wrap this fic up before February–unless there was enough demand for me to continue it, of course. 😉 ] but reality intervened. I fell and gained myself a lovely concussion and damaged leg, and could only periodically work online during bed rest as my brain healed. So, we missed one of my deadlines, but at last I can post part 8. Enjoy!]

Part 8 

Lucille, acting as gracious hostess, set out a simple lunch
and offered tea to everyone. Constable Webber found the whole scene a tab
macabre, but the young lady was poised and calm as she distributed teacups and
saucers, a tribute to her proper upbringing. Inspector Root was eager to
continue his inquires, however, requesting an audience with her immediately.
With a deferential nod, she rose to follow him.

A clattering of horses’ hooves and rattling of carriage
wheels on the dirt drive to Allerdale Hall announced
the sudden appearance of new arrivals. A well-appointed coach pulled up,
stopping before the door. Everyone rose at this unexpected visitation, moving
as a group into the foyer. Lucille was quick to recover, waving at Finlay to
greet the strangers and escort them in.  

Lucille and Thomas stiffened in surprise as Mr. McFarlane
exited the carriage, followed by a graceful but slight gentleman they did not
recognize. “Mr. McFarlane!” Lucille exclaimed, stepping forward. “This is quite
unexpected; we thought you had been called back to Scotland.”

“Indeed, Miss Lucille, I was vacating the depot and on my
way to the station when I encountered this most affable gentleman approaching
in his coach, inquiring after my person. Miss Lucille Sharpe, allow me to
introduce Sir Harold Stackhurst, Professor at Charterhouse of Surrey. And
this,” he continued, “is to be your charge, Sir Harold; Master Thomas Sharpe.”

The envoy from Surrey! They greeted each other with well-mannered
politeness, but Thomas regarded this newcomer with a mixture of curiosity and
dislike. Lucille continued to play her gracious role. “Won’t you please come
in, sirs? I do hope you’ll forgive us; I’m afraid we are quite unprepared to
receive you properly.”

Mr. McFarlane frowned as Dr. Jones and Inspector Foot
appeared in the foyer, with Constable Webber shadowing behind them. Lucille set
out more tea for them, in the great room. She took Thomas’ hand and asked to
retire for a few moments, to allow them to refresh themselves. Inspector Foot
reluctantly allowed the children a brief recess. After hasty introductions, the
inspector informed the new arrivals in a most somber tone that the lady
Beatrice was deceased.

Mr. McFarlane gaped at him. “Sir, you astonish me! Why, I
called on Lady Beatrice not more than a day ago. Pray, tell us what has
occurred?”

Inspector Foot cleared his throat importantly. “We are still
attempting to ascertain all the facts, but there is no question that she was
murdered.” He went on to lay out their findings before the two gentlemen,
following with questions of his own for them. Once satisfied, he took up the
teapot and refreshed their cups. “I am terribly sorry to inconvenience you,
sirs, but we must finish our business here before the children will be
relinquished to you, and we will request that all involved remove to town as
soon as possible. Mr. McFarlane, Dr. Jones is overseeing the removal of Lady
Beatrice’s remains to Farlam. If you’d be so kind to confer with him regarding
whatever funeral arrangements will be required.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Mr. McFarlane replied. “In fact, I
shall do so immediately.  Professor
Stackhurst, I am so sorry for your delay; can I perhaps assist in seeing to
your accommodation during this unforeseen situation?”

“That is quite kind of you, sir,” Sir Harold replied. “I
would be much obliged.”  

“Not at all, sir, not at all! It was fortuitous that our
paths crossed before my departure. I must send a wire as soon as we are in
town. And Inspector Foot, might I have some words with you alone then, also?”
Foot nodded, already excusing himself to go question Lucille.

@8@ * @8@

“You have to eat, Thomas.”

“I’m not hungry,” he muttered.

“You are,” Lucille argued, taking up her own spoon. “Eat.”

He obeyed her as he always did, but without much enthusasim.
He wanted to leave home, he thought, realizing he truly didn’t want to remain
on Crimson Peak. He didn’t want to stay here, this dark, miserable museum of a
house, a place he hardly knew outside of the attic. He wanted to go away, far
away, to places he had only read about, exotic places where he could breathe
and explore and learn. He wanted to have adventures; he wanted to be free.

He looked up at his sister who was cutting each bit of her
food into precise pieces before delicately spearing them. She was perfectly
poised, a dignified young lady almost ready to join society. She was beautiful
to him, despite the angry red scratches on her face. They truly were orphans
now, he and Lucille; they only had each other. They were beholden to
no-one…well, other than each other, and the family name. The last of the
Sharpes.

Inspector Root interrupted their moment’s respite as he
entered the kitchen. Lucille set down her cutlery and daintily dabbed her mouth
with a napkin before rising. She laid a hand on her brother’s shoulder as she
followed the inspector out. “Eat,” she pleaded.

Thomas, alone in the kitchen, stared at his plate in
silence. Lucille was correct, as usual; he was hungry, but he was more eager to
leave the confines of the kitchen, or even the house. He considered dashing out
to the garden behind the house, but the afternoon heat was prohibitive. With a
sigh he began to eat, but it was a mechanical action devoid of any interest.

Out of habit he cleared away his dishes when he was done. He
moved toward the lift, and then hesitated. The elevator was a noisy
contraption, and Thomas was long accustomed to being silent and unseen outside
of the nursery.  Sneaking to the foyer
exit, he crossed the foyer and crept up the stairs, passed the gilt frames of
the portraits lining the stairways, through the corridors of menacing woodwork
and exotic works of art displayed on marble tabletops until he reached the
nursery door.

Pointedly ignoring his packed trunk, Thomas wandered around
the rooms aimlessly. This space was his entire world, his refuge and his
comfort. He both loved it and hated it. The familiarity of it was reassuring,
from the fading mural on the wall to the very scent of the place. But it
frightened him, also. There was a sense of things hiding in the corners—not
just here but everywhere in the house. Lucille had always dismissed these fears
as childish foolishness, but Thomas was certain that there were ghosts; spirits
of those who had dwelled here before, lurking about, and something worse….He
didn’t have names for the strange alien feel of these unseen creatures, but
they were aloof and cold and in some way cruel; malevolent was the best he
could describe them.

It was easy to trust Lucille’s dismissal of them: they were
so intangible and his own imagination so vivid. They could just be figments of
his minds, dramatic fictions manufactured in his mind to distract him from more
real terrors. Thomas’ thoughts turned the envoy sipping tea in the great room
far beneath him. He was already late to enroll in school at almost thirteen
years old, but he dreaded the idea of being alone in a house full of boys like
himself. He dreaded the requirement of joining his social peers and
participating in more formal academics; he was more than happy pursuing his own
interests without company. He would be housed at the Charterhouse dormitories
during the year, of course, but during holidays he would room with his Aunt
Florence, and he couldn’t even begin to speculate what that would be like. Did
she live at a fine estate? Was she generous and kind? He hoped she was; if so,
then perhaps he could prevail upon her to allow Lucille to join them in Surrey.

His foot caught the edge of the stolen book that had fallen
to the floor when their mother had intruded on them. He reached down and lifted
it up, allowing the pages to ruffle like a fan from cover to cover in a blur of
lurid color. He slammed it shut suddenly. He should hide this book, and
quickly, before he was discovered. He tucked it away into the hole in the wall,
next to the jewelry box Lucille had concealed. Just in time, too, as he heard
footsteps outside the room and Lucille appeared with Finlay in tow.  

Lucille handed Thomas the small sack he had carried away the
night before. “I thought you might want that,” she remarked. “Help Finlay with
your trunk, Thomas; I need to pack some things. Mr. McFarlane is removing us to
town. And just after I settled everything in the larder!”  She shrugged and patted the braids pinned up
on her head. “It cannot be helped, but I’ll pack up a hamper for us to take
along. Be sure you have what you want to take with you; it will be some time
before we return, I should think.”

Thomas was relieved when he and Lucille were packed into the
coach, his trunk and her valise loaded onto the roof, joined by Lucille shortly
after. Lucille was calm and collected, somber-faced and her posture ramrod
straight. She squeezed his hand quickly as the coach lurched and rattled across
the path to town.  Dr. Fredrick Jones,
Inspector Foot and Constable Webber had gone on ahead to the mortuary with the
wagon. Mr. McFarlane and Professor Stackhurst were seated across from the
siblings, but everyone was silent on the journey. Lucille stared out the window
at the sun-withered meadowland.

The swaying of the carriage eventually lulled Thomas into a
doze, only to have him startle awake when they reached Farlam. He had been to
town before, although it had been several years ago now. It was small, more a
village than a true town and certainly not as large as a city like London. He
was unused to so many people rushing back and forth like busy little ants that
he found himself studying them as the carriage rattled through the dusty
streets. The townsfolk all seemed so intent on their purpose, each having
something to do, some destination, some work to be done right away; Thomas
could only imagine what a place like London was like…or even Surrey. He sat
back, trying not to think about Surrey, or the future, or anything, and lapsed
back into a numb state of disbelief. Everything felt disjointed and distant.

Lucille took his hand and led him out of the coach into a
building he didn’t recognize, trailing after their new guardians. There was
talk of funeral arrangements and a reading of a will that didn’t interest
Thomas in the least; he was content to stay with his sister, all but ignored.
They were brought to a parlor; Thomas supposed this was an inn, or perhaps a
boarding house, and they sat on a stiff, uncomfortable sofa.

“Might we go for a walk?” he asked abruptly. “It’s so stuffy
in here.”  

Lucille glanced at him. “I cannot see why not,” she replied.
“The weather is pleasant enough. I will ask.”

He was eager to leave the confines of the tiny rooms of the
boarding house for the expansive outdoors, and was relieved when they were
given permission to stroll along the avenue and in the small garden beside the
inn.

