Date: Sun, 20 Nov 1994 20:08:08 -0500 From: "S.A. Chisholm" This is an FK story set completely in Victorian England. Use of <> indicates dialogue. Hope that solves some of the problems with quotation marks. I welcome any and all comments to sac116@psu.edu... The Uninvited Guest by Sandye Chisholm ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Evil is unspectacular and always human And shares our bed and eats at our own table. W.H. Auden Parliament reconvened on the sixth day of October, in the year of our Lord, 1876. Daniel Broughton, already settled in his London apartments, found himself satisfied and contented to be in the midst of the bustling city, so very happy to be far removed from his daughter and the country life he so disdained. The first time he took his ministerial seat, he had thought downheartedly of the weeks of separation from his beautiful wife Annabel, his newborn daughter Amelia, and Caetrale Hall, the country manor that he had so long called home. Seventeen years of government service and Lord Broughton was not yet ready to quit, for that would mean returning to the dismal gloom that now infected both Caetrale and Amelia. There was nothing for him there: Annabel dead almost ten years, the memory of her infected by both the disease that took her life and the one she left behind. Amelia: pale and ghostly, she drifted about the coastal manor like a fog that would neither lift nor disguise the sadness of a life alone and without love. For it was true, he didn't love her; he despised her: for the way she reminded him of her mother, for the embarrassment she caused him with her sickly constitution and her singular devotion to her music. Still, he had nothing to feel guilty about. He provided her with a home, with servants to meet her daily needs--though what they were he had very little idea--and with a solitude that, in the prison of her mind, she demanded of her life. In his way, he tried to give her some pleasure; sending her the books she so loved, spending extravagant amounts of money on original manuscripts of rare and exotic novels and pamphlets, searching himself for some newly written journal on the strange discoveries that had so engrossed his child's attention. Yes, he did his best, and for as much as he could do, he did indeed make her happy. But that was a life back on the western shores and he was in London, ready to return to his place in the House of Lords. He was, as he should be, satisfied. The bell announced that a visitor was waiting, and after a time, a servant showed the stranger into Lord Broughton's private rooms, where he was, indeed, expected. Daniel straightened himself behind his massive desk, and with the care of routine, sturdied the mask of authority that in comfort, had fallen aside. Turning his attention to the window and the rain-covered street below, Lord Broughton twisted himself around in his chair, as if suddenly too troubled to sit still. The almost imperceptible panic in Nicholas voice caught the great man off- guard. Then, speaking in the whispers that one might expect only in a vacant church- He stopped. As if realizing that he had revealed far more than he had intended, once again he shifted, still uneasy in his chair. Money. That was the universal language for mortals; with enough money you could buy just about anything. Nicholas waited, in the customary way any good haggler would, for the man to name his price. These were not the words Nicholas had come all this way to hear. He could have just as easily taken anything he wanted, but that had never truly been his way. Whatever else he might become, he would always be a gentleman first. If he wanted to live in their world, then he would behave as they expected him to; in the measure of his life it meant little other than a way to walk amongst them as equals. For Nicholas, for good or bad, that meant everything. One more chance remained that could satisfy both his need for satisfaction and his desire for peace. Without any noticeable effort, Nicholas had provided the man not only a dignified way to back into the deal, but an excuse to name an unreasonable price that Nicholas would, of course, find surprisingly reasonable. Broughton had started to speak before Nicholas could wipe the satisfied grin off of his face. Startled by the young man's shock, Lord Broughton softened his contemptuous scowl enough to convey his regret without diminishing its previous effect. Appearing somewhat chastened and bowed, Nicholas' silence expressed more than his acknowledgment of the great man's advice; it was meant as a token of respect. After an appropriate time, Nicholas once again set his mind to the prize at hand. Lord Broughton considered, and considered carefully. The last time he had allowed someone entry into his private life... No, that was very different and very long ago. This was not about him, it was about his daughter and that was about as far away from him as anyone might get. He could not help himself but to think of her. How had he come to this? Had it been his fault in trusting... No, this was another time. Was there a chance that under all that mystery and mayhem breathed a daughter he could finally bring out of hiding, or would this merely be one more disappointment for him to bear? This was a handsome man, of wealth and breeding, and he was, as she, educated and refined; if he could not reach Amelia, who then could break the spell that held her captive? Settling back in his chair, he carefully studied Nicholas' face and spoke. Nicholas expression never changed. Turning back toward the window, Daniel Broughton hid his face behind the curtain that he ostensibly was trying to straighten. Nicholas stood in the darkness of the London mist and wondered just what kind of woman he would find within the walls of Caetrale Manor. Certainly, Lord Broughton was not acutely fond of his daughter, though he had the outward appearances a concerned father might have. What did it matter; after all, soon he would