July 27, 1932

The morning of the deaths at Morning House

On the morning Unity Ralston killed her brother Max, she woke early because of the heat. Her bedsheets were sticking to her legs in the humidity. She peeled them back and went to the window to watch the sun rise over Ralston Island. The sky was milky, full of clouds that refused to rain. It would be an unpleasant day, sweaty and sluggish.

This was the day she had been waiting for.

She rinsed her face in cold water and hurriedly pulled on her white exercise clothes and her canvas running shoes, then combed back her blond hair and fixed it in place with a headband. It was five minutes to six.

After checking to make sure her door was securely locked (not that anyone was going to come into her room; still, with something this important, safety measures had to be followed), she set to work. Her father had given her a marvelous desk for her eleventh birthday. All the Ralston children got desks, but this one was special.

"I'm proud of all my children," he said as he showed her the desk. "But you, Unity, you have always tried so hard to live up to my standards. I feel you and I understand each other. We know that sometimes, to do important work, we must have privacy. This desk has sixteen hidden compartments...."

He showed her those compartments, one by one, and the delicate triggers that opened them. There were large ones, like the false bottom of the flat drawer under the writing surface, that could be opened by reaching back and unhooking a small clasp. There were also exceedingly small and tricksy ones, ones that had two or three steps to access. Her favorite required pressure on a bit of scrollwork that ejected a small knob that needed to be turned and pushed back to pop out a tiny round compartment, big enough for rings or a necklace. It currently contained a collection of twisted paper packets, half the size of a cigarette each, made of torn glassine envelopes. On these were written numbers—5, 10, 15, 20. The Veronal they contained had been easy enough to get. It was a common pill for nerves and sleep. She bought it at the druggist rather than take it from her father's cabinet, in case he noticed such a large quantity was gone. She needed two bottles.

She had learned the dosages by reading his medical books. The common therapeutic dose was about fifteen grains. Around fifty was fatal. She had ground the pills using the back of a spoon she had smuggled to her room and made the dosed wraps. Unity was good at math and chemistry—she had worked out precisely how to distribute the drug.

She left her room and went down to the kitchen, where their cook, Elisa, was preparing their breakfast.

"Oh!" She put a hand to her chest. "You startled me. You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep," Unity said truthfully. "It was too hot."

"Oh yes, it's going to be horrid."

"I'm starving. Could I have a few graham crackers and milk?"

"Help yourself, dear."

Elisa was busy filling a bowl for the staff breakfast, which was served at seven.

"You can take that in," Unity said. "I'll do the nursery tray."

Unity had always taken an interest in cooking, which Phillip encouraged, and it wasn't unusual for her to give Elisa a hand.

"You're a blessing, Miss Unity. An absolute treasure."

Unity smiled modestly and went to the stove, where a large pot of porridge was emitting primordial burps, and the kettle rumbled, about to whistle.

As soon as Elisa was gone, Unity set to work.

Max and his nurse took breakfast in a morning room off the nursery. Though coffee and tea were forbidden for the family, Phillip Ralston didn't go so far as to deny the staff or his sister. His nurse had a pot of strong tea on her breakfast tray. This Unity prepared, scooping two heavy spoonfuls of black tea into a pot. Checking over her shoulder to make sure she was alone in the kitchen, she then reached into her pocket and pulled out the envelopes and poured a twenty-five-grain dose into her teapot, nowhere near the fatal dose, but certainly enough to keep her out of the way for the morning. Twenty grains went in Aunt Dagmar's coffeepot before the tray was swept up by one of the maids.

Fifty grains each went into the pitchers of fresh orange juice and apple cider that were chilling in the icebox, with an additional twenty going into the ginger-and-lemon water that was also served with every meal. (They were permitted a maximum of two glasses of juice each, but you could have as much ginger-and-lemon water as you liked.)

While everyone had different preferences for boiled eggs, granola, stewed vegetables, or graham bread, everyone ate the fresh yogurt with cooked black raspberries, and everyone had a dish waiting at their place when they entered the breakfast room. The little glass dishes were empty and waiting on a tray. Unity got out the bowl of fresh, sour yogurt and spooned some into each dish. To each yogurt but one she added ten grains more of Veronal. The untouched one she set aside and stuck a spoon in. She would tell the maid that was hers and that she had taken a bite so it would be set at her place. She added a little here and there into cups and onto a fruit pudding that was chilling for the staff lunch. Everyone in the house was covered in some fashion.

She looked about the kitchen, checking her work in her head, counting the doses and portions one last time.

Everyone was thirsty that morning. Unity drank plain water, but everyone else had some juice or ginger and lemon. She kept a watchful eye on the levels in the pitchers. By her estimate, there were about forty grains' worth in what remained in the pitchers at the end of the meal. Elisa and the staff would consume this throughout the morning. All the doses would be nicely balanced. It was eight in the morning, and the Veronal had entered the Morning House bloodstream.