Once excused, Thomas took Lucille’s arm in his and they
strolled along the street until the end of the row of shops and houses, then
turned back. The sun was still bright in the waning afternoon, but they
continued on, pacing back and forth. Fences dotted the way, with well-tended
patches of green behind them. Lucille pointed out various examples of flora and
fauna that caught her eye on their little expedition, even smiling at a bird
that flit off from a branch nearby. It was an odd feeling of peace that fell
over them.

“Lucille, let’s not go back,” Thomas suggested.

“Thomas…” Lucille protested, exasperated.

He stopped, taking both her hands in his. “We’re happy now,
like this. We’re free. We can go anywhere we wish. “

“And what will they think, if we were to run off?” Lucille
shook her head. “We still have obligations, Thomas. Be patient. You have the
family title to consider, and we have the care of Allerdale Hall. It’s all we
have left. And we deserve it.”

Thomas shrugged, knowing the futility of his suggestion.
“You do, more than I,” he replied, kissing her hands. “I’ll take care of you,
Lucille. You’ll want for nothing, I swear.”

“We will take care of each other,” Lucille replied, “as we
should.” She cupped his face tenderly, kissing his forehead before stepping
back. “Let’s go out to the garden and pick some flowers, shall we?”

“I want you with me in Surrey,” Thomas commented.

A shadow flickered across her features. “We shall see,
dearest brother. Tomorrow is the funeral for Mother, after which Mr. McFarlane
informed me he will be seeing to legal matters. We must be strong, Thomas, and
all will be right. Come along; we must get back. It looks like rain this
evening.”

by SincereJester

{Hope all you readers are enjoying this; we know the spirit of the Peak certainly is…} 

Part 7 

The house breathed, a deep rasp of agonized pain, burdened
with its miserable secrets. The rotting walls sheltered their latest addition,
still wet with bathwater and blood. The ghost wavered over her own corpse,
unseen, as her children fled from the horrible house. She could not ever leave
this place, not even when her mutilated body was discovered and removed; no,
she would remain. Freed from physical constraints and of time, she was now
bound by her spirit to dreadful revelation. She could envision things that had
happened, were happening, and would happen…and none of them offered salvation
or comfort. Perhaps this was Hell, then. The children would return, there would
be others, she must warn them…

Far below, the earth oozed, laughing. There were so many
buried there, some noble sacrifices imbued with forgotten magic, some tossing
restlessly in their muddy graves, all submitting to the eternal of this place.
Let this new one rage, let her flutter and flail with her silent screams. Let
the play begin!

In the empty attic, the moths danced with the little
stick-bug fairy, spinning around and around endlessly in the still summer air.

The waning moon shone weakly overhead, barely lighting the
trailing dirt road. Hand in hand, the siblings had walked for several hours as
the moon followed them. The sound of their breathing mingled with the scurrying
of insects and rodents unseen in the brush; their gasps at the rare hooting of
an invisible owl.

“Let’s rest,” Lucille suggested, and Thomas nodded gratefully,
dropping her hand. They were both tired and worn from the events of the night,
and Thomas was hiding his fear of being out in the dark vastness of Crimson
Peak. There weren’t many trees this near the path, but Lucille took his hand
again and let them from the road to a small hollow sheltered by scrubby bushes.
They sank down, happy to be off their feet for a few moments at least. They
nibbled at the bread they had brought.

“It will be dawn soon,” Thomas remarked.

Lucille brushed the crumbs from her nightgown. “We’ve come a
long way; the crossroads should not be too far from here.  Would you like to sleep a bit?”

Thomas nodded and pulled off his coat. Settling next to her,
he draped it over them both, curling his legs up beneath him. Lucille wrapped
her arms around him, and they fell into an exhausted slumber.  Soon the moon slipped beneath distant
hillside and the sky began to brighten.  The sister and brother were so soundly asleep
that they didn’t even stir as a horse came racing down the road toward the
town, or later when a party of riders returned at full gallop, followed shortly
by a wagon. It was only when the sun was rising in a hazy sky and the birds
began to sing in the meadow that they awoke, and they made their way back onto
the road.

@8@

Finlay hoisted the stack of branches onto his shoulder. The
wood would have to dry a bit more before it would be suitable for kindling, but
with the lady of the house returned and the wood stores depleted in her
absence, he needed to replenish the supply. His mistress was expecting more
company today, so it was only right to see to this little task.

Finlay was a simple man, in more ways than one. His family
had served the Sharpes almost as long as Allerdale Hall had been standing. His
small brick home was a short walk from the mansion; a groundskeeper’s hovel
that was larger than he needed but served him as well as it had his father and
grandfather before him. A small windbreak of saplings surrounded the place, allowing
him some privacy [or more likely, to hide the servants from the view of the
gentry living or visiting Allerdale Hall.] He preferred it that way. With the
decline of his responsibilities to the house, he was able to spend his time out
in the wild meadows of Crimson Peak, hunting rabbits and gathering what he
needed from the land, if it was kind enough to yield it to him. His needs were
few and basic: shelter, food, some drink, a good fire when it was cold, and the
entertainment of remembering the old stories and songs told to him when he was
a mere lad. He didn’t need much else, and was content.

He made his way to the kitchen door, humming one of the old
songs. Frowning, he stopped: the door was standing wide open, as if it hadn’t
been latched. He knew it had been locked when he had left the afternoon before,
after all the deliveries had been made. Poor Miss Lucille had locked it up
after them, when he had joined the porters on a rare trip to town for some
company. Too much company, probably, but the horse knew the way back, luckily. “Hullo?”
he called, peering through the doorway. “Lady Beatrice? Miss Lucille? Hullo!
Master Thomas?”

The kitchen was dark and the fires unlit. His footsteps
echoed on the floor. He set down the bundle, alarmed by this unusual quiet.
“Milady, is anything amiss?” There was no response, and Finlay grew more and
more worried as he tiptoed into the foyer. The sturdy front doors were still
bolted shut. Maybe Lady Beatrice had taken ill again, or perhaps they all had.
He mounted the stairs, crossing the walkway and knocking on her chamber door.
“Milady? Pardon the intrusion, ma’am,” he called out, and pushed the door open.
The room was as empty as the kitchen, but there was a smell that raised the
hairs on the back of his neck as soon as he detected it: blood, and the fetid
scent of something dead. “Lady Beatrice?”

Yelling in terror, Finlay dashed from the room at the
gruesome sight of his murdered mistress. Without a pause he fled the house and
ran back to his house. Shaking, he saddled his horse and tore off down the road
at top speed.  Wide eyed he had barely
stopped to tie up his horse before bursting into Farlam’s police station in a
panic. He stammered out his discovery, begging them to come at once. Not
accustomed to such sensational crime, the authorities reacted at once to return
to Crimson Peak. Constable Webber and Inspector Root rode out on their own
mounts followed by a wagon bearing Dr. Frederick Jones, Farlam’s foremost
surgeon and acting coroner, a court recorder, and the distraught Finlay.

Constable Webber was a steady, cautious man and wouldn’t
allow any other to enter the house before he had searched the premises,
together with Inspector Root. The murder scene was one of the most dreadful
sights he recalled having seen, and it would haunt him for months after.  Fortunately he was not required to remain in
the room for long: he was sent off to observe other parts of the house and to
check on Finlay, who couldn’t be persuaded to go farther than the stairs.

After excusing himself for a bout of retching at the bloody
sight, the court recorder returned with his sketchbook in hand and began to
draw, as delicately as he could, the entire scene. Inspector Foot and Dr. Jones
conferred in hushed tones over the bathtub and its gory contents. Dr. Frederick
retrieved several of the sheets from the bedroom as Inspector Foot drained the
tub.  With the utmost consideration they
lifted the cold but limp body from it and laid it out on the sheets spread over
the tiled floor. Carefully they removed the bone cleaver from the unfortunate
woman’s skull; a difficult task, it having been embedded so deeply. Setting the
weapon aside, they covered the naked corpse from unnecessary exposure before
continuing their examination.  It went on
for some time.

Constable Webber had
gotten Finlay a sizable drink to settle his nerves and had finally gotten the
poor groundskeeper to recall the events leading up to the discovery, starting
from the day before.  The simple fellow
had stammered out everything he could recollect, repeating himself when
Inspector Foot appeared in the kitchen. Suddenly Finlay paled. “Oh, I had
forgotten the young ‘uns!” he exclaimed. “Haven’t seen them, either, and I left
without thinking!”

“Children?” Inspector Foot asked. “There are children in the
house?”

“Young Master Thomas and Miss Lucille, yes,” Finlay replied,
shaking at the thought of what might have happened to them. “Their rooms are in
the attic, sirs, but I had no sight or sound of them when I came in.”

Constable Webber leaped to his feet and dashed up the
stairs. He returned shortly, only to report that the attic was deserted, and
that there had been no sign of violence in all the rooms. Had they been
abducted, then? Or had the poor things witnessed the crime and run off? Where
were they?

Dr. Jones was preparing to have the body of Lady Beatrice
removed to the wagon and driven to the mortuary in High Street in town, but
since there was great concern over the missing children, they decided to
unhitch the horses from the wagon to search for them. The surgeon would remain
with the body at Allerdale Hall as each of the remaining men took off in different
directions with hopes of finding the Sharpe siblings, safe and unharmed.

The two small figures were hand-in-hand when Constable
Webber found them near the crossroads, on the dirt road to Farlam. He was not
given to outbursts of emotion but he nearly wept with relief at finding them.
They were shivering and mute with fright, it seemed: the boy was particularly
reluctant to be placed on the saddle beside his sister as they returned to
Allerdale Hall. The girl merely murmured her thanks at their rescue, holding
tight to her brother all the way back. He could only imagine what they had
endured that night.