have the manuscript. Hopefully soon he would have some answers as well. Tonight he would travel, and by tomorrow's sunset, he would stand within the mysterious manor of Caetrale. Darkened waters swirled around the distant rocks that met in silence far below the mossy cliff on which Amelia stood. Night had long since crept into the west country. Midnight passed without a word of comfort to her; once again she had waited for his arrival. Once again, it had only been in vain. The sea stretched on before her, like some vast measure of time that kept her moment well beyond her reach. He had promised to return. Of this there was no doubt. She had waited; every month she stood beneath the new moon in hopes that this time he would come. Hopes that to a child seemed exciting, grim-faced she had waited until the child became more than anyone had imagined and still he remained absent and aloof. She, the more constant mistress than the moon, waited. Knowing that the night poisoned what little strength remained in her failing body, he searched the paths that led out towards the coast and in the cool, damp earth, found Amelia, as she lay asleep and alone. Slender arms that in need grew strong, curled around the once happy child. Brodie reached his gloved hand around Amelia's slight body and, picking her off of the wet ground, carried her homeward. His long, smooth strides rocked her against the salty wind and turning away from the water, he wished that she was once again that small, young girl who sang herself into slumber's care. Amelia was, however, no longer that child who, like all children, dreamt of a life without pain. For this child, robbed of dreams, life was nothing more than misery. Orphaned by both her dead mother and living father, Amelia had not grown strong and tall as all God's children should. No, as he had watched her pass from that saddened seven-year old into what was now a mere waiting corpse of seventeen, Brodie suffered more than any parent would watching their child wait for death. For she was not his child, though he loved her as such. No, he could not even claim her as his own and this made his suffering all but unbearable. Shifting in his steady grasp, Amelia awakened, and staring up into his scolding, yet loving eyes, she prepared herself for the lecture to begin. It was his way of making everything seem just a bit more normal. Brodie's voice wavered unmistakably: his immovable constitution was under assault from an enemy as troublesome as death itself. Years at Caetrale Manor had equipped him with many survival techniques, but playing the strict parent was one role that even Brodie had not yet mastered. Walking through the gate and onto Manor grounds, he put Amelia down to walk the remainder of the way on her own. Feigning a swoon he failed to be fooled by, the angelic-faced woman followed his orders and went quietly towards the door. Her voice trailed off, a distant memory reminder of a life she had not known long but who's bitter taste was not without its sweetness. Amelia's gaze drifted past the great hall and back out to the door which kept her safely hidden from the dawn. Her mother had stood there, just behind the piano: but that was back before the visitor. She turned her head and saw the empty corner that once had held her writing desk. All those compositions wasted; her father's dark reaction to her passing made him burn every last one, until he thought no music that had touched his wife would ever breathe life again. Even the flames seemed to dance to the tunes on which they hungrily fed, and her father, in that awful moment, screamed in pain as memory and reality swelled into one burning cacophony of sound. He tried to purify his daughter by blackening any remembrance of Annabel. But that was his mistake, for Amelia had more of her mother's life in her than she seemed to have of her own. How unfortunate, as Brodie might say, that Lord Broughton didn't take pleasure in the living memorial that was Amelia. Unfortunate, indeed. The entire affair had been unfortunate. To leave a beautiful woman like Annabel alone within this tomb of a home was cruel in and of itself; still, she had her baby for companionship, along with the household staff--so much larger than it was now--to attend to her desires. The last visitor Daniel Broughton had ever allowed in this house, prior to Annabel's death, had changed their lives forever. How little men really know of consequence or fate, for if the great man had known what havoc could be wreaked by one uninvited guest, he would surely have locked the manor gate and forever thrown away the key. How old he had been, where he had come from--except to say that he had been sent by the master--Brodie had not a clue. Striding like a stallion into the foyer, the tall, blonde man made his way smoothly and almost imperceptibly toward the drawing-room and Annabel, the lady of the manor. It was the music that drew him there, so he had said; but long after the music had stopped, the visitor remained. Each time he left with only his wits and the moon for guidance and each time he returned, Annabel became ever more eager and ever more desperate. They spent long, languishing evenings huddled over some new score or pamphlet. They slept by day, without impropriety of course, she in her rooms, he in his; soon they kept the child with them until she too lived by night and slept under the watchful eye of Phoebus. Any scandal that might have rocked his Lordship from his comfortable mount never reached the light of day; Brodie saw to that. Replaced in London by another valet, the stalwart gentleman in effect became the Manor caretaker, though he had no effect on the comings and goings of the uninvited guest. If he had only known then...but he could not have known. Amelia had survived, though to see her now, Brodie had to wonder if she might not have been better to have joined her mother... Heading towards the drawing room, Amelia's last words echoed over her shoulder. If the