Malcolm had never seen the lab in such a state. Strange substances stained the floors, beakers and vials and loose pages of notes littered every surface. He strode toward the main workstation, dodging broken glass on the floor from some seemingly inconsequential accident, or maybe Poole just hadn't noticed yet. He was concentrating intensely on his work, with a somewhat crazed glint in his eye, which made Malcolm hesitate to interrupt.
Poole gave him a brief glance to acknowledge his presence, and Malcolm was relieved to see the butler smile. He hadn't seen Poole smile while he worked in a long time.
"How's it going?" Malcolm asked. He tried to keep hope at bay, but it was difficult. Poole was radiating positive energy.
"Very well," Poole said, not looking up from the bubbling beaker in front of him. "Very, very well."
Poole didn't elaborate, and although Malcolm's curiosity was piqued, he didn't press the subject -- the butler was clearly consumed in his task. Feeling awkward standing around doing nothing, Malcolm looked around the dark lab for something to clean. A vial of amber-colored liquid caught Malcolm's eye. It sparkled in the ever-shifting candlelight. He didn't dare touch it—it stood upright on a stand and was clearly set aside for later use—but he bent down to inspect it at eye-level.
He was close enough to touch the vial with the tip of his nose, though he was careful not to do so. He was also inadvertently close enough to smell the pungent fumes that came off the open top, which smelled frighteningly familiar. It was a thick smell, overly-sweet and heavily concentrated, like burnt honey mixed with spoiled milk. His stomach dropped, and he quickly returned to his feet to find fresher air. He found a broom to sweep up the broken glass on the floor.
As he cleaned, Malcolm's mind wandered. It had been a shock when Teddy's mom showed up at the house. He didn't think he'd ever seen fear in Teddy's eyes, and he felt for her. He hoped, for her sake, that her mother stayed away from Thornewood. But it wasn't just for Teddy's sake . . . something about her surprise appearance made Malcolm uneasy. It felt like an intrusion—on Teddy, on the business, on all of them.
What would have happened if she had demanded to see her daughter? What would they have done if she had forced through the curtain, searching for her? His anxiety spiraled. What would have happened if she made her way, somehow, to the basement? There, she would've seen Owen's body . . . she would call the police. His heart thudded in his throat and he swallowed to try and calm himself, but the thoughts kept coming.
It would look like I killed him, Malcolm thought, and his stomach churned with nausea.
His only solace was the memory on Teddy's mom's face when he had scared the living daylight out of that woman. She wouldn't be back. He had to believe that, had to believe it for his sanity . . .
As beads of sweat broke out on his brow, it suddenly occurred to Malcolm that they may be under a tighter deadline than originally thought.
"It's ready," Poole said, his quiet, level voice breaking through Malcolm's panic.
"What's ready?" Malcolm said, too quickly, as if he had been caught sleeping in class.
"The body," Poole said, voice thick with pride.
They locked eyes, and in them Malcolm saw sincerity and confidence. It immediately calmed him, until he saw the vial of amber liquid in Poole's hand.
He didn't want to think about why a substance created in Poole's lab smelled exactly like Thornewood's relentless force of darkness. Not now. Not when they were so close to saving Owen. Not when they were so . . . close.
"When?" Malcolm's voice came out weak. He realized he was afraid. There was so much he didn't know about this process, so much he was entrusting in this strange man.
They were interrupted by footsteps in the stairwell, and they both turned to find Owen entering the lab. He looked strange, Malcolm thought, pale and sallow.
Dead, the thought was intrusive. He looks . . . dead.
"I need to talk to you," Owen said, and Malcolm was surprised to hear anger in his brother's voice.
There was an awkward silence until Poole seemed to get the hint.
"Forgive me. I'll give you some privacy," he said, and Malcolm watched as the genius transformed seamlessly back into the butler. The sight made Malcolm grind his teeth with a surprising amount of anger. He blamed Owen for it, for making Poole stiffen back into propriety and leave his own lab.
"What is it?" Malcolm spat, once they were alone.
