There was a strange silence during the carriage ride home. Juliette stared out the window, eyes unfocused. Lillian cradled the head of Elijah in her lap, looking uncomfortable, yet too exhausted to move. Charles, on the other hand, felt numb, as if his thoughts had been replaced with cotton. Too many things had happened today: first the revelation that his fiancée had been lying to him for over a year, then the trauma of nearly dying at the hand of a cult member, and finally the revelation that Cecilia's father was the leader of a child-sacrificing cult. It was too much to feel, and therefore, he felt nothing at all.
He stared at the vial in his hands, rolling the glass between his palms. In Anne's final moments, he had instinctively done what he had done countless times before: he had channeled a copy of her memory into a spare vial. It now glowed a sickly yellow.
They had proof of Thomas Monroe's deeds. The question was: would it be enough? Although Charles had seen his face in the memory, he hadn't seen the faces of any of the other cultists. Thomas Monroe was the most beloved person in town, with connections that reached far and wide. What if the police were in on this? What about the judges in the courts? How could Charles seek help if he didn't know who else was involved? Despite how far they had come, he felt more lost than ever.
He cleared his throat and Juliette jumped at the sound, her head whipping towards Charles. Now that her face was in view, he could see the darkness clouding her clear blue eyes.
"Juliette," he asked, "I'm not sure if we said this before. But... thank you. For saving us." He hesitated. "How did you find us... down in the tunnel? I thought we were invisible."
Juliette pointed to the golden bangle on Lillian's wrist. "I used the tracking magick in the bracelet. I had found the incantation linked to it a few days ago. So when I saw that couple leave the orphanage, I felt that you were following them—even though I couldn't see you."
"Quick thinking," Charles said.
Juliette gave him a small smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. Then she turned and resumed looking out the window.
Lillian stared at Juliette for a long while before saying, "The first time is hard."
Charles instantly knew what she was referring to: John's gruesome death. Juliette had done it so easily, so quickly, snapping his neck with the twist of her hand. Saving them all, but at a cost.
Juliette turned to look at them. She fiddled with her fingers. "It wasn't my first time," she finally whispered. "But it was my first time on purpose."
Charles' heart started pounding in his chest. He watched as Juliette lifted her head, and her eyes were wide with tears. "I was four years old. I don't even remember doing it. But apparently I was having a tantrum, and my mother was holding me, and I... I sent a bolt of lightning straight through her heart." She swallowed.
Charles' jaw dropped. He didn't know what to say.
"She died. Instantly," Juliette said. "But my father... he was terrified of me after that. He dropped me off at Silvers the next morning, and for the next year, I was kept in a room all by myself. Food was slid in through a flap. It was like I was a dog." She closed her eyes. "During that time, I vowed that I would control my powers. That I would find a way to never accidentally harm anyone ever again. Which I did, I guess."
"You saved us," Lillian said gently.
Juliette just shrugged and stared down at her shoes.
Charles let out a sigh. "Today was horrible all around," he muttered. "And despite everything, we still don't know what's going on."
"I have a pretty good idea," Lillian said darkly.
Charles turned to stare at the thief. "You do? How?"
"From the moment I saw those two in the parlor, I knew something was off," Lillian explained. "I could see their magicks: Anne's fire-working, John's inhuman strength... but also their ability to fly." She stared at Charles intently. "Didn't you find that odd, particularly since you've been looking for weeks for a mage who could fly?"
Charles hesitated. "I mean, I guess it was a little strange that we ran into two people who could fly. And I guess it was a little strange that they both had two distinct magicks, but Juliette has two as well. It's not that uncommon."
"But magick has a signature," Lillian insisted. "It's hard to explain but... it should feel like you. But their flying powers didn't feel like them."
"I don't understand."
Lillian glanced over at Juliette. The girl's back was to them as she stared out the window, but Charles knew she was listening.
"What I'm saying," Lillian said slowly, "is that I'm fairly certain this cult isn't just sacrificing any sort of children. They want mage children. And I think... I think they've found a way to take their magicks."
Her words sent a wave of shock through Charles' numb body. He looked at Elijah, still fast asleep on the carriage seat, and John's words flashed through his head: You're going to have some competition around here soon, Anne. More fire mages.
And then another, even more horrid realization came to his mind. As far as he knew, the only flying mage in town was Juliette's friend, Emma. Which meant that if Anne and John now had flying magicks...
Charles shuddered, realizing who the little girl in Anne's memory was.
Juliette seemed to have made the same realization, because even though she didn't let out a whisper, Charles could see her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
Charles opened his mouth, wanting to say something comforting, but found that he couldn't. He felt like he was spiraling down a drain. "Let's... let's all get some rest when we get home," he finally stuttered, even though he had the distinct feeling that sleep would elude him. "We have some things to figure out later."