weary man had any intention of responding, Amelia's delicate hands upon the keyboard gave him reason enough to pause. Sometimes, he wondered if she had ever been a child at all. The day had drifted away into silence. Nicholas found himself nearing the far reaches of Caetrale Manor, though somewhat disheveled by the gusting wind that whistled through the passing cliffs of fall. Siren songs of the western shore; these were legends of passage that, in all likelihood, one of his kind had started to keep away the pirates. Privacy was the first rule; never allow them to know where you kill. Caetrale Manor might have made an excellent hide-a-way for a vampyre: far-removed from town, elegant, easy access to the sea; perhaps it was just coincidence that Lord Broughton kept his only daughter hidden with in its uncompromising protection. Suddenly Nicholas realized that the music he heard was not from the sea. Sounds of a perfectly tuned pianoforte danced around him as he approached the massive iron gate. The soft and tender hands that touched those keys surely had been touched by magic; he stopped to listen more carefully that he might not miss a single note. The tune was unfamiliar to his well-trained ear, yet its dark melody could have been the consummate harmony to his disconsolate life. Trailing off into the night, the sweet sounds that moved him faded back into the castle; it seemed that he would find more than manuscripts inside the shadowy pitch of Caetrale Manor. Staring into the scarcely lit room, Brodie eyes met hers with an angered gleam that all too well conveyed his fatherly dismay. Amelia played the game of hierarchical management to its limits. Dismissing without care a servant was, of course, her right. Dismissing the man who kept her alive was not, however, good form. At least, not from where he stood. She knew all too well that comment would strike a tender cord in Brodie, but Amelia didn't care. Anger would be better than all this patronizing care, for in her anger she had power. Hadn't the visitor taught her mother that? How cruel they both had been to leave her behind in this darkness, only her guilt to keep her company. Brodie's careful watch was the last line of defense that held the crisp song of death at bay. Only she could cut that last tie to her humanity...one day she would. The words hung heavy in the air about her, just as they did that last time the visitor had come to call. When her mother had died, no one had to tell her that something terrible had happened. Silent by her father's side, Amelia stood in the family cemetery and wondered why Pastor Gaveston was not there. No one spoke. No one cried. Brodie took the seven year old away from her father, afraid that in his anger, the great man would finally lose control. Guilt carries an immeasurable burden where ever it makes its home. For Daniel Broughton had opened himself and his fireside up to that scavenger Guilt, who in his greatest moments, finds an innocent to bleed amidst the ashes of regret. Had Broughton realized his error, he might have taken her away from all this death; had Brodie realized the sacrifice that guilt would make of her, he might have let the great man end her pain than night. Instead, he hid her from her father; how could he have known the visitor would return. How could he anticipate the uninvited guest. Once back at the Manor, Amelia found herself in the drawing room; this had been her mother's sanctuary. From now on, it would be the only place Amelia would feel safe. It would be the only place in which she would feel loved. It was later that evening, after everyone had gone to sleep, that the still-innocent Amelia returned and took the empty seat at her mother's writing desk. So many hours spent in this room, so many nights that her mother had held her as she fell asleep. The soft, white rug that lay at the feet of the piano made a cozy bed, and on it she lay while her mother and the tall, blonde stranger had made so many miraculous plans. Their voices had been her lullabies, their chatter her fairy tales. Now, she was all alone. With stifled tears and sobs, Amelia lay her head down on the desk and wept. A careful hand stroked her long, dark hair, and choking back her grief, Amelia lifted up her head and met the cool gaze of the visitor. She was no longer alone. With even steps, the princely visitor made his way over to the piano and spoke. Amelia strained towards him, and waited. The visitor looked away. He, like most adults, would not give her an answer. She ran back around to him, and frantically begged him to explain. The visitor drew back, his bitter victory almost complete. He turned back towards the window, not to see the night, but to hide his anger. But what did it matter, this was only a child. Flashing eyes met the midnight storm that crept in upon the coast: yet Amelia was not afraid, she had heard it all before. Love was cruel and such potent love had not shaken her mother, who in the rise of early morning, had fought the jealous passions of her father. She belonged to him, he had cried; and though Amelia, like her mother, knew that she belonged to no one, they would remain just two more delicate pieces in the collection of the great man.. Prizes on a shelf, displayed but not embraced.; in her sorrow, Amelia could not have realized that this strange man was any different. The visitor struggled to regain himself when he saw her petite shadow fall over the writing desk. In a silence that played like music in his immortal soul, he remembered himself: remembered the protective wall that hid more than demons, more than danger, more than death. He had stood in this room before, mourning another wasted life; that life, had been more precious than all the others. Ghostly shades in greater sadness mocked his grief and seized in callused hands the whisper of regret and rung it all but lifeless. Rebuilt by torment, the wall remained intact. He was, once again, himself. Back again in her direction, he whispered