"You need to leave, Mal," Owen said quietly, through gritted teeth. "We can't trust this guy, we never should've trusted him— "
Malcolm crossed his arms. He wouldn't let himself hear this speech again.
"Hold on," Malcolm said, and he surprised himself again by the anger that sharpened his own voice. "You can stop right there, because I'm not going to listen to this bullshit from you."
Owen's eyes lit up in surprise, then narrowed again as he said, "It's not bullshit, Malcolm. We can't trust this guy. There's a journal upstairs, it's all about back then, back when he was actually a butler —"
"Nobody's leaving, Owen. We've been through this. But listen to me, Poole was just telling me that he's ready to fix you. He's ready to bring you back —"
"— I'm not letting him anywhere near me! And I don't want him anywhere near you!" Owen shouted, cutting him off.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Malcolm seethed.
Owen paused, collecting himself, then leveled his voice. "I read it in this journal, okay? I need you to listen to me, this man can't be trusted."
Malcolm started to object but Owen cut him off again.
"Come on, think about it. He spent his life seeking immortality. He didn't care what it took to reach it. He used people, Malcolm. And now he's using us. And I don't know for sure but, Malcolm, I think he killed William Allan."
"You don't even know hi—!" Malcolm started, but Poole spoke over him, a tall shadow in the doorway.
"He's right, Malcolm," Poole said.
"What?" Malcolm could feel his world crashing down on top of him.
They both turned to face Poole. His face was half obscured by shadow, but the side visible in the flickering candlelight revealed a pained, ancient regret.
"I killed William Allan," he said, in that same soft voice. "But I never meant to hurt him. I won't call it an accident, because it was my own stupidity and selfishness that caused it. And you're right, Owen. I was so focused on immortality, that I didn't care what it took—who it took—to get it."
Owen stood up straighter, propelled by the accuracy of his theory, but his knees shook, and Malcolm realized his brother was not just mad, but afraid too.
"You wrote to his wife, after you killed him," Owen said, a statement, not a question. "You wrote to her, as William, and convinced her to send money to Thornewood House."
Poole simply nodded. Suddenly, his eyes were as old as his soul. Malcolm couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. He was seeing Edward Poole for the first time, not as some soft-spoken butler or a clever man of science, but as something not quite human, something not of this world. Edward Poole was the darkest corner of the closet, he was the deepest shadow in the basement, he was the monster that reached out from the darkness, pulling anything in that came too close . . .
And yet . . . Even after accepting this new monstrous side of Poole, Malcolm couldn't disengage his heart from him. He couldn't untangle the web that drew him closer, and closer, and closer to him. Maybe . . . maybe he wanted to be pulled in.
"I was in the lab," Poole began, his voice strong, but thick, as if this were a story he had longed to tell for many years. "Mr. Allan was there as well. We were quite close to a breakthrough. I was heating a solution, burning it, as a crucial part of the chemical process. It put off an intensely foul-smelling gas, which should have alerted us straight away, but we were so close. We were thrilled to the point of drunkenness by our discovery. I realized the fumes must be toxic when my vision began to tunnel. I lost consciousness, as did Will. I came to some time later, by some miracle, a door had been left ajar, letting in some amount of breathable air . . . I soon discovered that it was the maid who had opened the door, presumably to spy on us. She saved me, in the end, though she was knocked unconscious in her hiding place. William was . . . gone. He was furthest from the door, and likely suffocated. We were supposed to live forever, that was our plan. That was my plan, at least. Instead, I lost him . . ."
He trailed off, as if realizing he was sharing more than he planned to share. The silence that followed was heavy.
"You have no reason to put your trust in me," Poole said, finally. "But let me . . . let me help."
Owen's voice came out in a croak. "I need some time. To think about it."
At that moment, Malcolm spotted several spiders skittering through the doorway, fanning out in all directions. A black shadow darted behind them, an inkblot against black paper. Snickers, Malcolm realized. He was chasing the spiders, hissing at them, dispersing them into the shadows.
"There's something else," Owen said, voice dark. "I think there's something wrong with Teddy."