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The deep tone of Millicent Clyde’s doorbell broke her morning’s peace, louder than it had any right to be, and she winced as the chime rattled between her ears, closing her book and setting her reading glasses aside as she contemplated the wisdom of getting up to answer. Everyday tasks were irritatingly cumbersome as her leg and ribs healed – months rather than weeks, the consultant had said, the at your age implied but audible nevertheless – and it wasn’t like she was exactly expecting well-wishers. No, it’d be one of those bubbly volunteers gearing up for the council election she fully intended to ignore, or worse yet a pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses determined to save her eternal soul.
Either way, the thought of tearing a naive whippersnapper to shreds perked her up a little. Getting to her feet was a momentary struggle but once the crutch was under her arm she felt more solidly planted, even if it did take a few seconds to rid herself of the inevitable dizziness as the blood rushed away from her head too fast.
Maybe whoever it was would have given up by the time she managed to get to the door. It wasn’t clear if that would be a disappointment or not.
But no – the doorbell again, and this time it set her teeth on edge, the permanent headache she’d acquired tightening its screws around her temples. If she didnt get to yell at someone soon she was going to need more paracetamol.
She grumbled her way down the hall, pausing to check her appearance in the full-length mirror. It was hardly her usual attire, a green calf-length dress with long sleeves and more smocking than anyone should really be wearing outside of a prairie, but it covered the bruises and didn’t aggravate the worst of her injuries when she got dressed. At least her hair was brushed, and the minimal application of powder and lipstick kept her from looking completely exhausted.
It would do.
She opened the door, ready to pounce.
Except it wasn’t some chirpy volunteer with a clipboard or a couple of suited teens holding bibles. Instead, a tall blonde stood on her doorstep, one hand poised to ring the doorbell for a third time.
“Do have some patience,” Millicent spat instinctively, her brain not quite caught up with her eyes.
It took a second – in her defence, it had been dark up on that roof, and one militant do-gooder looked much like another once you stopped seeing faces and just saw the superiority and the alternative clothing – but she’d replayed the scene enough times in her mind, hoping she’d remember it a different way, that there was a miserable jolt in her chest as she finally recognised Mrs Brown.
It took another second to register that she was smiling, and oh god, she was wearing some type of patchwork monstrosity that people probably (generously) called quirky, like she woke up that morning and decided to become a sartorial model for art teachers everywhere. There was even a beret, for Christ’s sake, just in case the stereotype wasn’t announcing itself loudly enough.
She’d really have preferred the Jehovah’s Witnesses.
“You.” She spoke over the sound of her own heartbeat as the treacherous organ did its best to escape her broken ribcage. “What do you want?”
Mrs Brown frowned briefly, settled back into that strained smile that was still more genuine than anything Millicent was either willing or able to summon up herself. “I came to see if you’re alright, actually.”
“Why on earth would you do that?” It burst out of her sharply before she could stop it, but then again, it wasn’t like she was trying to make friends. “You’ve got your precious bear, haven’t you? Why would you care about anything else?”
The frown came back again, the smile faltering. Foolish woman. If she’d expected a warmer reception then Millicent would have to revise her estimation of the woman’s intelligence down even further than her less-than-flattering first impression. But Mrs Brown rallied quickly, thrust a bunch of flowers in her direction that she must have been hiding behind her back, waiting for the right moment. “I just thought you might need a friend.”
What sort of perverted power play was this? “A— friend?” she managed, all too aware of the way her voice pitched up in disbelief. Her head was swimming. She didn’t take the flowers, they’d only sit in an elaborate vase shedding petals and leaves and wilting slowly until they were a sad, putrid mess.
“A friend,” Mrs Brown repeated firmly. “Paddington says—”
But Millicent didn’t hear the rest, Mrs Brown’s voice drowned out by a ringing in her ears, a static roar in her head, her one free hand clutching the door frame in a death grip as her legs, already unsteady at the best of times after everything, threatened to betray her. That bear – the lunatic ravings of her dear departed father brought to perfect, polite life in a way that made her stomach churn and her legs tingle, pushed the breath back down deep in her chest until the world around her started to float away.
She tried to breathe in but it caught in her chest, combined with the humiliating sting of tears to make her feel like she was drowning, sinking, and somewhere in a lucid corner of her mind she was horribly aware that the combination of crutch and door frame wasn’t going to be enough to keep her upright much longer. “Leave,” she ground out, and it took all her effort to keep her voice even. The world outside blurred, too bright and too dark all at once then suddenly just dark.
She felt it all in slow motion: the bottom dropping out of her stomach, the lack of oxygen tugging at her vision, her damaged leg giving way, her fingers sliding bonelessly from the door frame—
—and the utterly alien sensation of strong arms catching her, a warm body supporting her weight. She was too dizzy to protest, fingers curling instead into the surprising softness of Mrs Brown’s awful coat, her disgust at the moment of weakness buried deep beneath lungs that wouldn’t open and a heart that wouldn’t slow down.