his empty consolations. There was something of an understanding in his voice, perhaps even a touch of sorrow, like one might feel for a precious stone that had been unnecessarily flawed. Turning back around toward the window, he held up his left hand for examination. Somehow, one of his fingernails had been broken. He shook his head appropriately. Amelia's confusion could not save her from the harsh, unfeeling truth. Nothing he had said was very difficult to understand, only difficult to accept. Something in her believed that her mother had loved her, yet, like all children, she knew that sometimes she had made her mother sad, perhaps even angry. Now in grief, she saw herself the worst daughter in all of Christendom. Her mother had killed herself and she was to blame. Amelia turned tearless toward the tall, blonde visitor. He seemed to be her only friend, and still, she knew that he had taken from her the last of her happiness. She would never be safe again. In jest, his hollow words reminded Amelia that she had never known what praying was; not even God could comfort her now. Amelia's shame cut through her like a knife. The voice sang of warmth and light, of love and comfort, of all the happy memories that met in the face of her mother. It danced around her as if it would lift her up and fly beyond the boundaries of this room, but then it shifted, turned grey with the distance and was gone. From strange young eyes familiar tears fell out into the impassive night. Amelia looked up into the watchful face of the visitor. A heart once full of song, now silent in sorrow continued to beat against its will. Guilt and fear tore at her, the weight of it all too much for her to take. Once more she lowered her head to weep. The shallow breathing, the shaking body, the sweetness of her sing-song cries gave rise to a pleasure the visitor hungered for almost as much as the blood. This time he would make it last. Damp and cold, the wind that blew through the open window made her tear- soaked arms shiver in the breeze. She looked up to see that the visitor had gone. Left alone with what she believed to be the only truth, Amelia vowed that she would never leave Caetrale. No matter what, he would find her waiting. Ten years later, still sitting at her mother's piano, Brodie's voice cut through the haze of memories that could never be far beyond her recollection.. Brodie watched as she wiped the uninvited tears from off her cheeks. Resisting the need to gather her into his arms, Brodie wondered, as he had so often, how hard it must be to be an angel. Amelia regained herself, suddenly aware that she was not that innocent child anymore, nor had she been, for a very long time. Crossing back across the great hall, Brodie halted as he heard the liveryman coming to the door. As the wind rushed in through the opening, a handsome young man stood back and held out some papers for the old man to take. With disdainful confidence, Nicholas strode into the hall, his steps ill-timed to the scraping of his cloak against the smooth, stone floor. Nicholas chided himself, suddenly remembering the great man's cautious warning. Stepping outside, Nicholas felt something strange gnawing at his instinct, and so he waited by the open windows that framed the room that lay opposite the hall. He could easily hear the two in conversation, their voices floating out into the night. Brodie held out the paper for her to read, his eyes remaining on the strange, yet excited expression on her face. Almost afraid to voice her fears, Amelia braced herself for destiny to do its worst. Somehow the look on Amelia's face was puzzling to Brodie; after all this time, she had not a whimper or a pout left that could surprise him. Yet this one spoke, without familiarity, of a much wanted relief marred only by what might have been a hidden longing, perhaps even the kindling of an unfulfilled secret. After seventeen years, Brodie found himself unsuspectingly puzzled. Amelia closed her eyes and wished that she were dead. She had waited for what seemed to be a lifetime for her visitor. Hadn't he promised to return, to take her where she would no longer feel the pain of her mortal body as it day by day decayed? Hadn't destiny promised her that in her patience she would earn the prize of forgiveness? The hope that kept her waiting did so in fear. Once, she had dreamt of her moment in time. Her waiting almost over, the outstretched hand of the visitor poised and ready, she moved with determined steps toward him. Without warning, a great flash appeared to blind her, and in the haze of swirling lights-- much the same as staring too long into the winter sun--a vision came before her. The long years had not dulled her memory; the gentle blue eyes of Annabel caressed, as only a mother can, the frightened child that in her heart, remained Amelia. Never more than whispers, Annabel promised her daughter that one day, a man would come for her, bringing her the peace and love she most desired. As if enveloped in that watchful cloud, the dream surrounded her within softened ripples of sound. Looking in remembrance towards those cool grey eyes, Amelia came to realize that her mother had been something more than human. Whether angel or demon, Amelia knew the truth of her words. So many years after her death, the truth seemed very far away. If only she had remembered his name. But the cloud disappeared, leaving Amelia behind in a world very much blinded to distress. Brodie looked anxiously on. Whatever she might have decided to do, for this moment, she was the lady of the manor, and if for no one else, Amelia gathered her resolve for him. Amelia shuddered. Ironic as it was, that place reminded her--its oppressive vision frightening and familiar --of a time not so long ago, of the last man who had unexpectedly graced their solitary lives. Brodie stoked the flames that had all but extinguished themselves in the absence of attention. Brodie stood back, as if suddenly wounded by some unseen