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38

James was dumbstruck. His tea was still sitting on the tray, still steaming away, but he had forgotten all about it. He simply could not imagine this frail old vixen, this perfectly prim and proper Fox with the folded hands, living almost her entire life under the yoke of such a monster. It just didn't make sense to him. His own married life was one of such bliss and happiness he couldn't even imagine a world so vastly different from his own - the exact opposite. He tried to imagine raising his hand to his darling Emily, but even the concept was so alien to him he simply couldn't.

But there was one thing that bothered him even more than anything else, something he couldn't let go.

"But," he started, not quite sure how to proceed. "You said that... you loved him?"

"Yes," she said and took a sip of tea.

And that was it. No elaboration, no nothing. Just that simple affirmation, like it was supposed to be obvious.

James couldn't accept that. "How can you say you loved a Fox that could do that to you? He beat you! He almost killed you! How can you love such a thing!?"

Laura put her tea down on the table with a faint clink and looked at him like he was a slow child, unaware of how the real world works. "He was my husband, James. I loved him with all my heart. Maybe that's difficult for you to understand, but it's the truth."

"That's not what love is!" James shouted. He knew he should keep his voice down, but he couldn't help it. "Love is- is-" Dammit, why did he have to be so terrible with words? "Love is when you come home after a hard day's work and your wife is there with a hug and a kiss and asks you if anything interesting happened! Love is when one of your kids skins his knee and you patch him up and give him a pat on the butt and tell him to play more careful! Love is when you're feeling down and your wife knows immediately, even when you didn't say anything, and she makes you your favourite meal for dinner! Love is when you sit for hours watching her slave away over a painting, not making a sound until she's finished! Love is-"

"That's not what love is, James," Laura said. "Anyone can feel 'love' when everything is perfect. True love is when you learn to cope with everything that is not. You're a carpenter, aren't you? You know what makes a good house. Any shack can stand in fine weather, but only a truly good house can weather a storm. That's what real love is."

James didn't know what to say. It was like they were living in completely different worlds.

"Now then," Laura continued as if there had been no any interruptions. "There was a knock at the door."

*

It came again, slightly louder than before. "Laura? Markus? Anybody home?"

Light broke inside Laura's heart at the sound of that voice. It was Emily, Sarah's friend! If she was here, then she would be safe. The clouds would break up and the sun would shine once again.

She looked up at Markus's face, expecting to see him go back to his normal self, expecting him to tell her to go upstairs and pretend to be ill, like he's done countless times before.

His face was indeed changing, but not for the better.

In the instant before he looked over his shoulder, Laura saw his muzzle crinkle and the right half of his lips pull back from his teeth. His brow furrowed into a mask of pure rage as the most otherworldly growl issued from his throat.

"That bitch!" he yelled, surely loud enough for Emily to hear. "Always coming around here without an invitation! So rude! So disrespectful!"

In that moment Laura thought she really might die, not from the beating she just took, but from pure embarrassment.

The world became deathly quiet, and Laura could imagine the poor girl standing frozen on the other side of that door, her hand raised, wondering whether she should knock again.

Go away, please go away!

No! Open the door! Save me!

Laura didn't know what to hope for anymore. If Emily opened that door, what would she see? A pathetic old vixen cowering in a puddle of blood, tea, and tears, and a monster of a husband standing over her, his cane raised.

She didn't want anyone to see them like that. They were a happy family. Maybe they had a bit of a spat every now and then, but what family didn't? If Emily opened that door right now, she might get the wrong idea. She might think Markus was being a bad husband when she was the one who had spilt his tea. It was all her fault, really. If she'd been a better wife, none of this would have happened. If she'd been a better wife...

Something happened inside of her just then. She did not know what it was, exactly, or what triggered it, but it happened in an instant. She saw all her days flash before her eyes, every spot of tea she had ever served flawlessly only to be rewarded with a scowl and a slap to the face, every night she lay awake in bed hoping that Markus would just spend the entire night at Othello's so he wouldn't stagger home in the small hours with cheap wine on his breath and carnal lust in his heart, and then feeling guilty about those hopes the next morning, every time she wanted to tell him to please try and control his temper, but ended up only folding her hands in her lap and saying nothing, because that was the proper thing to do, because there weren't really any problems with their marriage if she didn't acknowledged them.

Well, she couldn't ignore the pain in her arms and legs and across her back. She couldn't ignore the blood pouring out of her hand. But most of all, she could no longer ignore the pain in her heart. It's been cracked for many a year, and now, lying in this filthy mess, begging for mercy from one who was supposed to love her with all his heart, pleading with someone who had cowed her to such a degree she couldn't even call out for help when her very life was in danger, it finally broke completely.

With tears streaming from her eyes, she did something she would regret for the rest of her life. "Help me, Emily!" she screamed at the top of her lungs. "Markus has gone mad! Help me, help me -

*

- help me.' How I screamed, James. I screamed like I've never screamed before. Right there." She pointed at the crack in the floor - absolutely spotless, pristine, not a single trace of blood, and that was what made the gooseflesh erupt all over his back and arms: the_cleanliness_ of it all, covering up the horrors that had taken place here under a blanket of immaculate purity, just like the woman that now lived here all alone.

James dropped a couple of sugar cubes into his tea, and after a slight consideration, added a third. Sugar water was supposed to be a cure for the shakes, wasn't it? He wasn't sure. Emily would know, but Emily wasn't here. In this room, she only existed in the past, caught inside Laura's tale. He brought the cup to his lips and drank as much as he could muster. Three sugars was definitely too much for such a small cup and immediately made him feel nauseous (some of it didn't even dissolve properly and only formed a thin layer of sludge on the bottom), but in the end he swallowed it all.

What was he doing here? Was it really so important for him to hear all this? What was he after? This wasn't justice, it was torture, both for him and for Laura. And maybe even for Emily, too, if she was watching all this from heaven.

He put his empty cup down on the table, his fingers shaking only slightly.

"Would you like another?"

"No, thank you." He wondered how this woman could remain so reserved. But then again, she's been acting like everything was fine for most of her life. She's probably been acting so long and so hard that she's come to believe it was real, that everything was fine, perfectly normal. She didn't just act to fool the Foxes of Grovenglen, she acted to fool herself.

But she couldn't fool Emily. Maybe that's why she kept visiting so often. She knew something wasn't right in this house. What went through her mind as she listened to those screams? Did she consider her own life at all, or did she throw open that door without a second thought? The answer was obvious.

"She opened the door, didn't she?"

Laura nodded. "Anyone else would have run for help rather than face down Markus, a Fox known for his explosive temper even when stone cold sober, but not Emily. I watched as -

*

• the doorknob spun, filled with both hope and horror.

"Bitches!" Markus shouted as he raced for the door in his fastest shamble, his cane tapping a frenzied rhythm against the hardwood floor with every stride. "The both of you! Disrespectful bitches!"

Emily pushed the door open and Laura saw the concerned look on her face just for an instant before Markus slammed into it with his shoulder.

Laura thought that was it. She thought that was the end. Markus would turn the bolt and round on her, angrier than ever before. He would make her pay for her disobedience.

She did not see Emily stick out her arm and stop the door with the basket in her hand, but she sure heard the crunch of the wicker breaking and snapping against the jamb. Fresh apricots burst out of the ruined basket and tumbled all over the floor in broken pieces, trailing ropes of sticky juice behind them. The door bounced back, nearly hitting Markus in the face, and the basket fell to the floor with a sad little thud, bits of torn wicker sticking out of its squashed carcass like broken bones.

As Laura watched the basket bleed apricot juice, flowing between the gaps in the floorboards in neat little lines, she found herself feeling shamefully grateful that the one who had stumbled upon this scene was Emily, and not Sarah. She could live knowing that Emily thought her husband to be a cruel monster, but her own daughter? No, that poor girl's gone through enough already without bearing witness to... this.

Emily stared in at their living room, drinking in all the terrible details with her wide, shocked eyes, her mouth slowly dropping open.

Markus tapped his cane against the floor. "I'm sorry, Emily, but as you can see, Laura and I are quite busy. Please come back lat -"

The slap came out of nowhere. It hit him so hard it wrenched his face a quarter turn to the right, the sound so loud it made Laura flinch.