Finlay wrung his hands and wept when the children were
brought back to their ancestral home.
Inspector Root was as business-like and professional as Finlay was mawkish,
seeing that the children went up to dress after the night’s exposure, in order
to distract them from the sight of Dr. Jones’ proceedings.  He had questions to ask them, and did not
delay in doing so. Thomas was questioned first, and Lucille gave his hand a
quick, firm squeeze before going to the kitchen to prepare something hot and
substantial for them and the officers.  

The poor young lady must have been in shock, Dr. Jones
thought as he returned to the house, seeing how she performed her tasks in a
daze. She only shook her head when given the unfortunate news that her mother
had met with an untimely and gruesome death, but of course she and her brother
may well have been present when the crime was committed, although one hoped
they had not actually witnessed it. Dr. Jones was gentle and mild in conveying
the news to her that the body would be transported to the funeral home in Farlam,
and that perhaps she knew of anyone else that should be notified? The
dark-haired girl stared at him unblinking for several long moments before
replying that she knew only that Mother’s solicitor had visited just the other
day, and that there had been some arrangement made with an aunt in Surrey. She
was most obliged to the esteemed doctor, and asked if she might be allowed into
her mother’s quarters, in order to select an appropriate gown for Lady Beatrice’s
burial. Might she also have a lock of hair by which to remember her? Lucille
asked, to which he agreed as being most appropriate a gesture for a grieving
daughter.  He left her to her duties.

As if she were sleepwalking, Lucille made her way up the
steps to the master bedroom, gliding across the carpet without hesitation,
removing her mother’s dark mourning clothes from the armoire and laying them
across the bed. Turning, she moved to the washroom as if drawn to it, a moth to
flame.

The walls were still spattered with drying blood, the tub
streaked with crimson red. The tiles on the floor had streaks of brownish-red
in places. Lucille’s first thought was how to scrub the place clean, for she
had the sudden desire to rid herself of any trace of her mother’s presence from
the room. It did not stem from remorse or guilt: she was the lady of the house
now, and it simply would not do to have it in such a condition. Her unblinking
eyes fell on the bone cleaver, set aside and now forgotten, on the marble sink
top. What a fearsome thing it was, with its heavy, thick blade and curved
handle, almost like a battle ax, a weapon of war. Well, to her it was, and she
had won the battle against her hateful mother. She had brought down that
killing blow as if to counter every wicked word her mother had ever spat at
her, every blow of the cane that bruised and broken her body. She took up one
of the discarded sheets from the pile of bed linens and wrapped up the blade
without a second’s hesitation. Like the ring, this was hers, a memento.  She would hide it away, keep it, for Mother.

She carried the bundle under her arm, stashing it in the
larder when she returned to the kitchen to tend to the food. When she found a
moment, she dashed down the winding stone steps to the clay pits beneath the
house, where vast vats of murky red mud bubbled in the shadows. She pried up
one of the flagstones and tucked her prize beneath it, hastily replacing the
rock and returning upstairs. She fought to keep her face bland and unsmiling as
she busied with the meal.

Thomas came in, his face quite solemn, escorted by the
police constable. Although he remained silent, his eyes told Lucille that he
hadn’t revealed anything of the truth during his questioning. He had kept to
their story.  Lucille was proud of him,
her little brother now growing into an adult, the new lord of Allerdale Hall.
Together, they truly had no equal. They would be unstoppable in whatever they
set their minds to achieve.

Beneath them, the mud vats bubbled, the disturbed surfaces
swirling as if awakening. The pipes rattled as blood-red silt coated the
interiors, settling like rust. The disembodied vapor of their ghostly mother
stood unseen in the empty tub, shaking, eyes wide in horror, and screamed a
silent scream.

by SincereJester

Most certainly NSFW, this part! Crimson Peak is hungry, and will not be easily sated….

Part 6

To Thomas, Lucille was ethereal, with her white skin and
shift, and dark hair and eyes. As she returned to the nursery carrying the
jewelry box, she saw him and smiled, hiding the box deep inside one of the
crumbling walls, behind a fluttering mass of moth wings and torn cobwebs. She
slipped on a robe over her shift, leaving it loose, and sat on her bed. She
unraveled each of her trailing braids, the wavy locks covering her shoulders
like a dark, silken cloak. Humming, she took up a hairbrush and began to smooth
them out.  Lucille appeared quite
collected, even happy, but her hands shook, and she did not look in the mirror.
The stones on the ring caught the dusky light.

The house watched, the dark fey presence of it waiting.

The color had returned to Thomas’ face, now freshly washed.
His shirt was untucked again, and he had removed his waistcoat and tie. He
stood in front of her, barefoot, watching her brush her hair. Lucille looked so
lovely, even with the scratches marring her face, and he felt different, older
somehow. Although no words had passed between them, Thomas understood that he
now would have to care for Lucille as much as she had cared for him in the
past. She had crossed over some unidentified limit that night; something had
been released from the depths of her darkness that could not be locked away
again. She was beautiful the way crystal was beautiful: delicate, fragile, so
easily damaged… Was that how she had seen him all these years? He wondered what
would become of them.

He came to her side, taking the hair brush from her and
running it down the length of the silken strands, slow and evenly paced.
Lucille sighed, letting her head fall forward, relaxed. With each stroke,
Thomas thought, I love you; we’re together now and forever; I’ll protect you,
come what may.

“Thomas,” Lucille murmured, and although it was a whisper,
it was strong in the quiet of the attic. The evening sun drenched the room,
staining everything in it with ruddy-golden light.

“I’m here, darling sister,” he replied. Brushing her hair
back, he leaned down and kissed her shoulder. Light, gentle kisses fluttered
over her skin, to her neck, her jaw, small comforts that held heat within them.
With a twist she pulled off the ring, dropping it to the vanity. She took the
hairbrush from him and set it down, too, as he drew her to her feet. Embracing
her tightly, Thomas continued his barrage of kisses at the small of her throat,
across her neck, any bit of exposure he could reach. She cradled his head to
her, encouraging him, wanting the warmth of his passion to melt the coldness
within her.

His hands freed, Thomas stroked the length of her back,
urged on by Lucille’s touch. He found her hips and grasped them, pressing her
close to him. The sudden wave of agonizing pleasure was jarring, and he held
her like a vise, wondering what would happen without the barrier of clothing
between them. Lucille moved against him, making his moan. She twisted in his grip,
half-dancing as she guided him to the nanny’s room, to the large bed. She broke
free to perch on top of the covers.

Staggering, Thomas fell to his knees in front of her,
overcome with his blossoming lust. Lucille, panting with her own desire, began
to draw up the hem of her shift, exposing her long legs from calf to thigh, up
to her waist. Spreading them wider, she plunged her hand to the center, fingers
tracing along the wet folds. “Come to me,” she beckoned. “Kiss me, make love to
me.”

He reached for her, still kneeling, wanting something he
hadn’t ever experienced before, like they had seen in that book in the library,
the book of lovemaking. He kissed the inner part of her thighs, moving inward,
answering Lucille’s gasps of pleasure with those of his own. He replaced her
hands with his, amazed at the slickness of her on his fingertips, observing
every reaction his touch brought to her.

The house creaked, the wind panting with them through the
halls, roiling in a haze of sinful lust, a forbidden love. Crimson Peak was
ancient and remembered magic that people had forgotten, the sacrifices once
made on it, buried within it…and it was thirsty once more, roused from its
patient trance like a spider in its web, to the vibrations of its entangled
prey .  

With a long moan, Lucille rocked against Thomas’ kisses, her
hands twining in his hair. She relaxed as if melting onto the bed, tugging him
back by his curls. She smiled at him in the crimson light, and he smiled back,
the ocean-sweet taste her still on his lips. She sat up, taking him up onto her
lap; children but not children any longer.

She rocked him gently, like an infant, pressing his cheek to
her breast, and she began to sing. It was a lullaby she often sang to him. “Let
the winds blow kindly/in the sails of your dreams/Let the moon light your
journey/and bring you to me….”

Thomas wasn’t dreaming, of course, and he could hardly keep
still. Lucille undid his trousers, her hand finding his swollen flesh. He gave
a muffled cry as she grasped him, and she shushed him as she had many nights
before.  Releasing her hold, she slipped
out from under him. She stood him on his feet, trading places with him as she
sank to the floor, pulling down his trousers and smallclothes as she did. “Lay
back,” she said, and he did. She stroked the hard length of him, and gently
kissed it before drawing him between her lips and suckling him. He began
whimpering, his vision blurring in the dim light as he closed his eyes. He
never imagined this captive lust, this primal sensation…He felt the need to
move, to welcome her mouth around him, and she moved with him, humming the
lullaby.

Below them, forgotten, smoky wisps of violent red rose like
steam from the sinking body, the water now still as glass and cold. The crimson
earth oozed and pulled at the bricks and boards atop it, as if to tear the
incestuous lovers from their heaven to the very depths.  The house inhaled the sweet sounds of this
offering, binding its black wickedness into their perverted love as the walls
bled.

His heart hammering, Thomas grabbed at the blankets as he
began to lose himself. He gulped in air, desperately pulling breath into his
lungs as the intensity at his core increased. Lucille abruptly let go, sitting
back, concerned. “Thomas?” she asked her lips dark and eyes wide.

With a half-strangled cry, Thomas clutched at the clothes
rumpled at his feet, frantically trying to stem the wet burst that the sudden
release around him allowed. Lucille let out her own cry of dismay and moved to
assist him. His coughing gasps became quiet shuddering sobs as Thomas stood
shaking in the last of the dusky red light. Above him, the moths flapped and
fluttered their wings in the shadows. “Sh, sh,” Lucille hushed him. “It’s all
right, my darling, it will be all right. Don’t cry, dearest…”

“I c-couldn’t breathe,” he stammered.

“But you can now, can’t you?” she replied firmly. He nodded.
“There, then. Go change into your nightshirt. “She stared after him as Thomas
shuffled from the room, clutching his clothes. She shivered, hugging her arms
around her. The darkness seemed to reach out from the corners and surround her.
She felt suddenly small, weary.  “Thomas?”
she whispered, following after him.