blow. Before he could find his voice to speak, he knew that he staggered not from words, but by a sudden flash that came over Amelia's lucid eyes. As she stood staring at the stranger, so Nicholas at her, and together, the hidden bond that formed between them pushed at Brodie as if he had been himself struck. Wounded more by dread than her dismissal, the gentle keeper stumbled unnoticed at the fear that gripped his heart. He backed up toward the drawing room doors and as he closed them behind him, he called back to his young charge. In the shaded starlight of the open window, Amelia's eyes sparkled golden- grey and black shadows danced off her pale, plain dress as she stood to meet the ill-timed stranger. Hers was a silent beauty; not yet fulfilled and somehow deeper than her years could credit. Lord Broughton was right; she was not as he expected. To shelter in these walls of stone and mortar such a one was criminal; the great man was covetous after all. Though infirmity may have made her fragile figure even more petite, surely this one had been spared the ravages disease brings to all her innocent victims. Her demeanor charming, her carriage splendid, even mystical perhaps: she appeared perfect. What kind of magic touched her he could not be sure, yet he knew the mark instantly: his instinct told him to beware. The lessons of centuries spoke in cryptic tongues and whispered warnings he did not understand: this mortal was as unthreatening as the moon, what danger lay ahead could never come from her. Still; as he reached to take her hand, the hair on the back of his neck in attention stood and in the chilly midnight air he kissed the hand--so cold-- that almost made him shiver. He caught the change within her eyes as he began to speak. Amelia motioned him into the room. Amelia drifted absentmindedly towards the window, the rich, deep colors of the room a curious setting for the icy blueness of her dress. Looking out toward the night sky, hardly conscious of her own enigmatic presence, Amelia did not notice how he watched her. Nicholas ignored the warnings; his second sight an intuition he did not often disregard, yet intellectually he knew that she was mortal, no more. With the questioning eyes of an unsure lover, he searched her face for any hint of danger. There were none. The vestiges of corruption must have been his own. Perhaps her dove-ish innocence made more aware that uncomfortable distinction. Surely it was just that simple. She was unguarded, unaccustomed to the dangers lurking behind the mask. Perhaps, being isolated as she had been, this girl was unaware of the careful propriety with which other young Victorian women conducted themselves. Whatever the reason, she was a surprise; much more pleasant than he could have imagined. With a bow, the handsome gallant accepted her congenial token of familiarity in a style some might have called antiquated. To Amelia, however, whose very existence measured time by the travesty of its passing, such conduct spoke of the chivalry of ages past. She nodded in customary acceptance. The last words were spoken as if in prayer. It was as if she hoped for time to stop and gather her in his arms of ice...but Nicholas knew that it was not time that stopped when mortals die: for Amelia... surely, it would be more than she could ever imagine. That cool embrace belonged to another universal power; hadn't he himself bathed in the chilled waters of death? Still, to he let this sublime lady fall into such a pitiless fate...the urge to take her in his arms was stifled only with the realization that he too, had nothing to offer but death. Standing just beyond the boundary dictated by propriety, Nicholas wavered in his restraint. The comfort he might offer was powerless to satisfy such sorrow and still, with sympathetic eyes he moved to touch her wounds that they might heal. No man could have wanted to do more. She had not imagined it possible, yet without question, beauty slept in this man's soul. Had she but known him all his days she might have seen this look a thousand times and never remembered it any sweeter than tonight. Such language belonged to another time, another life; yet it yielded meaning that was full of promise and desire. Straining to listen to its tune, Amelia realized, for the first time, that she was unquestionably alive. She had meant to say something very different, but the words failed to listen to her heart, still beating out of time to the strangeness of her life. Nicholas made no move; Amelia realized that she could wait no longer. Frustrated by her clumsiness, she grasped to find a firmer hold on the changing wind that inconstantly shifted within her racing mind. The moment offered no sanctuary to her trembling heart. Amelia walked towards him, took his hand in hers, and led him with confident care to the piano. With deliberate ease she took her seat in front of the keyboard and pulled him down beside her. Suddenly, sweet music drifted up in the air: he watched her hands--somehow she had let her grasp fall away without the smallest movement--and losing himself in the sounds of her lament, Nicholas gave himself to her. She would not understand what this meant for him, he could never make her comprehend the depths of his dark devotion, nor would he want to. For in this child of wonder, he had found a woman for whom he might have given his life, if indeed, he had one to give. Without warning she stopped, and in that silence, he knew that had lost himself to a shadow that he would always love. And then the coughing came; not gentle but determined that she might shake loose the very marrow from her bones. The faintest sign of red did not escape unnoticed as Nicholas braced her for the onslaught of yet another attack. The choking stopped and slowly, her slight convulsing faded into what must have been exhaustion. Though she was shaken, Amelia straightened herself against him. Nicholas found no consolation in her words, for he knew, all too well, the burden of