When the carriage pulled to the front of their home, Charles lifted Elijah over his shoulder and carried him inside. The boy was still breathing—he suspected that the toffee only had a mild sedative in it—but he still wanted to check in with James to see if he required some sort of antidote.
"James!" Charles called out as he took his first few steps up the staircase. At his cry, his brother emerged from the spare bedroom, but his face was as white as a sheet.
"James?" Charles asked, realizing something was amiss. "James, what's wrong?"
James ignored him and peered down the stairs, where Lillian was removing her shoes in the front hall. "Lillian," he said, his voice cracking. "Your mother..."
Lillian's expression immediately transformed. Gone was her pensive expression from the carriage. Now, only fear flashed on her dark features. She tossed her shoes to the ground, hitched up her skirt, and darted up the stairs, nearly ploughing into Charles as she rushed past.
She ran into Charles' bedroom with James, Charles, and Juliette close behind.
When Charles entered the bedroom, he saw that Madame Bisset was lying in the bed, eyes closed. She was still breathing, but her breaths were shallow, and there was a wet rattle coming from the back of her throat.
Charles had seen this type of breathing before—from his mother, when she had only had a few hours left to live.
Lillian knelt at the side of the bed. "Mother," she said, shaking her shoulder. Madame Bisset let out a soft groan but didn't awaken.
Lillian's eyes flashed towards James. "What's wrong with her? Can't you give her something?"
"I'm afraid it's too late for that," James said, and Charles could see that his brother's eyes were filling with tears. "You saw how she's been getting weaker. She wasn't eating. She refused every potion I offered her. I... I think it's her time." He took a deep breath. "She'll likely pass by the end of the day."
"No," Lillian said, eyes welling with tears. And these, Charles realized, were real tears, not the ones she put on display for the rest of them. "No, please. Please." She looked over at the side table, littered with potions. She grabbed one at random, uncorked it, and pressed it to her mother's lips. "Please, Mom. Open up. Drink this. Mom, please."
But Madame Bisset didn't respond.
The vial fell from her hand, shattering on the ground. Lillian buried her head into her mother's lap, crying into the folds of her nightgown. It was horrible to watch.
"Would you like me to stay with you?" James asked. "To help keep watch?"
Lillian didn't look up. She only shook her head. No.
James nodded, looking grim. "If you need anything, I'll be downstairs." And then he stepped out of the room, Juliette following. Charles hung back only for a moment longer, watching as Lillian shook with sobs, before excusing himself as well.
Once in the hallway, Juliette quickly walked away. "I think I need to be alone," she mumbled, disappearing into the spare bedroom and shutting the door.
Charles watched her go, his heart aching. This day had been too much for him; he could only imagine what was going on for her.
James meanwhile was staring at Elijah. The boy was still fast asleep in Charles' arms. "Who's this?"
"An orphan named Elijah. He was being kidnapped by two cult members posing as potential parents. They gave him some sort of laced toffee."
James hardly reacted to the news. He seemed to take it in a sad sort of stride. "I assume he'll be staying with us."
"He doesn't really have anywhere else to go."
"Of course." James took a few steps down the hall and finally opened the door to his own bedroom. "He can stay in here. Come on."
Charles slowly stepped over the threshold into James' room. He hadn't been in there in quite some time. While the rest of the house was a shared space, lovingly built up by both of them over the years, their private chambers had always been treated like a sanctuary, a place of solitude untouched by the other brother. Part of it had to do with their childhood. It was a luxury to have their own rooms, and it was something neither took for granted, which is why they typically respected each other's privacy.
The first thing Charles noticed was that James had changed out the bedding since the last time he had seen the room. A white cotton quilt inlaid with flowers covered the bed; it was bright and surprisingly peaceful.
James pulled back the covers, making room for Charles to lay the boy on the bed. As soon as he was settled, James went to work. He felt the boy's pulse, ran his hand over the boy's toes, and then leaned forward to smell his breath.
"Sleeping tonic," James finally said, standing upright once more. "A powerful one, but nothing more. It'll likely wear off by morning."
"Great," Charles said. He turned to walk out of the room, but that's when he saw something that made him stop: sitting on James' dresser was an open gold locket. And inside was a tiny portrait of Foote.
Charles stopped, and suddenly the fight from that morning came back in a rush. He realized why his brother's tone had been surprisingly curt all evening.
It had felt like it had happened ages ago: catching James kissing Foote in the stables. Like a lifetime had passed since he had been so angry.
Charles cleared his throat, pointing to the locket. "Where... did you get that from?"
"The locket?" James asked. "From a vendor. In the marketplace a few Saturdays ago."
"And the portrait?" Charles asked.
"I took Andrew to an artist I know. He did the miniature for him." James hesitated, as if expecting Charles to make a comment, then said, "Yes, I paid for him. He had never had a portrait done before, and it made him so happy, and I wanted a piece of him that I could keep with me wherever I go." James looked at Charles, and his expression was one of fatigue. Annoyance, and anger, and sadness, but mostly a deep tiredness.