Thomas stood in the common room of the nursery, dressed in
his nightclothes, eyes downcast, fidgeting.
He had lit the candles, the pale light flickering over his solemn
expression. “I’m sorry, Lucille.”

“You needn’t apologize, little brother,” she answered.
“There’s no shame in it. We are bound together, Thomas, bound to this house. We
are the last of the Sharpes, heirs to Allerdale Hall. Lord and lady of Crimson
Peak.” She embraced him tenderly, reassuring him. “Nothing can change that, now
or ever.”

Thomas shivered, doubts racing through him, but he dared not
voice them. He closed his eyes, retreating to the safety of his own thoughts
and merely held on to his sister in the shadows in silence as the candles
burned lower.

“We need to leave here,” Thomas murmured. “We need to leave
tonight, Lucille. We should just go.”

Lucille sighed. She knew he was right. As much as they would
try to shut out the rest of the world, it would come to them far sooner than
they would ever want. They could not just bar the door and expect to be left
alone.  But the necessity of their escape
made her indignant. This was their home; theirs by right and bought with pain
and suffering. They couldn’t simply abandon it. “Not before morning, sweetest,”
she argued. “This house and everything in it is ours. Ours! Without it, what do
we have?”

Thomas stared at her, eyes shining with emotion. “We have
each other. I promise you that, Lucille. We will always protect each other,
forever.”

“But…where will we go?” Lucille questioned.

“We’ll walk along the road; eventually it goes to Falham.
Then we can go to Surrey together, or London, or anywhere we wish. But we’ll be
together.”

“And what about Mother?
If anyone finds out what happened…”

“They won’t. I won’t tell, and you won’t. We’ll make up a
story,” Thomas suggested.  “You’re good
at stories.”

“It’s not as though she struck herself, Thomas…Oh, wait!
Let’s say that a robber came in and threatened to kill her if she didn’t give
him all her jewels and the keys to the silver cabinet! And we hid and ran away
because we were scared he’d kill us, too.”

Thomas nodded eagerly. “They’d have to believe that, since
Mother would never give up those keys and there’s hardly any silver left
anyway. And you hid the jewelry box.”

Lucille stood up, excited. “They will never part us if we
tell them that story!” She began to embellish the story in her mind, how they
had been sent up to the attic to go to bed; that they had heard a strange voice
in the house, and Mother screaming, and then nothing, and had climbed out a
window to escape into the night out of fear. It would work, this little fiction!
“Come on, then, let’s get on our coats and take some small things with us. I’ve
a few coins, and we must take some candles and a flint…” Lucille and Thomas
raced about, gathering a few necessary possessions. Lucille took up her
mother’s ring, reluctantly stashing it with the others in the box; she dared
not take it with her. Rushing down the stairs into the kitchen Lucille stuffed food
into their bags. She insisted that Thomas wear his jacket, and he threw it on
over his nightclothes. Following after her brother, she stepped out into the
dark embrace of the night on Crimson Peak. Thomas reached back, taking her
hand, and they fled across the hills like butterflies freed from a net.

By SincereJester

At last, dear readers, we reach a part long awaited…but not the end. Just the beginning, I should think…

Part 5

Claiming to have a great deal of pain in her head and leg,
Lady Beatrice ordered supper to be served in her bedroom, with all three of
them eating together. It was a silent affair, the tension thick between them.
Their mother, appearing oblivious to their turmoil, ignored them other than
issuing her orders. Thomas was to gather the dishes, take them down to the
kitchen and wash them.  Then he was to retire
to the attic, alone, while Lucille tended to Mother’s bath.

They finished their meal and the children moved to carry out
Mother’s demands. Lucille went to the bath to draw the water, and Thomas stood
with a deep breath. He had given this matter some thought and decided on a
course of action. As nervous as he was in Mother’s presence, he felt he must at
least make an attempt. “Mother,” he began, “There is no reason Lucille need go
to Switzerland. Surely there are convents and hospices in Surrey and
thereabouts; couldn’t she go there with me?”

Lady Beatrice’s gaze pierced through him like a pin through
a mounted insect. “You know as well as I why that will never occur, Thomas
Sharpe,” she declared.  “Thanks to your
sire, the Sharpe name is sullied enough; it is your obligation to redeem it, if
you’re able. You are heir to Allerdale Hall, a long and respectable legacy
before your father nearly brought it to ruin. Don’t question my decision, the
matter is done.”

Determined, Thomas forged on. “Lucille is a Sharpe, too,
Mother; surely she also has claim to her family name. If she can’t join me in
Surrey, then has she not earned the right to remain here, for all she has done
for us?”  Thomas had never been so bold
before, but he wouldn’t fail trying to champion his sister; she had given too
much to him, to lose the security of her home.

“The right?” Lady Beatrice sneered. “Oh, you are both very
much your father’s offspring, aren’t you? Rights! Your sister forfeited any
claim to this estate by acting the way she did; I should have had her disowned
because of it. She should be grateful that at least I have not done so. There’s
not a single house in all the gentry that would take a wife of such a wanton
slut. After your despicable actions, you dare to question me? I have my
reasons, and I need not justify them to my own ungrateful, rebellious children!
And you have the gall to plead for her, to beg for her continued companionship?
Were it not for your sake and for the damned Sharpe name, I should have had you
both disinherited and your sins told to all. Leave me now, boy, I don’t want to
set eyes on you again until I see you off tomorrow!”

Defeated and his face burning with shame, Thomas quickly
took up the dishes and beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen. Overhearing the
entire diatribe, Lucille viciously twisted the taps to release the gush of
clay-tainted water that rattled through the pipes and burst through the faucet.
She stared as the water ran from rust to clear, and she sealed the drain. She
was proud of her brother, for once acting more as an adult than a child, only
to be humiliated and dismissed. She knew how desperate he must have felt, to
overcome his terror of Mother and confront her. And she meekly went on,
silently caring for his tormentor! Without pausing, she rose from the side of
the bathtub and walked stiffly back to Mother’s room.  Bitterness welled up in her as she helped her
mother disrobe and don her wrap, but she couldn’t think of how to express her
roiling emotions. With a tenderness that belied her resentment, Lucille
escorted Mother across the tiled floor of the bathroom, helping her remove the wrap
and settle into the water. Lucille took up the robe, draping it over the screen
nearby. Mother leaned back with a sigh, the hot water soaking into her aching
flesh. “Out with it, girl,” she said abruptly. “Or do you plan on merely
staring at me in silence the whole night?”

Lucille didn’t blink when she asked, “Did you ever love us?
Or were you always so cruel?”

“Life is cruel, Lucille. My marriage was arranged, a
marriage of convenience; Sir James took me for my money. I was not young; I had
no other prospects, and he was a brute and a drunkard, but I was his by law. He
was my husband, but he never treated me as his wife. He forced himself on me
with his lustful perversions from the start, and you two were the result.
Love!” She made a disparaging noise. “Love is a lie, you ignorant child; a
falsehood found in those fairytales you tell your brother. Romantic nonsense!”

“That’s not true!” Lucille insisted. “I love Thomas, and he
loves me! We are your children, Mother, your own children—“

“You are more your father’s than any children of mine; you
are as willful and deviant and wicked as he ever was. Don’t you dare speak to
me of love, of that—that—vile, wicked thing you were doing. You’ve been a
willful, rebellious child since you were born, and your brother….he is just
like his miserable father; filled with sinful desire…I won’t allow it! I will
draw out the corruption infesting your souls.
Thomas will inherit this remnant of a once-proud and rich legacy: he
will be the lord of Allerdale Hall, Sir Thomas Sharpe, baronet, and there will
be no taint of scandal on him from you or anyone else. You will go to the
convent to learn chastity, humility and submission, even if the sisters need to
beat it into your wicked skin. At least I can spare you the fate of an unhappy,
arranged marriage; you can have some vocation as a nurse if you want.”

“I want to stay with Thomas. I can go to Surrey, join an
order there—“

“Out of the question!” her mother interjected angrily.

“Please, Mother, don’t do this to us!” Lucille begged. “I
have never asked you for anything, ever, I have always cared for you and
Thomas. Please!”

“Stop this hysterical display this instant!” roared Mother.
“It is ugly and unbecoming.”

“At least let me stay here, then,” Lucille argued. “I can look
after the house, and I can care for you.”

Mother glared at her, meeting Lucille’s wide-eyed
desperation with undisguised revulsion. “Do you take me for a fool?” she
demanded. “You think I would keep you here, alone with me? You think I would
allow you to continue your murderous plots against me, without witnesses?”

“What?” Lucille exclaimed, jumping up in alarm.

“Foolish girl, you didn’t think I was ignorant of your
poisoning your father—the tea, was it? Oh, yes, girl, I know the truth, I have
known for some time. Where did you learn to do that, girl, if not from my
books, eh? Oh, yes, young lady, there was a time when your mother was quite the
scholar, better read than that man I was forced to marry, and I know the
symptoms of poisoning not only when I see it, but when I experience it. I don’t
think I’ll be taking any more of your tea, Lucille, or anything else from you.”
She sank back in the murky bath water. “You are monsters, Lucille; you and your
brother and this monstrous passion you call ‘love’. You’ve twisted your
sisterly affection into something dark and evil. You are both monsters!”  

Half-blind with rage, Lucille shrieked, rushing away from
the bathroom, stumbling down the staircase flapping her arms like moth wings in
the dim light, fleeing her mother’s vicious verbal assault. She knew, Mother
knew and she would punish her; she would cane the skin from her very
bones…there was no hope for her now, no hope for her or for Thomas…Thomas!
Mother would tear them apart and she would never see him again! She would be
alone, unloved and monstrous and alone…!