forever. Still, he could not help but admire her: though death's steed rode uncomfortably close at hand, her thoughts were of life. Amelia, in her ordeal, remained fixed on what she would leave behind. Nicholas watched her as the expression on her face shifted from pleasure, to pain, and back again; regaining herself she turned to look at him and caught him quite off-guard. There was a melancholy in her voice, a strange passing regret for the fading darkness of night. Somehow, the new life of day gave no pleasure in this, her ebbing life. Strange, that he too had misspent the simple gifts of nature's blessing. Unfortunate that some things never change. The new day overstayed its welcome. Nicholas passed this time pacing the dark Persian rug that lay before the window of his room. Brodie had called it the "red-room," and without asking Nicholas understood. He too was familiar with the Brontes--strange, quiet women he recalled--and in her simple sophistication, Amelia had named it such. Amelia. Just as the day made him a prisoner of light, so she had securely trapped him in love; he was the unicorn to her virtue. A strange one, perhaps, to those who could not see beyond their sight, but not to him: in her he saw the beauty of the past and the sadness of the future. Though he was sure he should leave, he knew that he would stay with her as long as she desired. But how long would that be? Amelia's face hid her illness far better than her fragile body might have, and this deception was more a curse than a blessing. For when she in moonlight sat, the cool warmth bathed her in a satisfied glow, and it was so easy to imagine that she would always be there. The window ledge welcomed her waiting resting arms as she bent to admire the sky just as the stars passed more slowly overhead, hoping to catch the magic that she in air weaved with ivory and ecstasy. This was a silent enemy, working from within, taking by degrees the most of Amelia. Ironically, the consumption left the best of her for last. Mortality was a harsh master, for under his chastising anger and devotion, she was dying...at least that is what Brodie had told him. Now, there was a strange man; something oddly familiar, yet just beyond his comprehension. If Nicholas hadn't known better, he might have guessed Amelia his child, rather than Lord Broughton's. Last night the man who led him to his rooms was full of trepidation, as if someone had come to break his heart. His words still clear, his voice still full and fatherly, Nicholas could not forget what the old man had said. The old man coughed, almost as if to clear the poisoned words from out of his throat. Brodie stopped, afraid that he had said too much. Nicholas did not anticipate the sudden movement of the old man, now quickened and made mad by this unwarranted claim upon Amelia. Spite, strength and stubborn pride must have given him his courage, for in that moment, the old man seemed as unstoppable as LaCroix. But unlike LaCroix, this man's bravado came from love. Nicholas met Brodie's steady gaze with respect. and for the first time in centuries, Nicholas turned away from a mortal and cried. As he wiped the red tears from his eyes, a firm but thankful hand patted him on the shoulder. His composure returned, Nicholas turned back. Brodie met him, tear for tear, his words more difficult to find. If this had been another time, the kind faith and kinder hand of comfort might have belonged to his own father. But it was not. He had no family, none of his own, for they were long since gone. He knew Amelia's pain at the loss of her mother...she too, seemed to be very much alone. Well, no more, for he would stay and keep her with him, though it take a lifetime for hers to pass into that darkness mortals called death. Though his determination fought what she had, in her foolishness, called fate, the pale horse rode ever-closer as night returned to Caetrale Manor. The morning was just a memory now. Clouds like white-tailed sheep poised breathlessly on a blue hill, while the sun, tiger of the sky, sank down without remorse into the molten gold of autumn. Nicholas stared--for the first time without regret--into the Callcott landscape hanging over the massive bed in which Amelia slept. It was not difficult to recall the terrible torment that led Amelia into slumber. The misery that made her victim to a nightmare of distress drained her of what little strength she had. It was her weeping that first he heard, then desperate sighs, as if her breathing was too painful to withstand, but not until her last sad prayers did he venture towards her room. The door had been closed, latched from the inside. Nicholas returned to his rooms, moved toward the open window and out into the night. He landed beside a large, mahogany dresser almost ten feet from the end of her bed. Quietly, Nicholas edged his way over, afraid that he might frighten her with his strange and sudden arrival. Just as he decided that it might be best to unlatch the door, Amelia, twisted by her latest wave of pain, looked up to see him there. Hiding her face in the blanket, Amelia seemed, for the first time, unsure. The covers had shifted from her frenzied tossing and pillows that should have softened her battered body against the harsh tremors of her agony were scattered over the floor. She might have reached down to cover herself, but in this moment, modesty had no place; the only true shame the heartless fact that death could not be cheated of his undeserved prey. Nicholas touched his hand to her shoulder, hoping that she might take comfort in the recognition that she was no longer alone. Amelia turned to face him, her tearless eyes searching for something, anything to break this fateful spell. Her hand slipped out from beneath her neck only to have Nicholas push it back down with his arm. He leaned in close, and with her face between his hands, spoke clear and commanding in a voice she had heard only in her youth.. Leaning back into the down, her body cooled