"Oh no," she moaned, staring at her husband's face, distorted with pure, animalistic fury. This wasn't supposed to happen! This wasn't supposed to happen at all! She was supposed to have taken her punishment and gone up to bed, slightly lame, but otherwise fine. Then it would have been over and done with. Why did she have to yell out like that? Why did she have to drag Emily into this!? The girl was sporting a rather furious look herself, but it was nothing compared to the raw craziness capering behind Markus's eyes. Did she even understand what was happening? Did she understand what she just did? "Run, Emily!" Laura screamed, but it was already too late for that.

Markus grabbed her by the wrist, moving deceptively quick for such an old Fox, and shouted right in her face, spittle flying from his lips: "Is that how you treat your elders, girl!? You need to learn some manners! I was just about to teach Laura here a thing or two about proper etiquette, but I'll gladly give you the same lesson for free!"

He wrenched the poor girl inside and slammed the door hard enough to cut right through the remains of the basket, severing it with the most heartbreaking crunch, leaving one half outside, one half inside, a red bow caught between the door and the frame like a trapped butterfly.

Emily stumbled to her knees, narrowly missing the broken shards of crockery. "Laura, are you all right?"

Laura was dumbfounded. This girl was in mortal danger and the first thing she did was ask if she was all right? "Don't worry about me!" she said, watching as Markus approached them, his cane slowly tapping out his progress. "Get up, Emily! Run!"

It all happened so slowly. That was the worst part. She could see every excruciating detail stand out with crystal clarity. Markus shambled closer and closer, his legs rigid, barely able to bend his knees, a dark splash of tea slowly drying on his pants. Emily started to get up, the hem of her dress soaking up a vile brown mixture of blood and milk. She looked at Laura, and that was the last time she ever saw the girl's face intact.

Markus rose up behind her like a troll out of a fairy tale, raising his cane high above his head so that the tip almost brushed against the ceiling.

Laura screamed, but it wasn't enough to drown out the sound of Markus's cane connecting with the side of Emily's face, sharp and quick, like the crack of a whip.

One moment she was there, the next she was gone. Her eyes rolled back in her sockets, revealing the whites, and she fell to the ground, her body limp as a rag.

Laura couldn't make any real words as she watched the blood pour out of Emily's ear, and neither could she scream. All she could do was stare and make a feeble moaning noise. She cupped her bloody hand over her mouth, but she couldn't keep quiet. The moans poured out with each haggard breath.

Markus prodded Emily's body with his cane, a scowl on his face. "Now look what the bitch made me do," he muttered. "How am I supposed to clean up this hellbound mess!? Why does she always have to show up without an invite!? It's so damn rude! Isn't it, Laura? Isn't it!? You know what else is rude? You not doing as you're told! How many times have I told you to tell this snooping bitch to leave us the hell alone!?"

She could smell the blood on her hand, could feel it being smeared all over her lips. She didn't mind if Markus punished her for being a bad wife, but Emily had nothing to do with this! She was only trying to deliver the first apricots of the season and now...

"Is- Is she...?" Laura couldn't bring herself to finish the question.

Markus tapped her with his cane again, hard enough for the tip to leave nasty divots in her dress. "I think she's dead. You killed her, Laura. You bloody well killed her."

"Me?" Laura has never been an angry vixen. Anger was not something a proper lady should allow herself to feel, especially not at her husband. There was only one time in her life she ever felt truly angry, a time she had chosen to forget about for twenty years, but those feelings were starting to rise up to the surface again, pooling inside of her just as the blood from Emily's ear was pooling around her head. "You say I did this? You say I'm responsible for this- this... horror!?"

"If you'd watched where you were going, I wouldn't have had to lose my temper. If you'd kept your mouth shut, I wouldn't have taken it out on this meddlesome whore. You made me kill her, but I'll be damned if you make me go to gaol for something you did!"

"It wasn't my fault!" Laura screamed. "None of this was my fault! You did this! You! Just like the time you almost killed Sarah! You're sick, Markus! Sick!" Now she was crying and screaming all at the same time, watching the blood ooze from the gash in Emily's head. It just kept coming and coming. How much blood could there possibly be in such a small body? It was too much. She couldn't take this anymore. "You... it was you..."

"My fault?" Markus looked down at the destruction he had wrought, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Maybe some of the responsibility does fall to me. Maybe some of this is my fault." He lifted his gaze, but the look in his eyes wasn't any better than it was before. If anything, they were even more crazed now, more angry, more deranged. "It's my fault for going so easy on you all these years."

"Wha- What?"

"Yes..." He took his cane in both hands and slowly twisted his palms, sliding them across the wood in opposite directions as if he were breaking a chicken's neck. It made a soft rubbing sound, horribly familiar. It was a sound that always made Laura want to curl up into a tight, protective little ball. "I've been soft on you for all these years because I love you. I haven't been doing my duty."

"Markus?"

"It's not too late, though. I can still teach you. We'll go through all the lessons together, just you and me."

"Markus, please put the cane down. You- You must be tired. You can sit down and... and I'll clean all this up. Just leave it to me. I'll clean it up and- and I'll bring you a change of clothes, and I'll make you a new cup of tea. You can enjoy it out on the porch. Wouldn't that be nice?"

"That would be nice, Laura, but there's no time. I have to teach you about proper manners, about proper etiquette, proper decorum, all of that. You've been slipping of late, but that's what I'm here for. I'll make it all better. I'll take away all the bad parts and polish up the good. I'll fix it all. I'll fix you." He stepped over Emily's body, and in the time it took his foot to travel through the air and squelch down in her blood, Laura knew that if she didn't do something, he would kill her.

He would kill her.

He would kill her.

And maybe Sarah, too.

The thought of her daughter finally broke the spell of paralysis she didn't even know she was under. She tried to get up and a massive bolt of pain shot through the small of her back, racing up and down her spine. She could actually feel something moving around in there, like a giant splinter. Oh gods, did he break something? She tried to get away from her husband's dead stare but only managed to flop back on her belly like a fish out of water. The pain in her back was growing and growing, and each second that flashed by she would think that the hurt couldn't possibly get any worse, but it did. The surge of adrenalin that had numbed the pain up until now was wearing off, leaving her to sink or swim on her own. She pushed against the floor with her feet and pulled her body along with her hands, crawling on her belly like a worm with no plan of escape, knowing only that she needed to move, to get away, to put as much distance between herself and the monster that had taken over her husband's mind as possible.

"Lesson 1, Laura. Look at me when I'm talking to you."

Even though the voice was right behind her, she didn't look back. She crawled for all she was worth, the pain in her back flaring up like a slash of lightning every time she dragged herself another arm's length.

"I said, look at me when I'm talking to you!"

She heard the whisper of his cane, and a scant moment later a burning line of pain burst open right between her shoulderblades. She cried out in pain and fear, wondering how many blows it would take to kill her.

Just one, if you're lucky. Or unlucky, depending on how you look at it. Like Emily.

Laura didn't want to die. She didn't want her own eyes to roll up like that, she didn't want to lie twitching in a puddle of her own spreading blood as the life slipped away from her body. She didn't want to know what it would feel like to die at the hands of the Fox she had dedicated her life to.

So she crawled. She crawled for the kitchen, believing that if she could reach the back door, if she could somehow just get outside, then maybe she'd be safe. It was so close, no more than a few steps, but down on the ground like this, with her every movement turning into a miniature torture, there might as well be an ocean separating her from salvation. But what else could she do? Lie here and wait to be bludgeoned to death? So she crawled. She crawled and -

She felt the tip of his cane settle against the small of her back, right where the pain was concentrated the thickest, like a big bundle of messy knots.

"Look at me, Laura," he said and started to press down, twisting it back and forth, grinding the tip into her flesh like a blunt corkscrew. She screamed, but that only made the pain even brighter. She could almost see it dancing in front of her eyes like white clouds of mist. She felt him ease his foot underneath her shoulder and flip her over as casually as he might have flipped the corner of a rug, forcing her to stare up into his demented face.

No, she thought desperately. That's not his face. That's something else entirely. I don't know what it is, but that's not Markus.

"Good work, Laura dear. Lesson 1 complete. Now for lesson 2."

