Concerto No. 2 in G Minor, Op. 8, RV315, III. Presto

The return journey passed in a haze. Indifferent to the possibility of rousing Thomas, she walked right past his snoring form. Proceeding to Anastasia’s room, Lucy tapped gently upon the door and then opened it without awaiting an invitation.

Anastasia sat by the window. Misery enveloped her as completely as it did Lucy, radiating from every inch of her being.

Unable to contain herself, Lucy blurted, “I went to see the Captain.”

What colour she had left drained from Anastasia’s face and she began to tremble.

Lucy’s hands shook as she moved closer and gently grasped Anastasia’s, a wild sob rising in her chest. “It does not matter.”

Anastasia shuddered with increased violence, gripping Lucy’s hands tightly.

Lucy, tears streaming down her face, explained, “I tried! I thought… but he… he became distant and said that you must live with your decision.”

Anastasia released Lucy’s hands and slumped into her chair, crying out in desperation, “Why?”

Lucy paused, her thoughts drifting between the immaculate garden and the decaying house. She contemplated the man who seemed to embody both of those things at once.

“I know not. But when he utters your name, it is as though he speaks of a goddess.” She hesitated, uncertain of why she had said it like that, then met Anastasia’s astonished gaze. “You must trust your heart, he will—”

The sound of the front door banging against the wall reached their ears.

A dark figure slammed open the door. Thomas, crushing the bread he held into crumbs against his chest, woke up.

A foreboding spectre stepped forward, and intoned his name from a distance. The room shifted and emerged from the foggy abyss of his befuddled senses.

Recognition dawned upon him as the shadows transformed. “Jack!” said Thomas with a tongue thick and clumsy. A perverse sense of delight washed over him at this unexpected visit. “Have you at last come to apologise for your actions?” He made an effort to stand but found himself swaying and, with a thump, resumed his seat accompanied by another snort of laughter as breadcrumbs fell from his chest onto the floor. The spectacle of his younger brother, standing before him, feigning strength, struck him as both ludicrous and foolish. In every previous altercation, he, Thomas, had emerged the victor; he anticipated no different outcome from this impending conflict.

Attempting to radiate a calm authority that belied the fear he harboured, Jack declared: “I have come to… escort you from this household.”

“I think not,” retorted Thomas with a snide chuckle. “I have been invited to remain here!”

A rampage fuelled by years of pent-up wrath begged to be set free, yet Jack mustered all his self-control to subdue the violent eruption. “Thomas. You are… unwell and ensnared by an ailment that has… rendered you its puppet. I have only ever wanted to help y—”

“Liar,” screeched Thomas. With a grotesque flourish, he reached into his mouth and extracted an odd set of modified dentures. The bulge in his cheek instantly collapsed as he brandished them before Jack’s face.

“You are reshponsible for thish!” shrieked he in a garbled torrent from the contorted side of his mouth.

Revulsion swept over Jack as he beheld the slimy physical manifestation of his brother’s decline. The block of firewood in his grasp, the searing rage that had coursed through him, the panic that had ensnared his senses, and the frantic escape from a life hated—all merged into a maelstrom of bygone terrors.

As memories swirled around him, a conflagration of realisation blazed within his mind when the image of a terse, abrupt letter concerning an ‘accident’ floated before his eyes.

“You lit the fire,” said he, eerily restrained. It was not an inquiry but rather a macabre acknowledgment of the final piece to a horrific puzzle snapping into place.

“I did,” said Thomas with disturbing glee.

“Why?” The enormity of his sadistic brother’s confession was unfathomable.

Repositioning his dentures, Thomas saw revulsion cross Jack’s face, and became even more furious. In the throes of hatred, he lost focus. “Everything was perfect until you appeared! The baby! Everyone loves the baby! You stole from us; they lacked the means to fix me, providing me only with this… this! I worked for their affection and then you were born!”

He stomped around the room, gesticulating wildly as if to ward off incoming arrows.