Lucille wasn’t even conscious of entering the kitchen. She
staggered about in the darkness, going to the right side around the table
toward the fireplace and stove instead of toward the elevator on the left. Arms
outstretched, her hand fell on the butcher block, reflexively grasping the
handle of the bone cleaver imbedded there.
Jerking it free, she spun around and raced back up the stairs, berserk
with hatred.  

Lady Beatrice stabbed an accusing finger toward her as if to
continue her ranting as Lucille careened through the doorway, but her scolding
rose to a horrified scream as Lucille heaved the cleaver up in both her hands
and smashed it down into her mother’s skull, nearly splitting it in two. Blood
and gore and shards of bone exploded everywhere. Lady Beatrice fell back in the
bathtub, unnaturally wide eyes slipping closed, the breath wheezing out her
dead lungs with a chilling groan, the blade still stuck in her head.

Lucille let go, reeling back, her chest heaving from the
effort. A sudden calm washed over her, and she stood unmoving as the water grew
red as wine. She had killed her, slaughtered her as easily as she had the pigs,
and she felt nothing. Mother was dead. She was dead, and they were free.

“Lucille!”

She heard Thomas calling her. His voice sounded distant,
muffled. She found her voice, answering him. “Here, Thomas, I’m here! It’s all
right, my love; come see.”

“Lucille, what…” Thomas burst into the room, only to freeze
at the ghastly sight in the bathtub. “Lucille,” he whimpered.

She reached a hand out to him. “Come here, darling brother,”
she said, her voice calm and quiet. “Let’s wait and see if the moths take her
soul away.”

Thomas stood next to his sister, panting in fear and
disbelief, as the room grew more still. The water rippled as blood dripped, the
body slumped like a drowned thing in the tub. Lucille drew a deep breath, let
it out slowly, and shrugged. Thomas gripped her hand tighter. “Well, I guess
she didn’t have much of one,” Lucille remarked when there was no whispered
flutter of moths’ wings. “A soul, that is. If she does have one, I hope it rots
in Hell.” She pulled him along to the bedroom without a backward glance.

Thomas simply gaped at her, the horror of what she had done
too great a shock for him to fully comprehend. “What are we going to do now?”
he whispered.

“We are going to go upstairs and stay there together, but
there are things I must do first.” Lucille released his hand and began to strip
off her spattered dress. Standing in front of him in her shift, she placed the
garment in his arms. “Take that to the attic and burn it. I’ll join you
soon.”    

She stared after him as he shuffled out the room like a
sleepwalker, motionless until she knew he was gone. Suddenly she became a
whirlwind of activity, going to the dressing table and gathering up the stray
pieces of jewelry set on the vanity before the glass, dumping them into the
ornate jewelry box. Peering into the box, a flash of crimson caught her eye.  Mother’s ring, the blood-red garnet cabochon
surrounded with chips of marcasite set in gold, the very one that had scarred
her face…this she could not risk leaving it out of her reach. It was hers; all
the jewelry was hers now, but especially that ring—she had earned it. She
shoved it onto her finger, scooped up the jewelry box and hurried to the lift.

Rising from the dark depths to the attic nursery, the dark
moths greeted her, their fluttering wings sounding like applause. Lucille
couldn’t help but smile. She was Lady Sharpe, mistress of Allerdale Hall, and
she had triumphed at last.

by SincereJester

And here’s part 4, dear readers…

Lucille was stiff and sore the next morning when she opened
her eyes to the gloomy surroundings of her mother’s bedroom. Her face ached,
the scratches raw and itchy. The fire had burned down, and she knew it would be
her responsibility to build it up again. At least she could light it from the
embers. It wasn’t long before the flames were crackling in the fireplace.

She was stirring the porridge on the stove in the kitchen when
she heard the furtive creak of the floorboards behind her. Dropping the spoon
on the tabletop, she turned around and gathered her brother up into her arms,
hugging him close. His hair was wild and uncombed, but he had pulled on a pair
of trousers and socks and partially tucked in his shirt before sneaking down
the winding staircase. For a long moment, the siblings simply held each other,
shaking in their combined misery. Abruptly Lucille drew back and took up the
spoon.  She gave the porridge a few more
brisk stirs. “She mustn’t find you here,” Lucille muttered. She took up a bowl
and dolloped a generous amount into it, pouring honey from the new jar over it.
She took out a bit of sacking and bundled up an apple and a handful of walnuts
and shoved it toward him. “Take these upstairs and eat. Wait there for me.
There’s a great deal to do today, but I hope to be sent up sometime. Do wash up
and dress, Thomas.“  She paused, staring
at Thomas’ sad, somber face. “Did you sleep at all, my darling?”

Thomas shrugged, picking up the bowl and packet. “I was all
right. Your little fairies kept me company,” he replied quietly. He meant the
dark-winged moths that fluttered in the rafters of the nursery roof, and she knew
that he had slept in her bed rather than his, poor lonely lad. “I probably
slept better than you, at any rate. I love you, Lucille.” He leaned forward and
gently kissed the cut on her forehead, then her still-sore lip. “Come up when
you can, dearest sister, so I can comfort you.” He left the room as quietly as
he had arrived, balancing her gifts in his wide hands, vanishing like mist.

Lucille stared after Thomas, wanting nothing more than to
follow him up to their haven, to barricade them in and forget everything
outside of their little world. They loved each other; they needed nothing
else.  She sighed. Despite the fact that
they weren’t infants, they were still considered children and thus dependent on
their mother, regardless of how she treated them. Lucille’s expression hardened
into a bitter mask. Well, she had cared for her mother before, in fact was
still required to, and she could be sure that didn’t change…for as long as
necessary. Patience, she told herself. She reached for the red tin of tea.

@8@ * @8@

Thomas was properly dressed, his hair brushed back and face
well-scrubbed, when Lucille came up bearing a tray with soup and bread for him.
She was exhausted and aching, but pleased. The larder was full, everything
meticulously inventoried and stored away. Mother’s other purchases had arrived,
carried by the porters into the foyer: bundles and packages, even a large flat
portrait of Lady Beatrice, extravagances the likes of which Lucille had not
seen for a long time. She had no expectation of there being gifts for them
among the many parcels; she could not recall ever having received gifts from
her parents. There were no celebrations at Allerdale Hall, not even for
Christmas. The children made do for each other, instead.

“I made you something,” Thomas greeted her shyly, holding
his offering out in his hand. It was a slender little stick figure on a string,
waxed paper wings and little dress fluttering as he stood it up. It had a tiny
carved face with wide glittering eyes, its arms and legs delicate twigs. With a
few tugs on the string, it twirled and danced in the air like a living thing.

“Oh, it’s a little fairy!” Lucille exclaimed, enchanted. It
looked similar to the bug-like creature in their mural, a disguised little
sprite about which they had made up stories. “You are so clever, little
brother.”

A warm smile brightened his face, his eyes gleaming. “You
like it, then?”

“Of course!”  She took
up the puppet string from him. “Where shall we put her? By the window, perhaps,
so she can catch the breeze and the sunbeams and dance?” Thomas nodded
enthusiastically, and Lucille deftly placed the toy on a branch she had set in
a vase to brighten the little sitting room. She stared as it swung and rocked,
half-insect and all magic. “Eat your food, Thomas,” she commanded suddenly, as
if coming back from a reverie. “Mother wants us to attend her at tea. Mr.
McFarlane is coming to visit.”

Mr. McFarlane was Mother’s solicitor, and they couldn’t
imagine why he would come from Scotland to Cumberland to visit, nor could they
fathom why they both needed be present. Lucille went to dress as Thomas
hungrily consumed the welcome meal. Once finished, Thomas helped Lucille comb
out her thick, black hair as she dabbed powder over her cuts. “It will fester,
Lucille,” he cautioned.

“Better that than fail Mother’s demands, since I must be
presentable,” Lucille muttered. Her skin looked all the more pale, but that was
fashionable in a young lady of high birth. She plaited her hair into thick
braids, pinning it in place.

Thomas did up his collar and neck scarf, nervously smoothing
his waistcoat. He always felt clumsy and timid around Mother. Knowing he must
stand as still and impassive as a statue when he was in her presence, he
fidgeted now, as they went down to the great room.

Thomas played the part well when he was sent to open the
door and usher in Mr. McFarlane, taking his coat and hat graciously and leading
him into the parlor as Lucille, dressed in her somber best, swept in carrying
the tea set aloft and set it on the long table. Thomas took up position near
her, standing more like a page or footman than the heir to Allerdale Hall as
his sister offered tea to their guest and mother.

Mother was sitting straight and unbending in one of the two
high backed wingchairs and took the offered cup from Lucille, meeting her stare
with one of her own. She pointedly took a small sip of the tea before beginning
her conversation with their guest, apologizing for not rising to greet him, as
she had just concluded her visit to London and had been feeling poorly. Mr.
McFarlane replied with some sympathy, hoping she would be well soon, as he sat
and sipped his own tea. Wordlessly, the children sat on opposite sides of the
sofa facing them and looked down in their laps, the model of polite dignity.

Lady Beatrice could act charming when she so wished, but the
darkness never seemed to leave her prematurely aged face, nor the cruelty from
her piercing gaze. “I do appreciate your prompt attention in visiting Allerdale
Hall, Mr. McFarlane; I do hope we can conclude our own business as swiftly as I
was able to do so in London. “

“As you know, I have been occupied for some time in
discharging the various debts incurred by my late husband,” she continued, her
expression sour at the mention of Sir James Sharpe. “I am pleased to say that
those duties have now been fulfilled in their entirety and Allerdale Hall is no
longer beholden to any creditors; I have the documents for you to look over,
and took the liberty of having copies done for your records. Our holdings are
secure and in the clear, as depleted as they are. You’ll see that there is
scarcely enough for our continued care, but it is intact. At this time we
cannot reopen the mines, although I’m certain they could yield a great deal
more in income should we ever be able to do so. “

“Lady Beatrice, this is most welcome news!” the solicitor
exclaimed. “I’m most pleased to hear it.”