She shook her head. "No! No, Markus, please! Why are you -"

He thrust his cane down into the pit of her stomach, turning her plea into a gargly cough and a gasp for breath. It was an old habit of his, hitting her there, so deeply ingrained he didn't even think to waver from the pattern he had perfected over the years. He always went for her stomach, her back, her shoulders, her arms, all the places that were easy to cover up. Even though it was his gods-given right to discipline his wife in whatever way he deemed necessary, he wouldn't want the neighbours to get the wrong idea.

Laura lay pinned, too scared to breathe out any further, lest the cane drive itself even deeper into her midsection, but she was fighting a losing battle. Markus was leaning on it with all of his weight, his hands folded across the knob and his shoulders hunched over. She could feel it going deeper and deeper, ever so slowly. The pain was excruciating.

"Lesson 2, Laura, is to speak only when spoken to. You should have learned that as a child. Or are you wilfully rude? I'd hate to think that, dear, I really would. Now for -"

"I'm sorry, Markus! I'm truly, truly sorry! I'll do better, just please -"

He raised his cane and slammed it back into her stomach. The pain was so great she couldn't even scream, could only whimper with the little bit of air left in her lungs.

"Lesson 3 is to never, ever interrupt me when I'm talking! Understand!? Gods, why must you be so slow!?"

He raised his cane again, but this time Laura didn't wait for it to come back down. She flipped over onto her stomach, her panic dulling some of the pain, and scuttled as fast as she could towards the kitchen.

"Hey! Where do you think you're going!? I'm not done yet!"

By the gods, it sounded like he was right on top of her. He could crack her head open with that cane whenever he wanted, but he was just toying with her, making her scamper for her life. He probably enjoyed seeing her crawl around like this, down low, like an insect, learning her place.

But the door... it was so close! Through that door lay the kitchen, and through the kitchen lay the outside world, a world of sanity and reason. All she had to do was keep going, just like Sarah did on that black night of storms, the night that-

She stopped, a flood of memories threatening to overflow the careful set of dykes she had built up in her mind, brick by brick and layer by layer. She could see a bed, covered in blood, she could hear screams, so many screams: the screams of her daughter, and the screams of...

Nooo! She clapped her hands over her ears in a useless attempt to drown out the high-pitched wailing that still haunted her nightmares, even to this day. She didn't want to think of it! She didn't want to remember it! It never happened, and as long as she could will herself to not think of it, that's the way it shall remain forever! A not-thing! A shadow of a world safely buried in the past.

Is that how you'll think of Emily when this is all over? a small, frightened voice spoke up from the depths of her mind. Just a shadow that never really existed?

No, please don't...

What's done is done and can't be undone.

No!

Andrew...

She reached for the open door, hoping to pull herself along, but Markus simply stepped over her head and eased it shut with his cane, the simplest thing in the world.

She looked up at the doorknob above her head, so very, very far away. It used to be gilded, but innumerable hands have worn it down, leaving the ugly brass underneath to shine through.

"Lesson 5," Markus said, "is to obey your husband. That means..."

She could barely hear him over the maelstrom going on in her head, threatening to rip her apart. She couldn't stand listening to those screams anymore; they were the sounds of children in pain, much worse than what she was going through right now. She could see Sarah, nearly dead from exhaustion, but smiling so beautifully in the candle light. She could see something in her arms, a small white bundle, moving just a tiny bit.

Andrew.

She hadn't thought that name in twenty years, and even now she was fighting against it. She didn't want to remember any of it because that would mean that what Markus was doing wasn't the result of some demon that had taken control of his senses. It was him. It was always him.

You never forgot. You never forgot any of it. You still remember every grisly detail. You just chose to never think on it. Because you like to sit with your hands folded in your lap, all prim and proper, believing that nothing in the world could touch you if you ignored it hard enough, because then it would be like it never existed in the first place. Isn't that right?

"Laura, are you even listening to me!?"

What's done is done and can't be undone.

She had to get out of here, but how? She couldn't go through the back door, and neither could she go through the front. Even with his bad leg, she'd never be able to get away from him as she was now. He'd beat her over and over until she simply gave up on living. So how... how was she going to get out of this!?

"Laura! Do I have to go back to Lesson 1 already!? Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

He bent down, perhaps to force her to look at him, or maybe just to shout in her face, but when he did, he drew in a harsh gasp for breath and straightened up immediately, wincing as he rubbed his bad leg.

His leg! It was a dim ray of hope, but certainly better than nothing. Laura twisted around and made a beeline for the stairs, crawling as fast as she could, the sticky folds of her dress constantly trying to bog her down.

"Don't you ignore me!" Markus roared. "Don't you dare ignore me!"

Whap! His cane struck the back of her thigh, and then - Whap! - another blow to her calf, but she kept on going. Staying still would be the death of her. She pulled herself along, unable to raise her head very far because of the immense pain in her back and the throbbing agony in her stomach, pulsing through her from both sides as if she had been impaled.

Markus complained about those stairs at least once a week, claiming they were too tall for his leg to cope. By sundown, after the rigours of the day had taken their toll, Laura would be inclined to believe him. He'd take those stairs carefully, one step at a time, one shaking hand on his cane and the other on the bannister, his eyes glued to his feet. Sometimes the pain would become so great he'd get stranded halfway up. Once, Laura offered to help and quickly got a reply in the form of a backhanded slap and a cry of: 'I don't need your help, woman! I don't need anybody's help!'

It was the only hope she had left.

Markus struck her again and again: her shoulders, her back, her legs. It felt like he really had turned into a thunderstorm, not a Fox of flesh and blood, but a natural disaster from the heavens, raining bolts of lightning down on her body.

"Where are you going, bitch!? Huh!? Where are you going!?"

The better question would have been how she was going, because Laura honestly didn't know. She was on the wrong side of sixty years and this was the worst beating she had suffered at the hands of her husband in all that time. She thought about giving up with every strike, but the memories racing around inside her head wouldn't allow it. She remembered cleaning up the spare bedroom while Sarah lay upstairs, recovering from her ordeal. She remembered gathering up the bloody sheets and scrubbing the floor, following the trail to the wardrobe, then to the open window. If her poor girl had scrambled through that opening and out into the freezing storm, what right did she have as her mother to give up now?

Her fingers closed around the first rung of the bannister, and that's when Markus must have realised what she was up to.

He grabbed the back of her dress and started to pull. He pulled so hard she could feel the neckline start to dig into her throat, but she wouldn't let go. She grabbed hold of that vertical rung with both hands and held on for dear life, thinking that Markus would have to break all ten fingers before she would let him pry her loose. She looked at the step right in front of her nose, such a small little thing, but from down here it looked like a massive slab, infinitely vast, unconquerable. She knew it was just a staircase, but it felt like she was a fly looking up at a mountain. The stairs just kept going and going, unscalable, and at the very top, shining like the morning sun, was a vase of yellow roses, looking down on this terrible scene as if in pity.

"Let go, bitch!" Markus yelled and struck her arm with his cane, just above the elbow.

"No!"

"I said let go! We still have many lessons to go through!"

"No!" She tried to pull herself up onto the first step, straining against Markus's grasp, believing that if she could just start, then maybe she could break this terrifying illusion and turn the mountain back into a simple staircase. The scariest part, after all, is just before you start. That goes for everything. If she could climb one step, then she could climb two, and if she could climb two, then she could climb five, and if she could climb five, then surely, surely she could climb twenty. She didn't care if she had to break her back to do it, but do it she would.

"Let go, bitch!" Markus said and struck her again. His blows were getting more and more painful as her wounds overlapped each other. It was getting so bad she didn't think there was even a single inch of unscathed flesh left on her back. "Let go! Let go! L- What the- Hey, let go, bitch! I said let go!"

Markus said that, but he was the one that let go. One moment the neckline of her dress was still digging painfully into her throat, the next it had gone limp and all the pressure was gone. In her panicked state, Laura didn't question why this was happening. She only forced herself up on that first step, then the second, pushing off the floor with her feet and reaching for the higher stairs with her hands, dragging her body over the stubby, sawtooth edges. She heard the swish of his cane slicing through the air and braced herself for the impact. The sound was there, that horrible, wet crack of wood against flesh, but no pain, no feeling at all. It happened again and again, the swish-crack of his cane.

Dreading what she would see, she looked back.

Emily had somehow worked her way to the stairs, leaving a crimson path of blood behind her, and now she had grabbed Markus by the legs, refusing to let go.

"Emily, no!" Laura screamed, but her hoarse, cracked voice was completely drowned out by Markus's furious bellows.