and now relaxed, Amelia finally passed under sleep's dark and silent gate. Looking up toward the painted sun, its virtuous brilliance shining, as if in atonement to his love, he wished that he could bring her more than dreams. At least she would rest now, though what she would remember about his unexpected visitation, he could not be sure; still, it was worth all risk of discovery. He wanted to tell her what he was, to share the awful secret of his disease as she had done with him. He eased off of the bed and turning back toward the waiting window, Nicholas discovered that they were not alone. Thunderstruck, he found himself looking into the eyes of an all too tranquil Brodie. Nicholas unlatched the lock and walked out into the hall. He closed the door with great care, not wanting to disturb Amelia in her much needed rest. Through the darkened corridor he made his way back, bemused and concerned about Brodie's unsolicited revelation. Obviously Brodie had not witnessed his unorthodox arrival and perhaps he was so pleased with the abrupt change in Amelia's condition that he had not taken the time to ask himself just how that had come to fruition. Sooner or later, he would. Brodie would realize that there was more to this than happy coincidence, and regardless of his feelings for Amelia, he would have to deal with the strange old man eventually. For now, the long hours without rest were at an end; the waiting dream advanced without haste. Nicholas fell down onto his bed and slept. The shifting colors of the passing day danced upon the scattered pages of a book. She had given it on that very first night, a gift she said, to ward off pensiveness. Now it's fragile binding had broken, falling unattended from Nicholas' hand when sleep had finally overcome his reason. In that delicate moment between awareness and mirage, a shadow formed as if cast by a cloud, skimming by as eyes of the past. But the rising moon absorbed it, effortlessly blaming. The papers might have floated through the room; in his haziness he could not be sure. Remembering words, like marching troops ready to be conquered--their power sufficient though the cause be lost--he struggled to recall their meaning. The room was over-cast; the pages, like ranks advanced feeding the storm of his confusion, accusing waves of rage and scorn to call him to accountability. Rising and confused, Nicholas looked up to see Brodie, standing firm, jumbled pages in hand. Brodie gathered the leaves of paper with a frantic calmness that softened Nicholas' surprise at this unexpected visit. Nicholas scanned the room, his timepiece to the far-side of the dresser. Turning with his usual concentration to duty, Brodie placed the broken book back on the table. The first sheet in hand, he looked upward at the curtained window. A thin shaft of light fell upon the page as if to illuminate some precious wisdom for his wearied eyes. The words he read recited, and murmuring as if in prayer, the old man committed them to memory. Putting down the page with careful thought, he walked over to the hallway door, duty waiting patiently for his attention. He looked back over to the table and shifting his weight till he stood in perfect straightness, Brodie spoke with a clarity and distinction far beyond his servant's breeding... Bowing his head in deference, he forced a smile, and then was gone. Nicholas undid the dark, velvet drapes from their ties, pulling them back to find an evening sky of stars and moonshine. Making himself ready to join Amelia, Nicholas wondered if, when that time came, she might wish to join him. After all, if she was already dying, his gift would not be theft; indeed, it might even be considered merciful. Discarding his uncharacteristic wonderment, he descended the stairs and made his way to the library. Nicholas kept his eyes upon the empty chair. Waiting, as he had for nearly half an hour, the luxury of his imagination seemed ever less profitable. She was only late, just a little slower than she had been last night, or the night before, and though the week had passed too quickly, still, he waited without word and watched the hands of time ring down the evening chimes. Nicholas imagined what he would do when the waiting would be over. And so rather than watch the empty chair, he rose to find some comfort in the evening; the dirt soft and yielding beneath his feet, with careless steps he remembered and wished for the dream to begin again. Nights spent walking Caetrale's coast reminded him that once he had been alive. The sea, in all its power, in all its peace, was not the reason. Nor the wild wind that rushed to meet his firm embrace or the smell of salt still hanging in the air. None of this had changed from centuries past, and still he trembled with new life. The soft arm entwined around his, the gentle lilt who's anthem made him blush, the caring eyes that unquestioningly welcomed him with love: new life sprang from the dying embers of Amelia's flame. They were mysteriously unfolding the centuries of sharing that young lovers, who break and bend the newest bonds of love, had left to mark their passing. Would they, in this fleeting moment in time, manage to leave some tribute, some memorial to this, their loving passage? Something from Amelia's journal came rushing to his mind in answer to his question. ...We live in a world which is full of misery and ignorance..and the plain duty of each and all of us is to try and make the little corner he can influence somewhat less miserable and somewhat less ignorant than it was before he entered it....... Had they done that? Could they, in this brief flash, change misery into music? Snapped back from out his contemplative trance, Nicholas heard, as he had that first night, Amelia's hands upon the keyboard. He realized that for this moment, misery had been mastered. He turned back around and walked with haste toward Caetrale. She was, as the light of night caressed her beauty like a mother's hand to a sleeping child, all