She gave a disdainful sniff. “I am merely glad to have the
business behind me. I was able to retain some of my own fortune and personal items,
at least. He was not able to lose everything.” She set down the cup and folded
her hands in her lap. “It does bring me to my next subject, however, and the
reason I wanted you present.  We are
forbidden from selling any part of the estate by law, and the land is unable to
produce at this time, so it will have to remain as inheritance to Thomas when
he comes of age, to do as he may with it. He of course has the Sharpe title,
not that it will do him much good. To put it plainly, Mr. McFarlane, I find
myself in some difficulty in regards to the children’s education and society
under these circumstance.

“Allerdale Hall is remote and even inaccessible during part
of the year; this will only impede Thomas’ progress. He is of an age when such
matters must be considered, and I have given it a great deal of thought. There
is some allowance due to him for his maintenance, which should be sufficient
for his needs. Sir James wished for Thomas to have a military commission, but I
think his temperament is not suited for such a profession; we shall see as he
progresses. My conclusion is that his education as a gentleman and advancement
in society will best be served by attending school in Surrey. My sister,
Florence, has graciously accepted to have Thomas to her estate as ward in this
endeavor. There is some need for haste, Mr. McFarlane, since Thomas is to leave
for Surrey tomorrow. I’ve just had my sisters’ confirmation, you see, and why I
sent for you immediately. “

The siblings
stiffened in surprise at this news and risked a sideward glance at each other.
Lucille felt some relief that Thomas would not be given a commission. Thomas
really wasn’t likely to make a good soldier, and she couldn’t bear the idea of
him in such rough and violent surroundings. But to be sent away from Cumberland
to distant Surrey, to an aunt they hardly knew? The thought made her quake
inside. Allerdale Hall was their home and they had never before gone farther
than the town.

“Most generous of your sister, milady,” Mr. McFarlane
commented.  

“Not at all,” Lady Beatrice countered. “As a childless
widow, Florence is in need of something to occupy herself. She places a great
deal of importance on the proper education of today’s youth, but never had the
fortune of having children. I imagine having the stewardship of her nephew will
allow her to reassert her position among her peers.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” the solicitor murmured soothingly.
“Lady Florence will also be instrumental in the instruction and presentation of
Miss Lucille, I presume?”

Lady Beatrice gave a tight, thin lipped smile. “On the
contrary, Lucille will not be going to Surrey. It does not suit her
temperament: she is far too studious and retiring for such society. I have been
corresponding with a convent in Switzerland that I find to be suitable to her
vocation: the sisters there are skilled in the healing arts, and I am certain
Lucille will find her calling among them.”

Thomas’ eyes widened in dismay at the revelation of
Lucille’s fate. He was well aware that Lucille would rather be hunting
butterflies in the surrounding meadows than pay a visit to other ladies of fine
breeding, or that she’d prefer reading about plants and herbs and such rather
than entertain their peers with her musical talents. Yet, the idea that Lucille
would be shut away in a nunnery was absurd. Even worse was the idea that they
would be separated, exiled from the only home they had ever known. None of the
Sharpes had ever been especially religious. Their parents had attended church,
of course, and had seen to their religious education, but their father in
particular couldn’t be bothered with such blatant expressions of the spiritual,
and only did the minimum in obligation. The children couldn’t remember any sort
of merriment or cheer even on holidays; observances were usually somber affairs
devoid of celebration. He turned his face toward hers, only to see her give a
small shake of her head, warning him to stay still and silent.

Mr. McFarlane set down his empty cup. “Ah, but of course you
know your daughter best, milady. She has been such a caring and devoted
daughter to you for some time, I know. What a considerate mother you have,
children. What say you to her?”

With their intense gaze locked on Lady Beatrice, sister and
brother rose and gave formal, stiff bows. “We thank you for your kind
consideration, Mother,” Lucille said, the coldness evident in her response.

“Your efforts on our behalf are most appreciated,” Thomas
added, his gentle voice hiding his inner upset.

A more loving mother would have embraced them; Lady Beatrice
merely nodded. “Both of you are dismissed. If Mr. McFarlane is done with his
tea, please clear it away, Lucille. Thomas, I suggest you begin your packing.”
Turning her attention back to her lawyer, she continued. “Is it possible to
expedite any remaining paperwork, then?”

“Certainly, milady. We should be able to resolve everything
before this evening.”

“Will you be joining us for supper?”

“I thank you for the invitation, but I regret I must
decline. At our conclusion I must away to the depot and wire my office. I’ve
arranged to stay there the night; I wouldn’t want to impose.” He was only being
polite; it was obvious that there wasn’t staff for a proper dinner, nor had
there been enough time for its preparation, even if they had. Lady Beatrice
accepted his refusal with a gracious nod as Lucille gathered the tea set and
Thomas returned the man’s coat and hat. The siblings filed out wordlessly
through the doorway to the kitchen before rushing to the nursery, scarcely able
to contain their turmoil.

Lucille fluttered around the sitting room of the nursery
like a butterfly caught in a net, picking up and straightening items out of
habit. Thomas slumped against the wall by the window, staring dully at the
little stick fairy puppet he had made. It twirled in the wind, a mockery of
Lucille’s frantic spinning.

“Lucille, stop,” Thomas begged as his sister began to stack
his linens. “Please, Lucille, stop! I won’t go. Not without you. “

“We have no choice, Thomas, don’t you see?” Lucille burst
out. “We are hers and we must obey her wishes.”

“Then I’ll go, but you must come with me,” replied Thomas.
“I know it will be hard for you, but we would be together in Surrey, away from
her.”

“That is why she will never allow it, my darling! She saw
us, little brother; she saw the love that she could never have, and all she
wants is to destroy it as she has destroyed all the rest of our happiness! Oh,
how I hate her! She will never allow us see each other again!” Lucille slid to
the floor, shaking with resentment and sorrow. No matter how steady and aloof
she might pretend to be, she was still a child just on the verge of womanhood,
and at that moment she looked like a lost and frightened bird in a storm.  “I’ll die, Thomas, I’ll die without you!”

Thomas collapsed down beside her, drawing her into his embrace.
“No, you won’t, Lucille. There’s a whole world out there, a whole other life we
could live. And we won’t be parted from each other; I don’t care what she wishes!
I’ll find a way.” Lucille clung to him, and he held her. “We should leave here,
tonight.”

Lucille sighed. “We’ve talked about this; where would we go,
and how? At least you’ll finally escape this place as you’ve wanted to: you’ll
be given an opportunity to become true heir to Crimson Peak, a baronet. I have
nothing without you. A cloistered life, imprisoned in a nunnery to tend to the
sick and diseased, forced to kneel and beg and pray, to live without love? Even
now I must do my duty toward her, that spiteful witch, and she takes my effort
and twists it into chains to bind me in misery. No, Thomas, there’s no escaping
her wrath. We are damned, the both of us, for daring to love.”  She kissed his forehead, and stood. “Finish
your packing; I need to see to supper. Mother will insist I remain with her
again tonight, no doubt, but I will try to come up to you later.”

“Lucille….” He sobbed, grasping her hand in his and bringing
it to his lips.

“No, no more of this now. Later, my sweetest, let us hope
for later.” And then she tore herself away from the only one she loved, and who
loved her in return.

Due to the nature of the canon, I’ve posted this fic on my blog for more mature content, All trigger warnings are implied: INCEST, ABUSE, VIOLENCE, ETC

by SincereJester

Part 3 

Stumbling out from under the bed, Thomas prostrated himself
on the floor, screaming and banging with his fists in frustration and fear. He
felt like a coward. He should go after them, he told himself. He should defend
his sister, protect her from Mother’s righteous cruelty as she had done for him
so many times before, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t! He knew he wasn’t as strong
as Lucille; he couldn’t stand up to Mother, let alone when she was in a temper
like that one. He wept, growing silent as he strained to hear what was
happening below, but he could hear nothing. The lift rattled and descended
again, wind whooshing through the house like a giant’s groaning breath. His
heart pounding, Thomas shrank back, hugging the wall, and he fled to his bed in
a panic, pulling the covers around him.

The lift arrived on the attic landing, and Lucille silently
walked in, hunched over in pain. Thomas threw back the blankets and ran across
the room, peering at her from the doorway. “Lucille?” he called softly.

Lucille stopped by the faded mural they had painted on the
wall years ago before turning to face him. Thomas gasped. Two small but deep
gashes ran across the left side of her face, one on her forehead by her scalp,
another one torn just above her upper lip. Blood dripped in a crimson curtain
down her face, staining the collar of her nightgown.  “Oh, Lucille, your face!” he exclaimed,
rushing to her.

Her fingers shaking, she traced her cut lip. “It’s just a
little scrape, Thomas, soon mended. Must have caught on Mother’s ring…” She
pushed him back, lurching toward the door toward Teresa’s old room. She was
supposed to have moved into it after their governess had been dismissed, for
the sake of modesty. Of course, she had not done so; she wouldn’t be separated
from Thomas, not even in slumber.  

“Dearest sister, you are very hurt,” Thomas insisted, not to
be put off. He trailed after her into the room. Perversely the sun was now
shining through the dancing dust motes, the storm clouds gone. “Why did you
send me away? I should have stayed, I should have stopped her!”

“There is no stopping Mother’s cruelty, little brother, you
know that.” She stepped in front of the mirror, eyes blurring at the sight of
her marred face.  Her beauty had been one
of her greatest assets, the only assurance she might have had for a marriage to
one of her peers, given their poverty. But that was not the source of her
sorrow, since she had not wanted such a fate before. Rather it was that she had
always seen the reflection of her brother’s perfection in her own skin, a sign
of their unsullied purity and innocence in the face of their parents’ cold
hatred toward each other and toward them. Mother had never been beautiful, and
her jealousy had made her even uglier in Lucille’s mind, a cruel witch of a
woman who twisted what should have been love into hate for her unfortunate
children. She had deprived her daughter of so much already, and now she had
robbed her of her youthful beauty.

