July 27, 1932

The day of the deaths at Morning House

Unsurprisingly, Unity was the only one keeping up with that morning's calisthenics. Everyone else was yawning and slow, pausing after their jumping jacks.

"It's a miserable morning, isn't it?" her father said, wiping his brow.

"Let's forgo the running this morning," Faye said. Her eyelids were lowering and she sat down on one of the garden walls. "Why don't we take a morning break and have extra swimming later?"

Her father disliked changes in their routine, but the drug had gone to work on his willpower.

"All right," he said. "No run today, everyone. Go wash up."

Clara, who usually took the stairs with a graceful, bouncing gait, plodded up. Unity took the opportunity for this minor victory and sprinted ahead of the rest.

Back in her own quarters, Unity took a cool bath. About an hour—that's how long she had decided to wait. She rested on her bed, reading The Wizard of Oz . She liked the first chapter the best—the cyclone, the house in the air. She always wanted to be Dorothy at that moment: "It was very dark, and the wind howled horribly around her, but Dorothy found she was riding quite easily."

Unity listened. She had trained herself to hear the house. The outside was impervious stone, but the inner workings were organic—wooden floors and steps and doors, human movement. It had a heartbeat, a flow. It was slowing. People were falling asleep.

It was time.

Barefoot, she stepped out into the hall. All her siblings' doors were closed except for William's, who had kept his open a crack. She pushed it open and found him at his desk with his head on the book sitting in front of him. While this was the desired effect, she went over to him and made sure he was breathing normally. She had done her research and was sure everyone would be safe, but there had been a small part of her that worried.

He was fine. Snoring, in fact.

Everywhere she went, the house was quiet. Doors were closed. No one had gone to the gymnasium. Clara was not dancing in her studio. Peering into the kitchen, she found Elisa with her head on a table, fast asleep next to a pile of potatoes and a cutting board.

Unity felt an unexpected rush. She was the most alive person in Morning House.

She opened the door to Max's nursery. His was a wonderful room, one of the best in the house. It had large windows that opened up toward the American side. Miss Clarkson was stretched out on a daybed, fast asleep. Max was on the floor next to her, half dozing, his toy soldiers in his hands.

"Hello, Max," she whispered. "I came to play with you! I thought we could do something naughty. Would you like to throw rocks at the swans?"

Even though he was tired, Max picked up his head in interest. He loved throwing rocks at the swans, because the swans chased him when he got too close and tried to tease them. Unity had no intention of throwing a rock at a swan, but it was a good lure.

"Aren't they terrible?" she went on, holding his clammy little hand. "I hate them."

"I hate them too," Max said. "Hate them."

Max was a bit enthusiastic now, working against the Veronal.

"We'll have to be quiet. They'll try to stop us if they see us. We'll go the fun way."

She led her brother down the winding stone servants' steps. These did not creak and were used infrequently because they were so tight and awkward.

Morning House had several basement-level passageways all around the property to allow for the servants to bring in supplies and move around unseen. She was able to take him outside. Again, there was no one in sight. There were boats on the river, but they were a good distance away. No one was watching except the black swans circling on the lagoon.

"Oh, Max, look! This is the perfect rock. Come over and see."

Of course he came. He knelt next to her and looked into the water.

The actual act was not what she expected. It wasn't physically that difficult, though he did kick and flail. Unity was strong. This was just another exercise—a test of her resolve. A few blows landed on her face and arms, but she could cover any bruises and scrapes later with some story.

She pulled off her dress, revealing the swimsuit underneath, and waded out into the deeper parts of the lagoon, pulling Max with her. Not too deep. The middle, under the surface. Best that he not be found right away. His body was sinking. She dipped under the water with it, holding her breath. She pushed him into a tangle of vegetation and wedged his foot between some rocks. That would hold him long enough.

She slipped out of the lagoon, dried herself off as best she could, and redressed. She entered the house through the lower passages and the back stairs. She passed no one.

Back in her room, she removed the swimsuit and rubbed her bobbed hair hard with a towel. She sat in front of her fan for several minutes, leaning her face toward the cage that contained the whirling blades, until her hair was dry enough. There was a bit of a bruise blossoming on her arm and a thin scratch above her eye. The bruise could be covered with a sweater; the scratch got a light tapping of cosmetic powder. Then she climbed onto her bed, resting on top of the white coverlet.

Unity listened to the ticking noise of the fan and the birds outside. Morning House creaked gently, and downstairs, the clock chimed. She had done the thing that was hard. She had done it for her family—for her father. Her father . She had done the thing that she knew he wanted to do but could not do himself. She was the strongest Ralston. She squeezed her eyes shut and found that the rush from before slipped away. She'd had no Veronal, but a calm sleepiness took over. A natural one.

When she woke, it was Victory standing over her, gasping that Max was gone. She noted the time. Almost four in the afternoon. Longer than she'd anticipated. She prepared to join the search and started waking up her brothers. Clara was already gone.