"Let go, bitch! Let go of me!" He raised his cane and brought it down against her head over and over, the sounds cracking out a rhythm like the hands of a clock straight out of hell. His cane was turning red, and every time he swung it above his head, a crimson arc would spray against the wall.

But Emily wouldn't let go. She just lowered her head and dug her claws into his pants legs, her eyes closed against all the blood pouring down from her forehead. She could have gone out the door. She could have gotten away. But she chose to stay. She chose to help. And it made Laura feel like the worst form of life to ever crawl on this earth.

"Markus, stop it! Stop it!"

He would not listen. Perhaps he wasn't even capable of listening anymore. He just kept raisng that cane and bringing it down, the sounds of impact steadily becoming wetter and wetter.

Emily raised her head and opened her eyes just a crack, peering out from underneath the mask of red staining her golden fur, and said a single word. It was the last word Laura would ever hear her say.

"Go..."

Knowing the gods would never forgive her her selfishness, that was exactly what she did. She pulled her way up one step at a time, crying and bleeding, trying not to listen to the deathblows raining down upon her friend's head, but it was impossible. Her whole world had turned into a boiling cauldron of screams: her own, her husband's, her daughter's...

Even her first grandson's.

Laura screamed as she pulled her way up those stairs, screamed in agony and frustration and anger and horror, every terrible feeling she had repressed over the decades slowly bubbling up to the surface.

That's when the noise stopped. No more wet cracking sounds, no more grunts of effort. Only heavy breathing, and a steady drip.

She was halfway up, she could actually see the landing where Sarah had sat all those years ago, crying, holding her belly. It was right there where the nightmare started, right there, only ten simple steps separating the present from the past, but Laura couldn't go on. She had to look back, she had to...

Emily was no longer holding on. She had gone limp again, her arms loosely coiled around Markus's legs, her fingers curled up. Markus was looking down at her, the cane in his hands. Blood steadily dripped from the tip and landed in her hair, making the softest tapping noise, but it was that sound, more than any other, that threatened to rip apart any semblance of sanity Laura had left. That soft, steady, drip... drip... drip...

"She was a fast learner," Markus said. He was out of breath, but his voice sounded all dreamy, like this wasn't really happening. "Much faster than you, Laura dear..."

"You muuurdeeereeer!!" Laura shrieked. "You killed her! You killed my friend! You bastard!" She shrieked so hard it felt like her voice would tear her throat wide open.

Markus's eyes flicked her way. He did not move any other muscle, just his eyes, but that tiny movement was more than enough for Laura to know that they were coming close to ending it all. There would be no turning back for any of them.

"You still have so much to learn, dear," he said, working his way out of Emily's dead grip. "But I will educate you. I will make sure you learn exactly how to be, the way you should be, the way I want you to be." He carefully lifted his leg, scraping his shoe against the wood, and set it down on the bottom step.

He's climbing up. By the gods, he's climbing up! Every instinct screamed at her to run, but she couldn't look away. She was morbidly fascinated by his slow progress, at the careful way he was getting both feet up on the same step before ascending the next, at the way the blood was dripping from his cane, leaving red spots at equal intervals.

"Lesson 6..." he said, and that was enough to get Laura going again. She scrambled up the stairs, clawing for purchase, her hands slippery with blood, the hills and valleys pushing against her stomach counting out her progress in agonising bolts of pain.

"... never invite friends over without my permission. In fact, never do anything without my permission. Other vixens can be rude like that. They think they can do whatever they want without consequence, like the little bitch down there. But not you, Laura dear. You're mine, which brings us to Lesson 7... "

She could see the landing. She could almost touch it. She wanted to look back to see if Markus was gaining, but the very thought elicited a superstitious dread deep within her, as if the act of looking back would bring down a curse upon her, or summon Markus right on top of her, so she kept going, reaching for that final step...

"Lesson 7... you're mine, Laura. Never forget that. You gave yourself to me in the chapel, and those vows are eternal. I own you. You are my property. I control you, forever and always."

Laura's hand touched down on the last step, and that's when she heard the whisper of his cane yet again and a searing line of pain burned itself across the soft meat of her calf.

She screamed, but she didn't look back. She was too afraid to look back. She just kept going, putting her other hand up with the first, but before she could pull herself any farther, another line of pain embedded itself right above the last, preceded by that same, feathery soft whisper of parting air. She could feel sticky warmth spreading down her leg and knew that that last one must have ripped something open. Oh gods, she could even smell it, that horrible smell like rusty iron.

"Lesson 8. You must always -"

Laura never did find out what she 'must always' do, because she had had enough. She turned on her side, and he was standing right behind her, practically dead on his feet, panting from exhaustion. "You don't own me!" she screamed and kicked out.

She did not aim for any specific part. She only wanted to push him away. Perhaps the gods guided her kick for her, or perhaps it was just blind luck, but the thing she ended up kicking with all her strength was her husband's left knee.

"Ooaoh!!" he howled. His mouth turned into a grotesquely misshapen hole in his astonished face and his eyes widened in shock and pain, unable to believe that his wife would disrespect him so. He crashed down to his knees, which caused him even more pain. He bit down on his bottom lip, and breathing heavily through his clenched teeth he said: "You bitch... You dirty bitch... How dare you?"

Laura was unable to answer any questions, or even speak properly for that matter. She screamed and lashed out again, striking Markus high in the chest. For a second it looked like he might keel over backwards, but the bastard grabbed hold of the banister and steadied himself.

Knowing that she would likely never find herself in an advantageous position like this again, Laura kicked out as hard as she could, striking him again and again, screaming like a lunatic. She felt like the worst kind of betrayer imaginable, the worst wife to ever be wed, the lowest, dirtiest vixen to ever live, but the sight of Emily's lifeless body lying at the bottom of the stairs made her fight back regardless. She could see Markus's fingers begin to slip: first one finger, then two, then -

He thrust his cane forward like a spear, not at her legs or her stomach or her shoulders, but at her face, something he's never done before. Laura saw the tip of that cane rushing to meet her, saw the blood-caked mess at the end of it - a dripping lump of gore and strands of fur; dew-dappled crimson.

It struck the side of her muzzle, slipped in underneath her lip, and crashed against her gums, cutting a long gash inside her mouth. The taste of it was even worse than the pain, because she knew that most of that blood belonged to Emily, Emily who was now dead, dead because of her.

She clapped her hands over her mouth, blood pouring from between her lips just as the tears were pouring from her eyes.

"Now..." Markus panted. "Now, by the gods. I'll make you learn your lesson. I'll make you learn what it means to be a proper wife..." He grabbed her around the ankle and started to pull himself up, panting and drooling, his eyes unfocussed and crazy.

Laura whimpered, choking on the iron taste of blood in her throat. She tried to pull herself up to the landing, but he was far too heavy. He grabbed hold of her dress, and as he pulled himself up, he pulled her down, wheezing and spluttering.

"Now... Now, by the gods. Now!"

She lost her grip on the top step and thudded down to the next, the impact on her battered body as severe as if she'd just dropped a hundred. She could feel the blood inside her mouth making a smooth layer across her teeth and she could feel Markus's hands grabbing at her body, even more disgusting than that.

She would have given up right then. She would have let him take her, then kill her. It was all her fault. She shouldn't have spilled his tea like that, she shouldn't have yelled like that, she shouldn't have kicked him like that, she shouldn't have been disobedient like that. She should have been a proper wife, like her mother, and her mother's mother before her.

But she didn't give up, and it was all because of Emily. She had given up everything to give her this one last chance, and surrendering now would be like spitting in her face.

Laura bent her knee, fighting against the pain in her back and stomach, burning so intensely it threatened to plunge her into a dead faint, and kicked out with every last ounce of her strength.

She felt her foot connect with something, heard the soft crunch of splintering bone. "Aaarrgh!! You bidch!" Markus screamed, his nose splurting blood across the stairs in twin streams. "You broked by dose! By dooose! You whore!"

Laura tried to pull herself up again, illogically thinking that she would be safe if only she could get up on the landing, but even after all that, Markus refused to let go. She could hear him spluttering below, his breath wet and bubbly. She looked back, and what she saw was a much more accurate portrayal of the monster that had been living inside her husband for so many years.