“They did not listen! They stayed behind and they died! They should have listened to me!”

He turned and took an enraged step towards his most hated enemy, then paused and laughed shrilly at the sight of his brother standing there as if he were some sort of hero.

“You fancy the spinster! That is why you are here! The heroic Jack Clifton, a knight gallantly arriving to rescue a damsel, as if sprung from the pages of foolish fairy tales! Do you aspire to possess her at the conclusion of all this? A spinster ?”

The word ‘possess’ ignited something deep within, something molten, something that was resolved to destroy anyone who dared utter such a thing regarding Anastasia. It was screaming for release. To kill and destroy. To compel this horrible thing to go away once and for all.

Leaning closer, Thomas giggled with a blast of bitter breath. Unsettling in its resemblance to that of a young maiden poised to whisper sweet confessions into the ear of a beloved companion, it sent a sheet of perspiration across his back. “I know her secret; would you like to know?”

Jack shook his head. He not want to know her secret; it was not for Thomas to tell. It was her secret; he did not want to know.

“She cannot have children,” said Thomas, with genuine delight in his voice at the anticipated disgust.

Jack stared at nothing in shock. The leverage held over the incredible woman was a circumstance of nature. A discordant twist of fate had been transformed into an instrument for his brother’s sick manipulations.

The lack of reaction infuriated Thomas. Where there should be weeping or fury, there was only absurd stillness.

“Do you believe, after all I have done to her, she would still fuck you?” said Thomas, and he spat into Jack’s face.

A layer of crimson obscured Jack’s vision at the wet slap of foul-smelling spittle upon his cheek.

Seizing Thomas by the grimy fabric of his shirt, he—

(charged towards the French soldier across the blood-soaked field, screams of the wounded and dying filling his ears)

—hurled Thomas against the wall. A flash of steel from a knife caught Jack’s eye, he—

(almost intercepted the enemy’s bayonet with his sword, it pierced him in the chest)

—grabbed Thomas by the throat and rammed him against the wall again. The watercolour clattered to the ground. One of Thomas’ strikes sent a lance of searing pain through Jack’s left bicep. Blood welled up from the wound and he—

(locked eyes with the soldier whose surprise mirrored his own)

—yanked at Thomas’ arm. There was an audible pop from the elbow, the knife fell, he—

(retaliated, rendering the astonished soldier dumbfounded for eternity that someone had survived such a blow)

—forced the murderous compulsion down, grabbed Thomas by the hair, kicked open the front door and he—

(clutched at the sword wound just above his heart, blood pouring through his hand)

—hurled a screeching Thomas onto the ground outside, re-entered the room, collected a filthy assortment of belongings into a canvas bag, stormed back out, focused upon one singular objective: removing this foul inkblot from Miss Hartford’s presence.

“Should you dare to set foot on this property again, I will end you.” warned Jack, flinging the bundle to the ground beside Thomas.

With considerable effort, Thomas rolled onto his stomach and expelled the contents of his stomach upon the ground. Struggling to rise to his knees, he retched once more, seized the bag with his uninjured arm, and staggered to an unsteady stance.

Bathed in the early morning light that crept over the horizon, Thomas spat into the dirt. The madness faded from his gaze, supplanted by seething hatred as he vowed, “You will regret this. Do you think this is over? I have hunted you for years.” He stormed out of the gate, a walking curse receding into the distance.

Fear suffused Jack as the adrenaline dissipated. This signified that the impending panic was approaching.

He took a step towards the gate, wishing to shield Anastasia from witnessing him in such a state: The constriction of his lungs, the black spots that danced before his eyes, the shaking, the curling up into a ball like a child, the…

The night remained clear; nothing smashed into his mind until he was but a tiny fragment in the corner screaming for release.

But, could he truly breathe?

He took in the cool air, hesitantly at first, then vigorously. With a weary smile, sitting down at the doorstep to watch the dawn, he closed his eyes for a moment.