A Wound
They’ve travelled far and wide, spoken to barons and beggars who thought them equals. Mallow’s little games will do that to a person. Usually, the pair of them move on hastily, before they can be blamed for the sudden redistributions of wealth that seem, so inexplicably, to pop up wherever they go.
Eglantine’s face has lost its round cheeks and childish cast, becoming an elegant echo of Mallow’s own features. And he has taught his younger sibling well, when it comes to how to dress and move to heighten one’s charm. (He could not, admittedly, teach them any ‘feminine wiles,’ but there have been plenty of ladies whose time and company are monetarily acquired, and can be asked to instruct someone in just such things. And their gossip! Eglantine used to blush, hearing it. Now, they just laugh.)
How to fight, how to speak the local languages, how to sound like an expert in things one knows little about; Mallow’s taught them everything he can. They’ve debated the merits of Latin texts by morning, and practiced forging signatures by evening on the same day. It’s a peculiar sort of education, but they’re living a peculiar sort of life, and Mallow’s assured them that all these varied kinds of knowledge are keys on the ring that will unlock every door to wealth and success that they can find.
This week, Mallow is a trading entrepreneur, offering an apparent panoply of contacts who can be made aware of the wonderful opportunities one’s business has to offer. He even has a temporary office. ("An office! I’m officially respectable!" he laughs, one night. "This will be the big one. We’ll make a fortune, trust me. We’ll be rich enough to retire, even - in France, maybe, with a good home and servants and invitations to parties every week. It’s going to be perfect.")
Eglantine’s not quite clear on the details, but Mallow always explains those afterwards so they can learn how it’s done. They can wait. And he’s sent them off to dancing lessons, to master the fashionable steps, so there’s enough fun involved that they don’t really mind being on the very periphery of this scheme.
The dancing-master’s son blushes whenever Eglantine smiles at him, and gives such interesting presents if one takes him aside and kisses him soundly while his father’s not watching. He makes a good dance partner, too, and Eglantine loses themself over and over in the music, and in the joy of floating across a wide floor in a ballgown, moving gracefully and feeling as though everything is just right.
Nothing feels right when Eglantine comes home (as if the old lodging-house could be called a home, but they haven’t had a real one in years, and this is about as close as it gets.). The door to their rooms has been locked from the inside, and some kind of metallic intrusion broken off inside the lock, so that it can’t even be picked. Mallow doesn’t bring women here, not while his schemes demand he seem perfectly respectable, so it can’t be his privacy that door’s preserving.
Eglantine hammers on the door, and hears a scraping and groaning from inside. Near-weeping from frustration and a cold, intuitive terror, they race outside and scale the building, not caring who might see. There, through the window, a streak of deep red upon the floor. And the next window over is broken. Something came in, or out, this way. Scrambling in, hands bleeding from cuts inflicted by broken glass in their haste, Eglantine races toward that bloody swathe.
Mallow is face-down upon the floor, unmoving now, though the blood’s still fresh and bright around him. He’s dragged himself almost to the door. They were so close! If the door could only have been opened, perhaps Eglantine could have reached him before - before -
They crumple to their knees beside their brother’s body, and with shaking hands turn him over. His face is pale and empty of life, and there are stab-wounds to his body that tell Eglantine whoever did this fully intended Mallow’s death. This wasn’t a mishap, or an impulsive blow in an argument. This was murder, cold and deliberate, they’re sure of it.
Moving almost mechanically, Eglantine searches for clues. The petals of a strange rose. Mallow’s day-planner, with ‘Scathewick?’ the current entry.
They will find the man who did this. They will find out why. And they will repay this, blood for blood, death for death.
Because they must.