Mrs Brown shifted to slide her arm around Millicent’s waist. “Let’s get you inside,” she said, and Millicent could hear concern, gentleness, kindness, but none of the pity that would spark enough bitter energy to put an end to this mortifying exercise. Her crutch had fallen to the floor by the front door, anyway, and she wouldn’t last more than a few seconds without it right now.
She let herself be half-carried into the drawing room, too exhausted to hate herself with the level of venom this situation would ordinarily incur, and sank into her favourite wingback leather chair with a groan. The physical pain she could deal with – she’d been stung by jellyfish, attacked by fire ants, and bitten by more snakes than she cared to count, a few broken bones and a concussion were hardly going to keep her down – but these damned moments of weakness only seemed to be getting worse.
And now she had an audience.
Mrs Brown seemed to be settling in, invitation or not, taking a seat in the less comfortable armchair (the one Millicent reserved for visitors she didn’t much like) and laying those cursed flowers on the coffee table in front, as if she thought her act of charity somehow qualified her for Millicent’s time and attention, and the old Millicent (the one who wasn’t putting all her effort into just breathing, slow and even, letting her nails dig into the upholstered arms of her chair as she recited an alphabet of binomina in her head) would have said as much. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to reduce Mrs Brown to tears – she did, quite desperately in fact – but regaining some semblance of her dignity seemed to be the more pressing issue.
She waited for her heart rate to settle, wanted to close her eyes and focus on breathing but the thought of not being able to see her unwanted visitor gave her a feeling she imagined was not unlike that of a hunted animal. It wasn’t a feeling she enjoyed.
Her pretty little dead things had probably enjoyed it even less.
She dabbed at her cheeks with bare fingers, horrified to feel the trace of actual tears, and something must have shown on her face because Mrs Brown was making sympathetic noises, the sort one made around a child that didn’t know why it was upset. “Can I get you anything? Some water maybe?”
Her dry mouth was crying out for water but agreeing meant letting her deeper into her home and she got a funny feeling in her stomach even considering it so she shook her head, the repeating pattern on the carpet suddenly of utmost interest as she tried to think about something that wasn’t the violation of the last remnants of her privacy. It was taking all of her self-control to avoid Mrs Brown’s sympathetic doe eyes.
She’d stuffed a pretty-eyed doe once, swapped those soft brown irises for hard glass that followed her flatly around the room, reproaching her for an act she refused to accept was a sin.
Things died; she’d found a way to make sure they didn’t leave.
And she’d much prefer Mrs Brown as a museum centrepiece. Perhaps then her concerned, caring look wouldn’t make Millicent feel quite as much like a girl in school.
“I don’t understand why you came,” she rasped, knowing she was giving Mrs Brown an opening but unable to tamp down the genuine curiosity. She peeled her fingers off of the arms of the chair, settled her hands in her lap.
Mrs Brown shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “I suppose I felt like I’d left something unresolved. You didn’t seem—” She hesitated, her eyes meeting Millicent’s for a skittish second while she obviously rethought what she was about to say. “Things didn’t seem right,” she finished eventually, carefully.
Millicent barked out a sharp laugh, cut it off before it veered into the hysterical. Didn’t seem right, indeed – the gall of the woman. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she lied.
“Right.” The disbelief was clear, but she didn’t press the issue. Millicent didn’t know whether to be relieved or embarrassed. “Anyway, Mr Brown thinks I’m mad to come here, but then he said the same about Pad—” She spotted the look on Millicent’s face and cut herself off. “He says the same about a lot of things,” she finished gently.
Her expression was easy enough to read: fondness, exasperation, and not a little disappointment. Well. Maybe the saintly Mrs Brown didn’t have quite as perfect a life as she’d like to pretend.
She’d have been lying if she said it didn’t give her at least a tiny bit of satisfaction.
“Sounds like you made the wrong choice there, darling,” she drawled, and the discomfort that flickered across Mrs Brown’s face was worth it for the jolt of vicious pleasure at getting under her skin. That would teach her to poke at things that didn’t concern her.
“I didn’t come to discuss my personal life.”
She raised an eyebrow. Interesting – was that the flicker of a backbone, the doe fighting her natural urge to bolt? “But you didn’t come to be a friend either did you, Mrs Brown, don’t lie to me. You came to check I wouldn’t be back to finish what I started.”
“No!” She looked genuinely shocked at the thought. “And if this is what you’re going to be like then I’ll—”
“Leave? I wish you would.”
“Not until I’m sure you’re okay.” The doe eyes were back, full of concern; Millicent could only imagine what she must look like to warrant it. She reached up without thinking to smooth her hair, forgetting for a second that it fell in natural waves rather than the neat french twist she preferred.