Lucille found a cloth to dab at her wounds, staring into the
glass. “Not such a beautiful princess anymore, am I?” she choked. “Even with
the salves, there will be scars.”

Thomas sank down next to her, his own eyes shining with
unshed tears. “You will always be beautiful to me, sister,” he replied, and he
kissed her shoulder tenderly. In the past, he had often helped smooth the many
concoctions Lucille manufactured for cuts and scrapes on her back, where she
could not reach them. He knew each of the whip marks she bore there, usually
concealed and out of sight. She had doctored him in the same way, when she
couldn’t intervene and he had received punishment, rare as it had been. “It is
too much to bear, Lucille; she has gone too far this time. We must do
something.”

“Such as? There’s nothing to be done, my sweet; we must
endure it.”

“We should run away from here, leave Allerdale Hall, get
away from Mother and this dreadful place.”

For a moment, Lucille stared at their reflection in
consideration, and then gave a dismissive snort. “And where shall we go? No,
dear Thomas, this is our home, our whole existence. We are who we are. We have
no one else, and nowhere else to go. We are lovers, are we not? Nothing in the
world can take us from each other now. And we will survive this together. We
are bound to each other, forever.” She winced at the salve’s sting as she
applied it to the cuts.  “Go back to your
bed, dearest. If I’m able, I’ll bring you some food.”

“You won’t stay?” he asked anxiously.

Lucille frowned. “No, I must tend to the house and to Mother
now. She’s brought back things from London, and there will be more deliveries
from town tomorrow.  Polly will be along
to gather the washing in a few days, and I must do the baking once the larder
is replenished. Finlay will restock the coal and wood tomorrow, too. “

“Perhaps I can help?” Thomas offered.

“No,” Lucille said firmly. “You mustn’t let Mother see you.
She’s retired to her room for the remainder of the day, but she is still very
angry. You must let me care for her, and stay out of sight. I know you can
occupy yourself for days; you’ll be all right. I’ll come up if I’m able.”

“Will you sing to me tonight?” His back ached terribly, and
he was sure Lucille had more bruises, too. He wanted her to stay with him, safe
in their attic retreat. He was cross that Lucille had to tend to Mother instead
of him. They should be together, to comfort each other after her abuse.

Lucille’s expression deadened into a flat mask. “I will not
be allowed to sleep in the nursery tonight, Thomas. I wonder that I shall sleep
at all! Mother demands I stay by her side day and night.”

“But she can’t stand us!” Thomas exclaimed.

“I think she will not allow me away from her watchful eye
for the time being. But at least she has not locked us up in separate rooms, as
she threatened to do.” Thomas almost laughed at the absurdity of the threat. It
wasn’t like Lucille couldn’t open any lock in the house. “Don’t laugh, Thomas,
she would if she thought it would keep us apart, and if she didn’t need my
help. Go on, then, behave yourself and stay quiet. I need to dress.”
Impulsively she embraced him, then rose and escorted him back to his bed.

She was certain that Thomas did occupy himself for the
remainder of the day and into the night, although she had no chance to discover
proof of it. Mother kept her scurrying around from kitchen to bedroom and
everywhere save the attic all through the afternoon. After her rant, Mother had
gone up to her room straight away, with orders for Lucille to clean up the mess
she had made in the parlor and kitchen, inventory and store the few goods she
had brought from London, and be sure that all was clean and prepared for the
larger order of supplies that would be brought the next day. She was to prepare
and serve supper and tea, also, Mother commanded her as she sat by her desk,
writing out various correspondences without even glancing at her daughter.
Mother reiterated that Lucille was to return to the bedchamber after washing up
the dishes and remain there the entire night. “And if I hear that elevator at
any point, I will cane you until you can’t walk, mark my words. You and your
brother cannot be trusted together. Missing supper is small punishment for what
you two were doing, wicked, sinful brats that you are! Go on, girl,” she waved
dismissively.

Poor Thomas! Lucille was certain that he would cry himself
to sleep tonight, and it burned in her that she could not even send him a tray
in the lift. She moved mechanically around the house doing her chores. Pinning
on an apron, she retrieved the tea set, and washed up the few dishes and pans
that were dirty. Opening the tap to flush out the ever-present crimson clay
residue, she drew and boiled the water in the kettle for mother’s tea. On the
tray, she set out the teapot, strainer, and sugar, with one cup balanced just
so on the matching saucer.  Reaching for
the tea tin, she paused, and slowly she moved to take up the red tin of
Father’s tea.

She could do it. It would be nothing to add the entire
contents of the tin to the teapot and poison the woman who had caused them so
much pain. It would be swift and it would be brutal…and it would  mean the end of them. No, she would be
patient, just as she had with Father. Eyes wide and unblinking, she carefully
measured out the leaves into the pot. A small secret smile tugged at her
bruised lips as she poured in the water to seep. Wordlessly she took the tray
up to Mother, watching as she drank it. Yes, she would bide her time.  

She returned to the kitchen with the tray and cleaned it,
carefully wiping each item dry. She went about making the soup she had promised
to Thomas for their supper and of which he was to be deprived. Adding a bit
more of the coal to the oven, she stoked up the fire and closed the iron door.
She set out the soup pot on the stovetop, measured the dried peas and water
into it, and retrieved the treasured ham bone and a few weepy vegetables she
had left in the larder. Lucille was quick and efficient in chopping the
vegetables, adding them into the pot with a sweep of her hand, and took up the
ham bone to the butcher block.

She was proud of that ham; she had butchered the pig, one of
the last left in the barn, under the guidance of the old cook, Mrs. Toller,
before she had been let go. The old woman had been one of the last to leave,
but at least Lucille had been prepared when she had. Escaping the nursery via
the lift, Lucille had often been underfoot in the kitchen. Mrs. Toller had had
a rare bout of pity for the tall, serious girl and schooled her in such domestic
culinary arts; knowledge most noblewomen would never have need to know. Her
insatiable thirst for knowledge was to serve her well. Lucille had a strong
scientific manner and was not at all daunted by the sight of a full pig’s
carcass, wielding the heavy bone cleaver without hesitation and dividing it up
into all the various cuts of pork while Mrs. Toller had advised her on the best
manner of preserving the meat. Lucille hoped that Finlay would have another pig
for them, if not a few piglets, to replenish the larder now that she was using
the last of her precious pork. She took up the cleaver and hacked the bone into
several parts, adding them to the pot. Giving it a stir, she added a few
pinches of spices and covered it to boil. It was very basic fare, but she
didn’t care. Knowing her brother would be deprived of it lessened any appetite
she might have had.

As expected, Mother complained that she wasn’t
feeling well, and retired to bed early in the evening. She barely even ate any
of the soup, and did not even take her customary soak in the bath to ease the
ache in her crippled leg. Lucille was forced to sit on one of the ornate settees
and read biblical passages aloud as Mother settled into slumber. No doubt she
hoped that her wayward daughter would take some instruction from the words, but
Lucille was too tired and sore to pay attention to them. Once she was certain
that Mother was asleep she set aside the bible, curled up under a throw and
fell asleep, hoping Thomas had at least done the same and gone to bed. Perhaps
things would be better in the morning. 

As promised, here’s part 2. Again, posting this on my 18+ blog, slutty-yorick due the mature content. warning: INCEST within [c’mon, folks, that’s CANON], and more violence. 

@8@     Do Us Part  {A Crimson Peak Fanfic}       @8@    

By SincereJester

Part 2

It was always a joy to awaken to the relative calm of the
house when Mother was away. Lucille didn’t hesitate to get out of bed the next
morning, even though the air was humid and clouds were drifting over the hills
outside.  Wrapping a plaid shawl around her
nightgown, she swiftly moved to stoke the embers in the iron stove, adding
another log to feed the flames into a warm glow. It was always drafty in the
nursery now, the wind seeping through the cracks in the window frames and
whistling up in the rafters even in August. Cracks were beginning to form in
the plaster, lathing showing through the holes like bones in the house’s
crumbling façade. A veil of decay and rot hung over the whole attic, but today
she didn’t care; she and Thomas needn’t be confined to their drafty chambers.

“Thomas,” she whispered, moving over to his bed. She kissed
his forehead. “I’m going down to light the oven and fetch us some
breakfast.  Join me, won’t you? I’ll make
it special, just for us. We don’t have to dress, just come along. Mother’s away
and no-one’s here..”  Cocooned in
blankets, Thomas nodded his tousled dark curls, yawning. Lucille practically
skipped down the stairs, not feeling the need to use the rattling cage-like
lift when she was in such good spirits.

Lucille was quick about her tasks, and by the time Thomas
appeared, sleepy-eyed and hair still uncombed, a worn tartan draped over his
nightshirt, the kitchen hearth was warm and inviting. Lucille smiled as she set
out his breakfast on the well-worn work table.

“You’ve made me eggs!” Thomas exclaimed in astonishment.

“And toast,” Lucille added proudly. “That was the last of
them, so I thought I’d make you a treat. I know they’re your favorite.”

“I couldn’t eat them both,” Thomas protested. “We can share
them; you have one.”

“I’d be far more content with watching you enjoy them. I
made them for you,” Lucille replied. “Go on, now, before they get cold.”
Lucille took up the heel of bread on the board and spread a bit of jam on it.
She had used the last of the butter for the eggs and toast, but even the bread
and jam were a welcome change from the porridge they usually had. The kettle
hissed and clattered, and she moved it from the fire. With a saucy look, she
brought out Mother’s fancy tea set, the one used for company, and set it on the
table.

Thomas grinned at her; he knew this was naughty, and just
like Lucille to do when Mother was away. “I’ll get the tea,” he proclaimed,
jumping up to gather the tin.  

“Oh, no, Thomas, not that one,” Lucille said, handing back
the faded red tin. “We mustn’t ever use that one. That was Father’s tea.”