The left half of his face was a paralyzed ruin: unmoving, unchanging, showing no emotion whatsoever. The right half was that of an old, snarling grey-fur, blood bursting from his nose with every harsh exhale, pouring over his wrinkled muzzle, staining his teeth black. There was an animalistic look in his eyes, staring at her from beneath a mask of flowing blood.

"I teach you, by da gods, I teach you! I teach you to disrespek be ih byh ohw house!!"

"Stop it, Markus!" Laura shrieked and kicked him again and again. The sound his nose made every time her foot slammed into his face was like the soft snap and crunch of a chicken's wishing bone. Oh, if only wishes really could come true by such simple means. She'd wish this nightmare to end, she'd wish to go back in time and mind her step so that she never would have tripped over that damn crack!

You mean the crack he put there in the first place, swinging that damn rod at the head of your own child? That crack?

Laura looked down at the mess Markus had become, his face a crimson horror, his eyes already swelling shut and blood dribbling from his nose and his cut lips. The right half was bad, but the left was even worse, sagging as if it wasn't properly attached to the skull beneath. This was the Fox she both loved and feared in much the same way she loved and feared the gods up in heaven. Because surely, Markus had always had the same control over her as any god, maybe even more. He decided when she ate, when she slept, when she loved and when she cried. He even decided when she lived and died.

"I... teach... you..." he said, blood gurgling from his open mouth.

"No Markus. I think I've already learned everything I need to know." She drew up both her legs as far as she could, then kicked out one last time, the pain in her back exploding in one crippling burst. Her blow connected and he finally - finally - let go. She scrambled up the last two steps, not looking back, pulling the hem of her sopping dress along with her, terrified that he would somehow try to grab hold of it again.

She collapsed in the exact same spot where they had found Sarah twenty years ago, propped up against this very wall, crying, holding onto her belly, and now here Laura was doing the exact same thing.

This is my punishment, she thought, struggling to breathe. The gods put me here to feel exactly what she had felt. It was my fault she had to go through all that. I should have done more to help her, but I just let it happen. It was my fault she nearly died, it was my fault that Andrew, that he...

Laura closed her eyes. She knew she shouldn't, but she couldn't keep them open any longer. The pain was too great, and she was so tired. She needed to rest, just for a little while.

Images swam inside the dark veil behind her closed eyelids, not quite dreams, not quite memories; visions of Sarah lying in bed, pumped so full of medicine she could barely speak more than one word, and that one word was always the same: 'Andrew...' She reached out with shaking hands, trying to grasp something that wasn't there anymore. Seeing her daughter so miserable made Laura want to cry. Markus was there, too, but he didn't say anything - just stood there by the door with his arms crossed, like this was the last place on earth he wanted to be.

'I can't do anything here,' he said.

Laura didn't answer.

'And neither can you.'

She still didn't answer.

'There's work to be done, Laura. Work that won't just sit around and wait for us to finish this... whatever it is. Feels like grieving.'

Laura folded her hands in her lap. That was the proper thing to do, because what's done is done and can't be undone, not with tears or pleas or promises, so she folded her hands and stayed still. Anything else was torture.

'She's not dead, Laura!' Markus yelled. 'Ben said she'll pull through all right. Just needs rest.'

'You might not be grieving, but Sarah is. And so am I.'

Markus uncrossed his arms, his eyes blazing, and for one terrible moment Laura thought he was going to strike her, but he simply turned around and left the room, slamming the door behind him, leaving his women all alone.

Laura sighed. This family would be broken forever, and there was nothing she could do about it. Except endure.

That's when she felt Sarah's hand lightly brush against her own. The poor girl's fingers were still so cold.

'No, deary,' Laura said and put her hand back underneath the blankets. 'You've been through a lot. Ben says you need your rest if you're going to recover.'

"Is he... gone?" Sarah asked in a voice so soft Laura could barely hear her. She didn't know whether the girl was asking about her father or... about the little one, but the answer was the same. She nodded, her throat burning so hotly she didn't trust herself to speak.

Sarah looked up at the ceiling, a small smile spreading across her face. She whispered something, but it was too soft to hear.

Laura leaned in closer. 'What was that, dear?'

'He's still alive, Mother,' she said, closing her eyes. 'I know he is.'

Oh no, was the poor girl having a fever hallucination? She didn't know how to deal with something like this. Should she let her have her little moment of peace, or would it be kinder to spare her the resounding crash of reality by gently bringing her back right now, before it got a chance to take off in her mind? 'Sarah dear,' she began, not knowing whether she was doing the right thing. 'You told us that the little one... passed on. Remember?'

Sarah shook her head, that peaceful smile still lingering around the corner of her mouth, and said: 'I lied.'

Laura's heart did a quick somersault in her chest despite every ounce of her logic telling her that the poor girl wasn't in her right senses. She had been through a terrible, terrible ordeal. This was just a way for her semi-conscious mind to cope. There was no way a newborn baby could survive for very long outside in the cold, wet darkness.

And yet, Sarah looked so... serene, as if everything had worked out all right in the end.

'Sarah, honey? Are you awake?'

She didn't answer. She only smiled her gentle smile, her slow breaths making the covers rise and fall.

'I believe you, deary,' Laura said and kissed her daughter on the forehead. She brushed away an errant lock of hair that had fallen over her eye and said it again, but this time more for herself. 'I believe you. I

believe... you..." Light stung her eyes, making the dream flicker from blackish red to blinding white. It took a moment for her to realize that the light was coming from the window at the end of the hallway, and that she must have fallen asleep. Or passed out, more likely. She turned her head away from the blazing rays and looked at her roses instead, up on their little cherry wood table with the clawed feet. It didn't occur to her to wonder why she was sitting up here on the second story landing, or why she was so tired she could barely move. No, she just wanted to look at her roses. So beautiful, that soft, yellow colour with just a bit of white thrown in. Looking at them can make all the bad things in the world just... drift away. But looking at them also made her feel uneasy for some unfathomable reason, like she had forgotten something vitally important. But what?

Oh my word, the tea! Markus will be furious if I don't make him some t -

She tried to get up, caught somewhere between the dream and outright panic, and that's when the pain shot through her body from one end to other like a bolt of lightning. Her mouth, her arms, her back, her stomach, her legs - everything throbbed with an unbearable, burning aching!

"Oh..." she moaned, pressing her hands to her stomach. "Oh dear gods, please help me. Please, please help me..."

Wetness spread across her midsection, sticking her dress to her fur. She looked down and moved her hands away, and what she saw almost made her throw up.

There was a bright red handprint across her belly, left there by the gash in her right hand. How long had she been out? Not long, if it was still bleeding like this. But what scared her even worse than the pain or her slipshod sense of time was the shape the blood had taken on her stomach, the same shape that had branded little Andrew's neck the last time she saw him alive. It was as if fate had pointed a bloody, dripping finger at her, as if to say: 'Now it's your turn.'

"Oh gods, no... I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry!"

"Not sorry 'nough, you sniv'ling bidch..."

For a moment Laura thought it was the gods themselves that had spoken those words, and for all intents and purposes, it was.

Markus's hand slapped down on the landing, followed moments later by his battered, oozing face, peeking over the top step with murder in his eyes.

"Lesson dine..." he wheezed, pulling himself up with his forearms, his cane clutched in one bony hand.

I have to get up, Laura thought desperately. I have to get up before he does, or he'll beat me to death with that thing. I have to get up, I have to get up...

The first thing she thought of was to bend over and push herself up with her hands, such a natural thing, but the shocking amount of pain that pulsed inside her abdomen wouldn't even let her try. It was not without incredulity that she realized she probably hasn't suffered through this much pain since Sarah's birth.

"Lesson... dine..." Markus panted, clumsily trying to get his cane upright. "Dever... ever... kick... be... again..."

Laura gritted her teeth and started to pull herself up, using the little table for support. It wobbled alarmingly beneath her hands, making the water inside the vase slosh around and the rose petals brush against each other as if in a breeze, but she finally managed to get up on her feet, huddled over like an old crone. The pain in her leg was bad, and she could feel the slow trickle of blood running down her calf, but at least it was an outside pain, not an inside pain like the ones she could feel in her stomach and back.

Markus had gotten up on one knee and was quickly pushing himself upright with his cane, his bloody gaze locked onto hers. By the gods, would this nightmare never end? All she did was spill some tea!