Hair, dress, crutches – it was no wonder Mrs Brown was being nice.
People really were so easily manipulated by the superficial.
“I’m fine,” she said tetchily. “It was nothing. And don’t worry, Mrs Brown, I shan’t be breaking into your house to reclaim my prize.” No, that route was closed to her now, the Geographer’s Guild more out of reach than ever. She tried to ignore the itch in her fingertips that begged for a scalpel, a syringe, for the crunch of bone as she split it with precision, wound a finger tightly into her own hair and pulled just hard enough that the pain in her scalp eased the urge.
If Mrs Brown noticed, she wisely didn’t comment.
In the corner, towering above a lion’s pelt, the grandfather clock chimed a quarter past ten.
“Is there....” Mrs Brown squeezed her eyes closed like she knew the rest of the sentence wouldn’t go down well. “Is there anything I can do for you?” She gestured in Millicent’s general direction, presumably encompassing...well...everything about her current situation. “You know. Shopping? Odd jobs? A bit of company?”
“I—” She’d been living on toast and jam for longer than a grown woman ought and there was a growing pile of clean laundry that she couldn’t hang up without losing her balance one way or another, but hell would freeze over before she admitted either failing. “Why?”
“Because you clearly need help!” She shrugged, the fingers of one hand worrying at a loose thread on her coat. Funny, somehow it didn’t seem quite so out of place in here, the bright colours muted by the rich greens and browns that Millicent surrounded herself with. “And I think,” she added softly, “that maybe you’re not quite as bad as you seem.”
Something prickled down her spine, needles into her skin setting off a deep ache that set her teeth on edge and lodged in her bones. “I was going to make your precious bear the final piece in my collection,” she bit out. How strange, her throat felt hoarse. “I had the sedation ready to inject. The scalpels sharpened. I meant to stuff him full of fluff and display him for the whole world to see.”
“But you didn’t,” Mrs Brown said serenely.
“I wanted to!” Her voice cracked on the second word.
“But you didn’t.”
“I still want to.” She spread her arms extravagantly, feeling a dull pain in her ribs as punishment. “And I don’t regret a single thing.”
Mrs Brown paused at that, her clear gaze strangely unsettling. “See, I don’t think that’s true.”
“I— what?”
“I saw you, up on that roof. Your hands were shaking.”
“Adrenaline,” she countered sharply.
“You were crying.”
“Enough!” She hauled herself upright far too fast, clung to the back of the chair while black spots cleared from her vision, the deep breath she wanted to take limited by the iron cage of her healing ribs. “This charade is over, Mrs Brown. Go home to your husband.”
She stood to match. “And my children. And Paddington.”
There it was again, that bite, a cornered animal lashing out. Even the mention of that infuriating bear stung less when it was said in anger. “Yes, quite the happy family,” she purred. “Tell me, Mrs Brown, is your life everything you ever wanted?”
Something flashed in her eyes. “Is yours?” she shot back.
A frantic giggle bubbled up and out before she could stop herself. “Obviously not. But I’m not the one pretending everything’s perfect.”
“Nor am I! My life’s messy and full of chaos and yes I try to live it with as much grace as I can but there are still days when I just want to—”
“Jump off a third floor roof?” Millicent cut in sardonically.
“Nothing that drastic. Scream, maybe.”
She sneered. “Such bold dreams.”
Mrs Brown sighed, the tension going out of her like a puppet with its strings cut. “Are you this awful to everyone you meet?”
“Oh, this is me being nice.” She took a step towards her, pride blooming in her chest as Mrs Brown took half a step backwards despite the fact that Millicent’s hand (shaking, again) hadn’t left the back of her chair. “I can be much, much worse.”
Mrs Brown looked slightly dazed.
Good.
“I really did come to see how you were,” she said eventually. “Not to argue.”
“Well now you’ve seen for yourself you’re welcome to show yourself out, aren’t you.”
“....right. Yes.” She hesitated, pressed her hands down the front of her coat and adjusted the beret on her head to an even more horrifyingly jaunty angle. “Look, Millicent—”
Millicent raised an eyebrow at the familiarity but said nothing.
“Millicent,” she said again, firmer now. “I know we’re basically strangers, and you probably don’t want to hear this, but Paddington says your father was the kindest, bravest explorer of all.”
She drew breath for a suitably withering reply to cover the way her heart was suddenly hammering in her throat, but Mrs Brown was already barreling on.
“He’s only a little bear, though, and if life has taught me anything it’s that things are usually a lot more complicated.” She shrugged. “I just wanted to say.... I don’t blame you, and I don’t think it was all your fault.”
For a moment there was nothing but her heartbeat, thundering in double time to the tick of the grandfather clock. Was this all people saw? A misguided child, failed by the adults in her life and not responsible for any of her actions?
This had been her choice, every step of the way.