“I thought maybe we’d use it for special occasions,” Thomas
remarked.

“But that’s the one I made just for him, when he took ill. I
don’t want to use it anymore; the leaves are probably musty now. Let’s use the
other, in the blue tin. And we can add sugar, too.” Lucille wished there was
cream or at least milk, but just doing something so forbidden was more than
enough to satisfy her. Deftly she opened the blue tin Thomas had handed her and
spooned the fragrant leaves into the teapot, adding the water.  After allowing it to steep, she strained the
tea into the two cups and added lumps of sugar—one for her, two for Thomas,
stirring them with a teaspoon. “We should have a proper tea party,” she said.

“We haven’t any cakes or biscuits,” Thomas reminded her.

“We might have an oatcake left, or maybe a raisin bun. Oh!”
she suddenly exclaimed. “There’s a biscuit tin in the parlour; certainly
there’s some shortbread left in there!” She took up the tea tray, urging Thomas
to follow her.

This was very daring! With the throw around him held with
one hand and the remains of his toast in the other, he trailed after Lucille
into the main hall. The vast room that housed the piano on one side of it and
the two-storied library on the other echoed with their footsteps and the
clattering of the tea set as Lucille set it down. She pried open the biscuit
tin, triumphantly holding aloft the discovered shortbread. “There! Now we can
have a pleasant time in the parlour and Mother will be none the wiser! I’ll put
up a soup with the peas and the last of the ham for supper, and we can have a
bit of bread and cheese later. But for now,” she proclaimed, handing Thomas one
of the tea cups and a biscuit, “We shall have a proper tea!”

Grinning, Thomas took the offering and sat on the sofa,
knowing there was nothing proper about them being in that room, or any room
other than the nursery. Lucille had far more freedom to move about Allerdale
Hall than he, because the task of housekeeping fell to her now, but this room
was especially forbidden. Mother seemed to enjoy denying Lucille access to the
few refined things she enjoyed: the books, the piano—Lucille was an
accomplished reader and player, but there wasn’t any time for her to indulge in
such luxuries now. She cooked, cleaned and tended to Mother, who had come to
rely on her as her lady’s maid in assisting her to dress and bathe when she was
at home. It just seemed so unfair that Lucille had become such a drudge, a
Cinderella in her own home! Thomas tried to ease her burden as much as he
could, gathering the fuel, filling the pots and kettles, scrubbing the
woodwork, whatever he could, and when she would wave him away back to the
attic, he would make little toys and baubles for her, wanting only to see a
smile on her tired face. Someday, when he was grown, he would reverse their bad
fortune, and his sister would never have to even lift a finger for herself. He
would clothe her in the finest fashions and they would have grand parties here,
with interesting conversation and music. He nibbled absently at the biscuit as
he daydreamed.

Lucille set down her empty tea cup with a satisfied sigh.
“Well,” she said, “How shall we spend our holiday?” She moved to the massive
fireplace central to the room. She was skilled at lighting fires, and quickly
started a merry blaze on the hearth. The clouds had gathered and rain began to
patter against the glass windows.

“Mother will be angry that you used all the wood,” Thomas
commented softly, although the light was welcome.

“I don’t care a fig if she is,” Lucille sniffed. “We’ve
still coal left for the kitchen and our fires, and Finlay can fetch more wood.
It’s not as though we get visitors. I certainly hope Mother has ordered more
provisions. We’re likely to starve out in this desolate place, otherwise.”  

“We won’t; you’re too clever to let that happen,” Thomas
replied. “I’m going to take some books. Will you join me?”

“Not just yet; I want to play the piano. It’s too quiet in this
place; the house wants music.” Lucille pranced over to the piano bench and
within moments music soared around them. Thomas scaled one of the staircases to
the upper floor of the library shelves, happily scanning the titles for a book
he hadn’t yet read. The Sharpes had been very proud of their book collection,
having obtained rare copies from all over the world and on all sorts of
subjects. While the children had been given a fair amount of their own volumes
in addition to the primers the tutor provided, it was a treat to be allowed a
book from here. He still felt ill at ease in the big room, much preferring the
familiar confines of the nursery, but the allure of pilfering the library
outweighed any hesitation on his part.

Lucille ended with a flourish. She so enjoyed playing the
piano! Her fingers would flit across the keys like moths, sometimes light as
feathers, sometimes striking down with a passionate force, and she would rock
in time to the music, possessed by the notes. She rose and joined Thomas by the
books, fingers tracing the spines. Father had collected most of the books on
the upper level; they had once been caught there and she had taken a solid
whipping for it, acting as a decoy while Thomas scuttled away, unseen, back to
the attic and safety. Now she paraded along by the shelves, unafraid. She was
glad their father was dead, the brute. “Thomas, come look at this one,” she
called slyly, pulling a volume from the upper shelf.

Thomas’ eyes widened as she opened the book of illustrations
and leafed through the lurid pages. He had some idea of what the pictures
depicted, but the contortions of the figures and the expressions of lustful
pleasure were more graphic than he could have ever imagined. His face burned
bright red. “Lucille, that is utterly indecent!”

“Of course it is, it was Father’s,” Lucille murmured. “It’s
from India. It’s a book about how to make love.”

Thomas shuddered. He couldn’t comprehend the idea that his
father would have ever even known about love or how to make it; he couldn’t
imagine him possessing any kind of tender sentiment at all. Yet the book and
its contents fascinated him.

“You like it?” Lucille queried. She had found the book
several years ago, but hadn’t dared secret it away. Instead she had studied it,
page by page, whenever she had been able to sneak a moment. She had learned to
explore her own changing body from it, to touch and give herself pleasure, and
how she had known that Thomas was beginning to feel the same.

Thomas nodded, the pictures drawing him in to unimagined
possibilities. He felt suddenly very exposed in the vast library, almost as if
he and his sister were being watched. In addition, he was beginning to feel the
way he had in the stables, the way he felt with Lucille.  “Could we take it back to the nursery?” he
asked.

Lucille smiled and nodded. She closed the book and took his
hand, and together they went back up to their rooms. The rain continued, the
sky dark and stormy, broken occasionally with flashes of lighting and rumbles
of thunder. The house groaned and sighed, the fire flaring as the wind hissed
through the chimneys.

Back in the nursery, Thomas and Lucille sat on the couch,
wrapped in their blankets, examining the exotic colored panels, all but
oblivious to the weather outside even as the rain stopped, the thunder growing
distant.

Lucille shifted under her covers. “Thomas…” Her voice was
low, breathless. He understood what she was feeling; he was aroused himself.
She set aside the book. “I want you to touch me,” she continued. “I need to be
touched. I need to be loved.”

“I’ll love you,” Thomas whispered, “I’ll always love you,
Lucille.”

Lucille sighed, an eager, happy sound. She let the quilts
pool around her hips, lifting her shift over her head. Thomas watched,
enthralled. All of their explorations had been in the dark, groping in the
shadows; they had never seen each other naked in daylight, even daylight this
muted. The long ropes of her hair draped over her shoulders, her skin so very
pale, eyes so bright with desire and longing. Her breast were small but rounded
and firm, the curve of her waist just beginning to form. His eyes fell lower as
Lucille knelt on the cushions and she stroked her long fingers to the cleft
between her legs. “Let me see you, Thomas,” she moaned.

He was shaking at the sight of her, at the sound of her
voice. Slowly he did as she had done, casting away his covers and removing his
nightshirt. His arousal was hard and twitching, and he had a moment’s impulse
to mount her like the stallion had tried to with the mare. He grasped himself,
as if to prevent such sudden violence, the contact making him groan. “Lucille…”

“Now we see each other, brother,” she answered, her face
flushed as she watched him. “This is who we are. You are so lovely, so
perfect…I would never let anyone hurt you. I love you, Thomas; I have always
loved you.”

“I adore you, Lucille,” Thomas moaned in reply. “You are the
only one who loves me. You are beautiful, the most beautiful creature in the
entire world.” He wanted to reach out to her, be cradled in her embrace. He
wanted to draw her hand from her own secret depths to stroke his aching flesh
as they both gasped and sighed. He wanted to make love to her as she would to
him.

An outraged scream of fury crashed like a thunderclap behind
them, echoing through the chamber. They froze, terrified, and turned to see the
enraged form of their mother descending on them like an avenging angel. They
scattered, the book falling to the floor as they grabbed at their nightclothes
and blankets, shrieking, all of their arousal gone. Lady Beatrice continued her
wordless onslaught, chasing them around the room with her walking stick
brandished above her head like a sword.

“No, no!” Lucille cried as Thomas felt Mother’s walking
stick fall squarely across his shoulders. He gasped in pain as the blows
continued to rain down over his naked back. “Leave him alone! Stop it! Mother,
stop!”  Lucille fell across him,
shielding him.

“Lucille, no,” he cried, even as she threw his shirt over
him and shoved him toward their bedroom alcove.

Lady Beatrice found her voice in the midst of her screaming.
“You wicked children! How dare you! How dare you!” she roared, continuing to
beat on them as they scrabbled away. “You commit such ugly perversion in my
house, you evil creatures! Shame on you, how dare you! I curse the day you were
born, the both of you!”

“Get in your bed, or under it if you can manage it,” Lucille
whispered in Thomas’ ear, pushing him through the doorway. Standing up, she turned
to face their mother.

“Lucille!” he wailed as he saw Lucille confronted their still-raging
mother, watched as Mother’s hand flashed out, striking Lucille’s head and
raking down her face. With a hoarse cry, Lucille fell to her knees, wailing in
pain as Mother grabbed her by the hair and dragged her from the room toward the
lift, and then he could see nothing more. He scrabbled under his bed as she had
ordered, squeezing his eyes shut, choking back his tears.  

The house moaned in sympathy, shuddering, and
the muddy earth beneath it heaved and sighed…

csr=JQL