He finally got back to his feet and spat a great red drop of blood and phlegm to the floor. He advanced, a crazed look of triumph in his eye, and slowly raised his cane.

Laura didn't know what to do. She couldn't run, she couldn't fight, she couldn't do anything except maybe die on her feet with her head held high. That wasn't so bad, was it? Surely better than dying huddled in the corner with her tail tucked between her legs.

"Lesson... TEN!" he bellowed, blood dripping from his gnashing jaws. "I am the King of this house! Nay, I am the God! You will obey me! OBEY ME! O -"

Something impossible happened just then. There was no other word for it. And when something impossible happens, why... isn't that when you enter the realm of miracles?

Laura was looking at a miracle right now, and nothing would ever change her opinion on that, not even if she lived to see another sixty years.

Emily had somehow clawed her way up the stairs and closed her fingers around Markus's ankle. Laura could see the zig-zag trail of blood she had left in her wake, broken and slanted by each riser.

Markus looked down at her with wide eyes, unable to believe what he was seeing. He wiggled his foot and Emily's hand simply dropped away, too weak to hold on, but that second of precious extra time she had bought was all Laura needed to snap out of her stupor.

She grabbed the vase and lifted it above her head, her shoulderblades crying out in protest, but she ignored them, consumed by anger and frustration and forty years of quiet suffering.

Markus looked up just in time to see his servant, his possession, his wife, stand before him with the vase held high, her arms shaking, tears streaming from her face.

"This is for Emily!" she shouted and brought it down with all the force she could muster. It struck him high on the forehead with a horrible thud, like a slab of meat being hit with a tenderizing hammer. His head rocked back and his eyes rolled in their sockets, showing the whites, but Laura didn't relent. It felt like she was outside herself, her body moving all on its own despite the pain. She raised the vase again, the blue butterflies capering around the edges now splattered with blood. "This is for Sarah!" She brought it down again, even harder than before. It crashed open against his face in an explosion of porcelain. Yellow roses flew through the air, tumbling end over end, their petals twirling through space in flashes of white and yellow. Dirty plant water splashed down on his lacerated face, making the semi-coagulated blood run wet once again.

But he was still standing. The monster was still standing. The King and God of this house was still standing.

"And this," she said, taking a lurching, agonising step forward. "Is for ANDREW!!" She pushed out with all her might, hitting him high in the chest with both hands.

His eyes flicked back for just an instant, right before he fell, and the look plastered all over his bloody face was one of absolute denial. There was no way this could be happening to him, him, the lord and master of this house, owner of one of the biggest farms in all of Grovenglen, a Fox more wealthy than any other.

"Laura?" he whispered.

It all happened so quickly after that, as if his voice was the trigger to set time back in motion. But it didn't happen fast enough to spare her the sight of the bloody handprint she had left over his heart, as if she had passed her fate onto him, not in any symbolic way, but in a very real sense.

He fell, screaming, down the stairs, his old, brittle bones snapping along the way, his arms and legs flying out at odd angles, unable to help him brace any of the dozens of impacts and then, right at the bottom, he crashed down on top of his head, all the weight of his body pressing down on his neck. Laura heard the snap and crunch even from where she was standing. It was like the sound of a child jumping through a frozen puddle in the middle of winter. His scream cut off abruptly, without even an outward sigh, and then it was quiet.

Laura stood there, paralyzed with fear as more and more rose petals slowly fell through the air, twirling past her face on an invisible breeze, only to land in an ocean of blood.

She opened her mouth to scream, but what shot out of her mouth instead was a bitter glurt of vomit. She doubled over, the pain in her midsection excruciating as she expelled torrents of bile and blood, retching and gagging, crying and yelling, black shadows gathering all around her, threatening to swallow her for her sins.

This can't be happening. She can't be standing up here, staring down at the floor, covered in vomit and blood.

But she was. She knew this wasn't a dream because she could see a piece of porcelain with half a butterfly wing still on it. She didn't know why, but that broken wing seemed to ground her in reality. This was real. This was terrifyingly real.

She walked through her own expulsions, not caring about the mess anymore. She felt so lightheaded, like she might faint at any second. Maybe she'd fall down the stairs, too. Then she wouldn't have to face the aftermath.

That would be nice.

But she grabbed hold of the bannister. It was like her hand simply moved on its own. If she was going to die, it wouldn't be today.

"Oh dear gods..." she whimpered, a lone rope of vomit hanging from her lips. "Oh dear gods what have I done?" She climbed down a few steps, clutching the bannister like a vixen of ninety, and sank down to her knees by Emily's side, the pain in her body paling in comparison to the horror of what her husband had done. The poor girl's head...

"Emily?" she asked, but got no reply. She was scared to touch her. She wiped her lips and tried again. "Emily? Are you all right? Emily?" She reached out and touched the girl's shoulder, but it was like touching a life-sized doll, nothing but cotton and sawdust wrapped in a pretty dress. She gave her a brief shake, and the soft, slightly wet way her body yielded made Laura want to throw up all over again.

Was she dead? Was the girl who only wanted to bring her the first apricots of the season really dead?

She turned her head away and dryheaved between the spokes of the railing, but she didn't have anything left to throw up. Her stomach only clenched and was still again.

"Oh, Emily, you stupid girl, why did you have to do that!?" she screamed. "Why didn't you just stay down!? Why didn't you just let him kill me!?"

She covered her face and wept bitterly. Her tears seeped into the cut in her hand and burned like salt, but she hardly noticed. She's never felt more ashamed in her entire life.

Her husband had killed one of her only friends, and she had killed her husband. It wasn't proper. None of this was proper!

She lowered her hands, hoping that everything would go back to normal, that this had all been just a terrible dream.

But no. There was still a small piece of porcelain imbedded in her palm, and there were still two corpses on this staircase with her, one at the top and one at the bottom. Three, if you counted the one between them.

Laura realized she might be close to going crazy, but that thought was more amusing than distressing. If she could go crazy, she wouldn't have to feel so dirty.

She sat down properly, with her feet resting flat and her back rigidly straight and her hands folded in her lap, proper proper proper, and wondered if there was a way she could forcibly make herself go crazy. It probably wouldn't take much, just a gentle nudge to send her sailing off the edge.

Just like Markus had gone sailing.

She looked down at his crumpled body, unwilling to go any closer than she already was. She could see perfectly fine from here, anyway.

He had fallen... well, technically you would call that 'facedown' but his face wasn't pointed down, not like the rest of him. It was pointed up, staring at the ceiling with a pair of sightless eyes, his tongue hanging limply from the side of his open mouth.

Unfortunately, even the sight of her dead husband wasn't enough, and she remained painfully sane.

"What do I do, Emily?" she asked, looking straight ahead. She didn't find it particularly strange to be talking to a dead person. At least, no more strange than talking to yourself.

She didn't answer, of course, but the act of asking it aloud was enough to get Laura thinking again.

She couldn't just sit here forever, watching the shadows grow until nightfall. She had to get up. She had to do something. She had to -

She had to cover her tracks.

Laura's breath hitched in her throat. Where did such a cold, sterile thought come from? She had to get out of here, she had to get help! She had to -

I can't let anyone find out about this. Not ever.

There it was again. It just popped up out of nowhere. Maybe she really was going insane, and it only took her this long to notice? Why would she want to keep this a secret? Even if she could, what did she have to hide? It was self-defence! Markus would have killed her! Anyone can see that just by looking! No one would doubt her. The whole town knew of his... temperament, even if they only discussed it behind her back. She knew. They thought they were clever, whispering their gossip behind cupped hands and closed doors, but she always knew. She saw the way they eyed her scarves and her gloves and her long dresses, she heard the sideways accusations they made each time they asked why she was wearing such things in the middle of summer. She knew.

And now... they would know even more...

Laura whined and tore at her hair, ripping clumps out by the roots. She looked at the strands stuck between her fingers, greying and lacklustre, sticky with beads of blood.

If this ever came out... the scandal, the shame, her whole life splayed open for everyone to see and mock and deride and pity... worst of all, the pity...

No. No! She wouldn't have that! She would have none of it! She would make it all better. She would make it clean. She would make it proper. Not just for herself, but for her poor Markus, too. He didn't deserve to leave such a legacy behind. He always provided for her in life, so the least she could do was make sure he left it with some dignity. Yes, like a proper wife. He was always a proper husband to her, and she was always a proper wife to him, she always did the right thing, as was expected. Of course. She would clean up this mess. All of it. She would do her duty. She would make everything spick and span.