that he had ever dreamed and yearned for. Intelligent, exquisite, imaginative...yes, Amelia could not have been more perfect. Fragile yet determined, she played with a passion that could barely be contained within the ebony and ivory. Something was different tonight. It had taken him a while to notice, but the harmony she created was somehow dark and dissonant, frenzied and furious, but still full of the splendor that was hers. She had failed to notice him as he entered, and not wishing to interrupt her, Nicholas had stood behind her, bathing in the magic of her spell. Suddenly, sound fell away, and with it, Amelia collapsed and fell off of the seat into Nicholas' swift and safe embrace. Her answer seemed to take forever, and in those mere seconds, his love poured out upon her without hesitation, without concern for duty or decorum; in his eyes, Nicholas told her of his love. Hers answered, without fear, his devotion and desire. Calmly, carefully, she reached up to touch him. She wanted to know how he would feel to touch, to hold, to kiss. She needed to know, now. Nicholas heard the words and felt the agony of love, though in these last centuries, he had not thought it possible. It was slipping through his hands like water in the rain... he could stop it, if he dared... Nicholas started to rise, but she grabbed at him, wildly, almost as if she couldn't see him. But there was something Nicholas could do, if only he had the courage. Blood and tears and sky and earth all moved within Nicholas's trembling hands. She was then, and would be, in his soul forever. With the gentle care one holds a newly-picked flower, Nicholas raised Amelia to him and with his immortal will, tried to kiss away the call of death. She too, tried to match his will, as if they could, with heart and heaven, tear the terrible bonds of lifelessness from her weakened body. They knew that they could not; yet still, they tried. When all was done, the shallow breathing of a slipping soul was all the music they could together make. Nicholas and Amelia lay together beside the gilded piano. She gasped as life was drawn from her by some secret power that neither could name. It would not be long before her time would pass. Frantic, Nicholas reasoned with himself that he could save her still. The choice, however, would have to be hers. He expected her to answer, or ; for if she did, then he could take her now, and she would be his forever. He waited, and in the changing light of her fading eyes, he heard her whisper... If there had been a moment in his long and lonely life that could not be forgotten, this was one. She didn't understand, and how could he tell her, now that she was dreaming of the sun? How could he bring her into his cold world when she yearned for the warmth of day? He knew that awful ache far too well; though he knew he would curse himself later, he resolved himself to watch her as she died. This was all that he could do; though he could not heal her, he could hold her until her life was gone. She trembled, not with the fear of death's arrival, but with the pain of its imprisonment. Slowly, moment by moment, the pain claimed her soul; but heaven was not ready for her yet. Amelia's once loving face contorted with the flood of pain that gripped her ever-tighter, ever-longer in its evil grasp. As the last tide of agony drifted back from her, Nicholas saw a new look in her eyes, one that he had seen only in the eyes of the condemned. Over. All she wanted was to have it over. Over and done. This was something he could give her. This was one last token he could offer. Her eyes betrayed the new wave of torment that coveted her tired, aching body. Nicholas waited. He would not act without her answer. With all the might that she could muster, with all the strength that lay within her reach, Amelia calmed herself and whispered out her cries... She coughed and sputtered what little life was left to her. Illness had stripped her of all but a few of her gifts: her music, her mind, her beauty. Like a vile thief it robbed poor Nicholas of all that he might have held dear, of all that might have comforted him in his immortality, of all Amelia might have been. In violent spasms, her body shook beneath his useless hands and sadly, he released those dreams, like all the others he had lost, in the silent resignation of the night. Shot, as if by lightening, Amelia felt the pain embrace her in its cool and icy arms. This time, however, there was no fear. As the arms of death enfolded her in love, the pain slowly becoming a pleasure. Warm and inviting, she felt the call more powerfully than she could have ever imagined, and in that last breath, returned the token to this eternal angel of death. He raised himself and felt the warm blood of love upon his lips. He would taste this loss forever. Silently, a single tear of blood fell down onto her lily-white cheek and he knew that she was gone. Another man was crying, and in that room of darkness, turned and walked away. There were no words of comfort, no bells that tolled her passing; there was only the sound of the rain and the cool morning light that passed in mourning over her calm and lovely face. Nicholas spent the day withdrawn unquestioned to the open prison of his room. Grief... surely Brodie had attributed it to grief. On the evening after her passing, Nicholas came down the stairs and found him waiting in the hall. Brodie's tone was once again full of his customary formality and grace. And so it should have been, for this was a time when dignity was all that held a man together. And with that he handed Nicholas a package of papers tied up in a soft, blue ribbon. but before Nicholas could finish, Brodie was already opening up the door and showing him to his mount. And with that, Brodie closed the doors of Caetrale Manor and Nicholas found himself, once again, alone outside its walls. The wind of the sea played back her music as if it knew its secret meaning and Nicholas remembered, and wept. The End.