Unity had barely gotten started when she heard the wailing coming from the hall. She got to the steps just in time to see Clara coming in, carrying Max's body. His color had changed, but otherwise he appeared to be asleep. Father came tearing out. Unity heard him make a noise—a terrible noise—one she had not expected. Of course, he must appear sad. He likely was sad. This noise was deeper. Faye's was positively primal. Two people had to grab her to keep her from going over the railing when she saw what was happening below.

They carried him to the breakfast room and put him on the table. Benjamin was by the door, his face glazed in horror. Unity had to look for herself, see that the work was done. She barely had a chance before Aunt Dagmar swept in, shutting the door, gathering them up and ushering them to the playhouse. She could hear Faye screaming. She felt bad for that. Faye would be upset—she'd known that going in. But it would pass.

The police came. Unity looked out the window of the playhouse and watched the two officers walking the lawn.

Elisa made them trays of forbidden foods—cookies and sandwiches with meat and sugary lemonade. It was improper, but Unity had to be patient today. There would be disruptions to the normal order of things at the start. It would be all right soon enough.

Edward got drunk. Victory was catatonic. Benjamin pulled all the books down and William banged on the piano upstairs.

Clara was nowhere to be found. She was hiding somewhere.

This was the first thing that caused Unity to worry that day. It had all gone well, perfectly to plan. But Clara finding the body so quickly and then vanishing, this disturbed her. Clara, perfect Clara. Clara, who Father thought should train for the Olympics. Clara, the first picked out of the six of them. Clara, with her little joke about coming to breakfast exactly on time. Clara drinking and speeding along in her boat. Whispering with William. Complaining about being here, about the rules, about Father's beliefs.

Clara knew just where to look for Max. How?

Once they were permitted back into the house, Unity rushed to her room. The compartments in her desk were open. How was this possible? No one knew about her desk. Only Father... and Father was downstairs. Father had not come up.

Clara. It had to be. She knew. She was going to ruin this somehow, this important thing Unity had done. But where had she gone? What was she doing? Clara had hiding places.

She would come back to the house. Unity would have to wait for her. Confront her. She should understand. In fact, the more Unity thought about it, the more she knew that Clara would understand. After all, Max reserved some of his worst behavior for Clara. He'd just thrown a rock at her head only a week or so ago. Clara might be mad that Unity had done the job first. Perhaps she might congratulate her.

That was the most likely. She would be jealous. Clara jealous of her! It was so delicious to think about. Perfect Clara, Olympic Clara, dancer Clara—bested by bookish Unity. The one with the power and self-control.

It made her quite smug, really.

Unity sat on her bed and waited. The sun began to go down. Finally, she heard someone walking heavily up the steps. Those were Clara's steps—they had a rhythm. Unity got up and met her on the landing. Clara looked at her for a long moment.

"What did you give us?" Clara said. "Why were we sleeping?"

Unity considered lying, pretending she had no idea what Clara was talking about. But that would only work for so long, and what was the point in that?

"Veronal," she said. "It didn't do you any harm."

"And you killed him."

Unity did not reply. Though she was proud of her actions, she also could not voice them. There were other people to be considered.

"So what now?" Unity asked.

Clara stalked out of the room. Unity followed her up the steps. Clara kept going, right to the top floor, to the open gallery with the balcony that towered over the trees and the river. She stood there, still dripping, looking at the moon.

"What now, Clara?" Unity asked again.

"I've been watching you," Clara said. "I saw how you were looking at him. For a while, I wasn't sure what you would do or when, but as soon as Victory said he was gone, I knew. The water. He can't swim. No one would question it. We all slept and you put him in the water."

"Someone had to do something," Unity replied. "Max had no self-control. He wasn't even trying . You know that better than anyone. He hit you. I know that's why you pushed him. You were trying to make him learn. You have to understand...."

"Understand?"

"Father deserves better," Unity said. "You know that. He's always telling us we have to be strong, do the things that are hard...."

Clara reached back and punched Unity in the face. Blood shot from the corner of Unity's mouth as she reeled backward.

"You...," Clara said, coming toward her, "are a monster. A murdering—"

Unity scrabbled to her feet, reeling from the blow. Clara was far stronger than she was.

"Stop!" she yelled. "I'm your sister ."

"Max was my brother ."

"He wasn't as good as us. He didn't deserve what he had."

Clara was looming, preparing for something. Another blow? They'd never fought. And Clara was drunk. Father had said that alcohol was poison. It had poisoned Clara.

Unity was afraid. She was alone with Clara and the night sky.

"What are you going to do?" Unity said.

Clara rushed forward. Unity reached for one of the wrought iron chairs they had on the balcony. Though iron, they were easy enough to lift when you were full of adrenaline. She swung out, making contact with Clara's shoulder and head, causing her to stumble, to fall against the balcony wall. Clara caught herself at the last moment, grabbing at the crenellations, looking out at the dark water, the electric blue of the night sky, the white moon.

She did not see Unity lift the chair to strike her a second time.