Death is inevitable. Death is unpredictable. Death is merciless.
Suicide is a scheme. Suicide is swift. Suicide is a cheat.
But Death cannot be cheated.
This, he had learned the hard way.
Even now, staring at the female laying uncharacteristically motionless on the bed, a wailing infant swaddled in his arms, Richard Crale stood in awe at Death.
Was this cruel fate or divine punishment?
He didn't know how long he stood there. He dared not approach the bed, dared not touch her, dared not breathe.
The sobbing servants, fussing baby, and the grief-stricken girl clustered around him could do nothing to penetrate the eery quiet in the Count's mind.
His daughter, tired of her questions hanging in the air unanswered, wiggled her way between his leg and the door frame, squeezing into the room with a stumble as the midwife folded the bloody sheets into her woven basket.
One look at Daisy's frightened tears and the woman's face molded into a practiced expression. Her smile kind, eyes serene.
Because he obviously could do nothing to console the girl who screamed, collapsing to take the midwife's place next to her mother's corpse.
Oh how simple it would be. It would be swift and relatively painless. Just a gentle pull of the trigger . . .
No sooner than the thought had entered his mind he banished it with recoiling horror. As if someone could hear what he was thinking. Absentmindedly, he fingered the frame around his eye, traced the curve back to the bridge of his nose. A permanent reminder. A curse.
Catching his reflection on the dresser mirror, Richard stared.
The man mimicked the gesture. Vivid green eyes rimmed in exhaustian. A pale face with dark hair that matched those of the creature - the thing - in his arms.
Yes, because this - this murderer was no daughter of his.
Denial, fierce and sickening, settled like a cold stone in his gut.
That's right. Beatrice would still be here had it not been for this girl.
Wheeling around, he crossed the room in three long strides and charged after the midwife as the maids startled like frightened chickens.
"Midwife!" Richard barked. The world receded into a blur of colors as his gaze focused on the female padding down the hallway. "Midwife!"
The woman jumped in suprise, her hand fluttering against her chest.
Before she could say a word, he dumped the infant in her arms as the woman gaped, eyes popping as she fumbled to cradle the object he so calously dropped.
"Take her," he sneered, lip curling in distate. "She has no place here, under my roof."
At first the woman simply stared at him. Was that sadness in her eyes?
No. No, it was pity.
She pitied him.
The silence stretched on and seconds ticked by as he held the woman's stare. The shame, the social suicide, the child - it all had no bearing to him. What did he care if she spread gossip?
Instead, the midwife whispered "take her." Looking down at the girl, her fingers slipped under a rosy cheek.
Beatrice wanted to name her Rosemary.
"Grief is hard." Shifting, the midwife gently extended the bundle to him. "But your wife left you a precious girl. Treasure this gift. I'm sure she wouldn't want this."
"I do not care," he said, fixing the woman with a glare. How dare she? It was not she who had just lost a wife.
However, the exchange was interuppted with a sniffling voice.
"Papa?"
Both adults glanced down at the girl. Her nose and cheeks were flushed bright red, but the uncanny blue eyes that looked up at him were stricken. Perphaps even angry. "Why are you taking her away?"
Her tone, rather than curious, could be described as accusatory.
Does no one notice that Beatrice is gone? How could they be so ignorant?
"It's nothing Daisy. Go see to your own business."
Her gaze switched from him to the midwife, finally settling on the baby.
"Can I see her?" she said, deaf to his order. Amidst the heartbreak and loneliness there was a hesitant smile as the girl tipped curiously at the midwife.
The woman smiled, crouching down. "Of course."
Tilting the newborn forward, his daughter proceeded to stare with awestruck eyes.
"Here, hold her."
Like touching a glass vase, the eight year-old delicately cradled her sister in a wary embrace.
Bile burned his throught.
How could she be so accepting at the cause of her mother's death? What kind of daughter embraces her mother's killer?
She - no, they - had no idea what true love was. What this sadness, this agony felt like.
"She loves her." The midwife's statement cut through the haze of hatred.
"Fine," he spat venemously, eyes boring at the warm embrace. "Fine. Let her care for the monstrosity. She is of no value to me."
Just as the female flinched in fear, he whirled around to see the cluster of maids gaping at the end of the hallway. Listening without shame, eyes shocked and horified, drying tears on their faces, hands pressed against their mouths.
Death is inevitable
"Get on with your chores, you useless ninnies!"
Scrambling, they fled different directions. A few seemed to be biting their lips in an effort to swallow a remark.
Death is unpredictable.
They don't understand. None of them understand.
Sparing his daughters one last rueful glare, he marched onward.
Death is merciless.
This, he had learned the hard way.