"Spick and span..." she whispered and slowly got to her feet, the pain in her back screaming at the sudden movement, but Laura didn't notice. She was doing what she always did when confronted with a mess. She looked around, deciding where would be the best place to start. That was only logical. You have to start at the start, everyone knows that, and the best place to start the starting was...

She looked down at Emily, the one who had helped her out when she needed it most. Such a good friend, to take time out of her busy schedule to keep her company. But it was time to leave now. Time to go home. It's been a lovely visit, but there are chores that need doing, you understand.

"Spick and span," she whispered and carefully lifted the girl by the shoulders. Her head lolled from side to side, and Laura giggled. The girl's nodded off, poor thing. She must be tuckered right out.

"Spick and span, spick and span, time to make everything spick and span..." She dragged the body down the stairs, whispering to the beat of her heels thumping down the risers, making a sound like a massive metronome. "Spick and span, spick and span, time to make everything

*

spick and span..."

The tea was still there, right there, inside his cup, on the plate, on the table, next to the biscuits, right in front of him, but he didn't want to drink it. The steam had stopped. It had gone cold. Not as cold as his heart, though. Listening to her tale, James thought he might never feel warm again.

"I put her down where Markus first struck her, where the blood had pooled the thickest. Right there..." she pointed at the spot just inside their front door, and James slowly turned his head to look, the muscles in his neck creaking like old hinges. Some grim part of him almost expected to see a big pool of blood materialize on the floor, maybe with Emily's ghost writhing in it, reaching out to him, asking him why he wasn't there to save her.

But it was clean. 'Spick and span'. Not a single thing looked out of place. Still, James didn't think he'd be able to walk over that spot when the time came to leave. He'd just have to go out the back door.

"I put her there because of the trail of blood, you see," she went on. "To anyone else, it would look like she had fallen down the stairs, and then bravely tried to crawl her way towards the door. Of course it would. Why would anyone stop to think that maybe it was all in reverse? Why would anyone with such injuries try to climb up the stairs?"

James squeezed the arms of his chair so hard he could feel the tendons in his fingers stick out like cables, threatening to snap. Hearing all these things... it was doing something to him, cutting him up inside. But he had to hear it all. He had to know. And once he did... well, he didn't know what he'd do.

"I cleaned up some of it, but not all," Laura said. "The pain was bad, but I worked through it, and I worked fast. Work can make you forget about pain for a while. It's a lesson I've learned on many an occasion. I picked up the roses and all the pieces of my mother's vase and hid them in the attic, but I left the crockery where they fell, all the broken teacups and saucers. Then I mopped up some of the blood; the spots I had left trying to reach the back door, and most of what Emily had left on the stairs. It didn't look right, having so much blood on those stairs, as if someone had been bleeding all over them for a long while instead of tumbling down in a matter of seconds. I also cleaned Markus's cane, and all the splatters it had left on the walls. I made it -"

"Spick and span," James finished for her, feeling sick to his stomach.

Laura smiled. "Exactly. I made it clean. I made it all better. What's done is done and can't be undone, that's what I always believed. But not this time. This time I could undo it all. I could make it so that it never happened."

James didn't know how much longer he could sit here and listen to this. He felt like... gods help him, he felt like punching something.

"But then I realized I had another problem to deal with," Laura said. "I had left the blood at the foot of the stairs and the trail leading to Emily untouched, but it was starting to dry. If I went for help right then, someone was bound to notice. They'd want to know how much time had gone by since they fell, and why it took me so long to get help. So I sat down and I thought for a bit. I planned it all out, exactly what I'll say."

James knew what was coming, more or less. It was the story that had spread through the whole town like wildfire. All a lie.

"Emily had dropped by to deliver some apricots. We all had a nice chat, and then I went to make some tea. I came out of the kitchen, holding a big tray in my hands, and I saw Markus and Emily up on the landing, talking nicely. I don't know what they were doing up there. Maybe Markus wanted to show her some of the paintings we've collected over the years. Emily was always so fond of good art, wasn't she? I called for them to come down and that's when Markus tripped. His legs weren't what they used to be. He started to fall, and Emily grabbed hold of him, trying to save him, but Markus was such a big, heavy Fox, and Emily was such a little thing. They both fell. I watched them tumble down and I listened to their bones snap. It was all over so quickly. I stood there, tray in hand, watching the blood puddle around them and I just..."

"You fainted dead away," James said, his voice dry and cracked, barely louder than a whisper. "And when you came to, the blood had already started to dry. That explains the broken cups and the missing time. You were 'unconscious'."

"James, I would ask you if you were all right, but I know how maddening it can get when every second person insists on asking, so I won't. I know you're not all right."

"No Laura, I'm really not," James admitted, his knee bopping up and down against his will, a nervous, furious energy working up inside of him, looking for an outlet. He knew Markus's cane. He knew it was thirty-seven inches of cherry wood, topped with a knobbly handle. He could actually hear that cane beating against his wife's head, over and over. That sound will echo in the darkest corner of his mind for the rest of his life, of that he had no doubt.

Here. Right here. In this very room. Emily, the love of his life, the mother of his children, had tried to help an old friend, and what did she get for it? What was the point of it all? Laura was alive, but Emily now lay dead in her grave, buried six feet underground. The tombstone hasn't been raised yet, but it will say: 'Here lies Emily, a loving wife and mother. She will be missed by all.'

There will be grape vines carved along the edges, with spiky leaves and curling creepers to border the words, because she loved the way the vineyards changed colour at autumn, turning the valley into a patchwork quilt of reds and browns and yellows.

She'll never climb the hills with her easel tucked under her arm to paint those vistas ever again.

"James, what are you doing?" Laura asked, alarmed. James didn't even realize he had stood up until that very moment.

He couldn't have answered her even if he knew. His heart was beating wildly, his eyes darting to every corner of the room, snagging on every little detail. The stairs, the door, the railing, the crack in the floor, it all jumped out at him, and it was all covered in blood. He knew it was only his imagination, but he could see it all clear as day, the red path Emily had dragged herself through, highlighted by streaks of black gore, red spikes flowing outward at every seam in the floorboards. She was still alive when Laura dragged her down those stairs. She was still alive when she... when she posed her for her goddamn alibi!

James wanted to grab Laura by the shoulders and scream: If you'd run for help right from the start, maybe she wouldn't have died! Maybe she'd still be with us! I have to go home tonight to three crying children! Three children that miss their mother! You and your devil of a husband took her away from me! From all four of us! Why!? Whyyyyy!?

Maybe he would have done it. He was certainly angry and miserable enough to do just abut anything.

But her face... it was the face of a woman who had suffered enough already. She had managed to keep her composure this long, but no longer. Her eyes squinched shut with the effort of keeping it all in, but too much had happened, too many wounds had accumulated, too many tears had been bottled up for far too long. It all came rushing out of her in one explosive burst and she wept in sorrow and frustration. Her blue handkerchief appeared in her hand as if by magic and she hastily covered her face with it, trying to hide her shame.

"You must _hate_me," she wailed into her handkerchief, her words muffled, her shoulders heaving. "I'm sorry, James! I tried to make it go away! I tried to undo it all! But it was too late! It's always too late! We can never undo anything in this world! It just keeps coming and coming and it all gets worse and we can never make it any better because what's done is done and can never be undone no matter how badly we wish for it! I'm sorry, James! I'm so, so sorry!"

Watching Laura cry like that, bent over with her face buried in a handkerchief that must have absorbed years' worth of tears in its lifetime... it didn't ease his pain or his anger, but it made him feel that maybe all that anger should be aimed at something else instead, something that wouldn't just end up causing even more pain and anger.

He started walking. He walked past Laura, snivelling in her chair, and he walked past the stairs that had been drenched in his love's blood. He went into the kitchen and he didn't stop until he reached the back door.

"James?" Laura said, her voice thick with mucus. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to fetch my tools."

"Tools? What for?"

He turned back and took in her bloodshot eyes, her trembling lips, and he said, "I'm going to fix that goddamn crack in your floor, Laura. And don't even think about trying to stop me, because I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it for Emily."