Charles knew his brother didn't want to fight him. And Charles suddenly didn't want to fight either.
"James," Charles said, "I want to... apologize. For the way I yelled at you this morning."
James' eyes widened in genuine surprise, but he didn't say anything in response; he just paused, waiting for Charles to continue.
Charles slid his hand into his pockets. "It was coming from a place of love—or rather, I thought it was. Obviously, that wasn't the case." Charles shut his eyes. "The thing is that I just can't bear the thought of either of us ending up back where we were: two children, running away from home with nothing, living on the streets, struggling to make ends meet."
"We're not those children anymore," James said. "You know that."
"I do know that," Charles said, "but I still can't help but think that it could all go away, and that terrifies me. And I think I've been wrapped up in it all so much because I knew that in a few months I was going to marry a Monroe, become a Monroe, and I didn't want my brother to be left behind."
"You didn't want your brother to embarrass you," James corrected.
Charles winced. "Perhaps that too, yes. But I really should only be embarrassed by myself. When I yelled at you, I had just found out that Cecilia had been lying to me for over a year. And suddenly, this façade of a life I had built up in my head, where everything was going to be secure and perfect forever, suddenly came crashing down, and I snapped. It doesn't excuse my actions, but I hope it explains, just a little, why I acted that way."
Charles hesitated, then said, "And... I'm sorry. I'm sorry for judging Foote just because of his job. After today, it's abundantly clear how little all of that really means. The only things that really matter are love and..." He paused, thinking of Lillian next door, crying with her dying mother. "And family."
For a while James just stood there in silence, and Charles was scared to think that he was going to walk out of the room and refuse to say anything else. Instead, James took a step forward and wrapped his brother in a hug. "I accept your apology," he said. "And I'm sorry about what happened this morning with Cecilia. I know that news must have been unsettling... but I hope you two can patch things up."
Charles' stomach flipped as he let go of his brother. "Unfortunately, I don't think we can," he said. "Lillian was right. She's involved with this cult. Her father too."
"Wait—what?" James' mouth dropped open. "What happened while you were at the orphanage today?"
"Cecilia was there. She was the one who handed the boy off to the cultists. She calmed him with her magick right before she fed him to the sharks."
James shook his head. "There must be some sort of misunderstanding."
"Unfortunately not. Lillian and I followed the couple out and they led us to an entrance to the underground tunnels on the orphanage grounds—it must be how they are getting the children to their rituals. And then, when Lillian and I were discovered, the cultists nearly killed us. I was only saved when Juliette showed up and... she killed a man."
"Oh," James said wincing. "Poor Juliette."
"And that's not the worst of it. One of the cultists—a woman named Anne—killed herself. But before she died, I was able to slip into her mind. I found a memory of her at one of the ceremonies, witnessing the murder of another child. And the man holding the knife? Thomas Monroe."
"That can't be right."
Charles reached into his pocket and pulled out the yellow vial. He handed it to his brother. "I saved the memory. It's him—I can show you."
James stared at the vial with a look of horror. "So the Monroes are involved with all of this," he muttered. Then there was a look of horror that passed across his face. "Andrew..."
"I doubt he's involved," Charles said. "And he should be safe. From what we've learned so far, this cult is only sacrificing children. And mage children at that. It seems like they've found a way to steal their magicks."
James' eyes widened. "They kill them for their magick? That's..." He trailed off, not even able to come up with the words to describe his disgust.
"I know," Charles said. He rubbed his face. "And I'm not quite sure what to do next."
"We have to tell someone," James said forcefully, giving his brother the memory back. "The police, or the mayor... You have proof that Mister Monroe murdered a child. Show them the memory and they can take it from here."
"But what if the police are involved?" Charles asked. "There are at least twelve people in this cult, and so far, we only know two of them: Cecilia and her father. And they're the most powerful people in town! I wouldn't be surprised if other people higher up are involved." He stared at the vial. "This is a mess."
James blew out through his cheeks. "You're right. This is a mess." He rubbed his face. "That said, at least we know what their plans are and that Monroe is involved. We know a lot more than we did this morning. And you saved that little boy—I think you've foiled their plans for the evening. This gives us a little bit of time to come up with a plan. In the meantime..." He gestured towards the hall. "We have other things to worry about. Juliette, and Lillian and her mother. Maybe we should put all this cult stuff on hold, just for the evening, and be there for them."
"You're right," Charles said. He closed his eyes, and the image of his own mother lying in bed, barely breathing, flickered through his mind. He remembered his long vigil at her bedside, his brother at his side, his father in a stupor from all the booze. He remembered her taking her last breath, and how he and James had held onto each other, sobbing quietly so as not to alert their father.
"Remember... remember when mom died?" Charles asked, his voice catching in his throat.
James smiled sadly and wrapped him into another hug. "Of course, Charles. Who could forget that?"