"But James," she said, her face suddenly devoid of tears. "You already have your tools."

James looked down and nearly gasped out loud when he saw his father's toolbox clutched tightly in his hands, nearly overflowing with hammers, handsaws, rulers, nails, and gods alone knew what else. It was so heavy he could barely keep it from slipping between his sweaty fingers.

"That's fine," James said and started to lurch his way towards the crack in Laura's sitting room, the crack that should have been fixed the very same day it was made, and with every step he took, every strangled cry he made, he could feel the toolbox in his hands grow heavier and heavier, pulling on his arms as if to tear them right out of their sockets.

"Would you like some tea, James? I was just thinking of making some."

"No thank you," James panted and slammed the toolbox down with an ear-splitting rattle. There was an eerie red light leaking out of the crack in the floor, but it wouldn't be there much longer. He would fix it. He would fix all of it. It would be like the crack was never there.

"How about a rose? Would you like a rose? The seeds came from Emily. They're her roses. They were always hers. Golden like the sun. Golden like her fur. Would you like a rose, James? Would you like to hold it and kiss it and promise to take care of her children while she's away?"

"No thank you," James said and rummaged around in his ancient toolbox, the one that had belonged to his father and his grandfather before that and his great grandfather before that, not paying attention to what he was doing, not caring about the nails and splinters sticking into his fingers, his gaze locked onto the hellish light seeping out from between the floorboards. "I've got work to do, Laura, I have to fix this." His hand finally closed on what he was looking for, the wonderfully cool rod of steel with the wickedly sharp hook, and he pulled it out with a sense of triumph, spilling half his tools across the floor in a broken cacophony of steel against steel, but he didn't care about that, he'd put them away later, much later, right now there was only this crack, this horrible, horrible crack, but he would fix it, he would make it all better. He would make it -

"Spick and span," Laura sang. He could see her kicking her feet like a child, the soles of her shoes lightly brushing against the floor. "Spick and span, spick and span, make every little thing nice and spick and span."

That's right, James thought and plunged the pry bar's hooked beak into the heart of the crack, forcing it wider and wider until sharp splinters jumped up into the air. The wood creaked and groaned under the punishment as if asking for mercy, but James would not relent. Not until it gave Emily back. The nails made a horrendous squealing noise like that of a small animal being tortured to death as he finally ripped the floorboard loose and the whole room was flooded with that unnatural light. He could actually feel it radiating against his face, warm and tingly, as if he was sitting too close to a sweltering fire. There were sounds, too, coming out of the light. Maybe they were a part of it. Screaming sounds. Sounds of wood striking flesh, again and again.

There was a new board in his hands now, and he did not care where it came from, only that it was there. He slammed it down into the gap, sealing off the awful red light for good. He grabbed a handful of nails and started to hammer them into the plank, not caring whether they lined up true or if the heads were sticking out or not. He only hammered them in as hard and as deep as he could, again and again, not stopping for anything. When he finally slammed the last of the nails into the wooden flesh, he leaned back, his arms aching, his heart racing, and he looked down at what he had done. This part of the floor now looked more like a mutilated hedgehog than a fine piece of birch. More nail than wood, they stuck out at odd angles to each other, bent and crooked and sharp. But at least the crack was gone. It was finally gone. James closed his eyes and sobbed in bitter grief, but also gratitude. It was such a small thing, but he had done it. Maybe now he could move on. Maybe...

"Would you like some tea, James? I was just thinking of making some."

"No thank you," James replied. "I have to go home. I promised Emily I would take care of the kids. I promised -"

He opened his eyes, and if the sight that befell them had not frozen his very being, he would have started screaming, and he would not have been able to stop.

There, down by his knees, was the crack that had sealed Emily's fate. There was no new board, no nails, just that terrible black crack staring up at him with that freakish red light seeping out of it, burning his eyes, a portal straight to hell.

"No," James mumbled, shaking his head. "This cannot be. This isn't real. None of it is."

He could hear an odd sound coming from inside the crack, like gargling. He didn't want to, but he was powerless to stop himself from leaning closer, and the closer he got the louder the sound became, a wretched gurgle, like someone choking on their own -

A red bubble swelled up from the crack and exploded with a wet pop, showering his face in a warm, tacky liquid that smelled of dirty iron.

James didn't want to open his mouth with so much of it dripping down his face, but he was screaming on the inside; loud agonising screams that would echo inside of him forever. He watched, his eyes wide and bugging out of their sockets as more blood gurgled and bubbled out of the crack like a mountain spring. It splashed across the floor and flowed along the smooth surface, so dark it was almost black. It was seeping into his trousers and spreading towards Laura's swinging feet, still whispering across the wood as they swung back and forth.

"Would you like some tea, James?" she enquired for the hundredth time. "I was just thinking of making some."

James was finally able to look up, but Laura was gone. It was Emily sitting in that old rocking chair, her legs pulled up to her chest to keep her feet out of the small ocean of blood pooling all around them. She slowly rocked back and forth, the chair creaking beneath her, and every time one of the curved legs of the rocker lifted up, it would pull sticky strands of blood along with it in thick, oozing ropes.

"Emily?" he whispered, heedless of the blood dripping past his lips. "Is that really you?"

"Spick and span," she chanted, rocking back and forth, a small smile stuck to her perfect face. "Spick and span, spick and span..."

"Emily," James started to get to his feet, so happy he felt like he could burst. "I thought you were -"

A small patch of blood appeared on her left temple. It was so tiny, but it contrasted greatly against her golden fur. It spread outwards, growing bigger and bigger, but if she felt any pain she did not show it. She just kept rocking and chanting, looking straight ahead as if caught in her own fantasy world, unaware of what was going on around her.

"Emily? No, please no..." James could feel the tears coming up again. They were always so close these days. "Don't do this to me, I beg of you." He watched in horror as yellow rose petals fell from her wound and landed in the blood, drifting along like little sailboats in a child's game of make-believe.

"Spick and span, spick and span..."

Blood was flowing down the stairs in long red lines, making miniature waterfalls at each riser. It leaked between the rungs of the bannister, drawing hellish bars across the wood. There was more blood dripping from the walls and even the ceiling, making a soft pitter-patter sound like rain.

"Emily!!" James thundered, overcome with rage and horror and immeasurable sorrow. He splashed down to his knees and stuck his hands into the deepening redness, feeling for his pry bar. He finally pulled it from the hot, sticky gore and plunged it into the crack, working it back and forth like a madman, screaming and screaming. "I will save you, Emily! I will fix it! I will fix all of it! Just hold on!"

"Spick and span," she whispered, rocking back and forth with her eternal smile, so calm and serene, even with half her face disintegrating into a swarm of yellow rose petals. "Spick and span, spick and span..."

James ripped the floorboard loose and stuck the new one in, forcing it against the gushing torrent of blood with brute strength. He hammered the nails home, driving them deep inside, hitting them over and over again so that the nightmare would finally stop. Each time he brought the hammer down he would think that maybe this would be the last strike, the one to end it all, the one that would finally seal the horror away.

He raised the hammer high above his head and brought it down with all the strength he could muster and the board cracked right down the middle, spewing blood and rose petals into his face in a fine spray.

"Noooo!!" he shrieked and shoved his pry bar into the crack yet again.

"Spick and span, spick and span..."

"I will fix this!" he yelled, ripping the wood out with brute savagery, tearing the planks apart. "I will fix this! I have to fix this! I promise you, Emily, I promise, I'll fix this!"

He slid a new plank into the gap and hammered it in, but no matter how hard he tried, no matter how carefully he worked, no matter how desperately he prayed, it always cracked on the last strike.

"Spick and span," Emily chanted, her rocking chair making ripples across the red pool with every motion, sending her rose petals his way.

"No, please, I have to fix this! I have to make it better! I promised! I promised!" James reached for the pry bar yet again, his tears dripping into the blood and disappearing without a trace.

"Spick and span, spick and span," Emily sang as her husband tried again and again to fix the crack that had ultimately led to her death, hoping that it would somehow undo the tragedy that had befallen his family. He raised his hammer and brought it down time after time, splashing blood against his frantic face, streaking it with gore, until it didn't sound like a hammer striking wood anymore.

It sounded like a cane striking flesh.

*

As James drifted through his painful, restless slumber, tossing and turning under the charcoal gaze of his sketched family, Banno began to stir...

---

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