She forced down the rising sense of panic, newly familiar, and let the fury come rushing in to cover it. “Don’t you dare speak to me like that,” she snarled, “you complete and utter moron.” Her hands were trembling with anger rather than nerves now. This woman, coming into her home with her worried eyes and garish flowers and pretending she cared even the smallest amount for Millicent’s wellbeing, and she’d fallen for it, let her guard down, resisted the self-preserving urge to chase and catch and kill because something in her had seemed....
Kind.
Some part of her recognised the shocked look on Mrs Brown’s face but she was too far gone to control herself now, the seething tide of anger and misery flooding out with force. “That bear was mine and then you and your pathetic little family ruined everything.” She took one step forward, then another, sheer rage keeping her upright even as her injured leg screamed at her to sit before she fell. “I don’t know why you think I’d want to see your wretched face or your ridiculous outfits ever again.”
“I see” Mrs Brown said faintly, but she wasn’t retreating at Millicent’s advance, she was reaching for her instead, one hand extended like she wanted to comfort her.
The gesture shredded the last of her composure.
Her throat choked horrifyingly, humiliatingly, the wobble of her lips as uncontrollable as the tears pooling in her eyes. She held out one hand in front to stop her approach. “Leave.”
“I—”
“Now.”
And surprisingly she did, flashing Millicent a pained smile as she left the room. Through the open door Millicent watched, bemused, as she picked up the fallen crutch and leaned it against the radiator where it was easily accessible – such an odd kindness, after everything – and disappeared outside in an easy swish of patchwork, shutting the front door softly behind her.
For a moment she stood motionless, oddly hollowed out by the easy acquiescence. Then she let out a shriek of pure rage that bounced off the high ceilings, rattling the chandelier before it was swallowed by the wall of books. She staggered the few steps back to the safety of her chair, breathing hard. She used to be so good at hiding her feelings, prided herself on her ability to make people deeply uncomfortable without letting them see a single emotion, her talent for pitching a performance at just the right level to get under someone’s skin. The only legacy of her father’s she’d ever found a good use for. And ever since that damned rooftop—
How dare this woman think she could beat her at her own game?
She poured herself a stiff brandy from the decanter on the side table and downed it in one, interactions with her endless roster of medications be damned. It wasn’t like liver failure would exactly make her life worse at this point.
Her hands longed for the reassuring weight of a crossbow.
She wasn’t too proud to admit she’d been back to the scene of the whole sorry incident, just in case it had fallen into a bush and the police had somehow overlooked it, but the area had still been taped off and she was hardly inconspicuous on crutches. That left her only real option as Daddy’s hunting rifles, and somehow she didn’t think that wandering the streets of London with a loaded weapon would do her any favours at the moment.
Besides, the thought of that bear with a bullet hole piercing its soft fur left her oddly nauseous.
Taxidermy, she reminded herself, was an art, and it didn’t do to have the method of death quite so drastically on display.
No, she’d allow herself the daydream of holding a crossbow to Mrs Brown’s pretty little throat instead. Far safer to dream an impossibility than run the risk of temptation – even she knew that one more infraction and her situation was likely to get worse. And the thought of Mrs Brown struggling to get away, maybe even pleading in that sweet, soft voice, would certainly be a pleasant distraction.
But if she let herself think about it (which she obviously didn’t) the burning rage that had propelled her onwards for all of her adult life felt less like an inferno and more like a guttering candle, spitting sparks into the darkness in a vain attempt to stay alive.
It was only later, when the scent of gardenias in the drawing room intensified to the point of making her head spin and she finally struggled to her feet to dispose of the offending bouquet in the kitchen bin, that she noticed the card wedged in the middle of the arrangement, her name printed in neat lettering on the envelope.
She hesitated, half tempted to throw it in the bin along with the flowers, but curiosity got the better of her and she pulled the card out, holding it carefully between two fingers like it might be poisonous.
It wasn’t the get well soon card she’d expected, one of those mass-produced pastel coloured monstrosities one sent to ailing relatives and the elderly. Instead, she was confronted by a finely drawn tiger’s head, snarling, emerging from swirling foliage in vibrant greens and blues that evoked the trailing vines of the jungle. It looked hand-drawn, and when she turned it over she wasn’t surprised by the artist’s name, written in tiny lettering that matched the hand on the front of the envelope.
Mary Brown.
Well, at least now she could stop calling the wretched woman Mrs Brown in her head every time she thought about her.
She sat heavily at the kitchen table and opened the card.
There were just a few lines of writing, all irritatingly heartfelt but somehow not saccharine enough to stoke the anger simmering just out of reach beneath her skin. And then right at the end, in a slightly different shade of black like it had been a separate addition to the message, a phone number.
If you need a friend, it said.
Millicent scoffed to herself. How ridiculous – how pathetic – to think that she would ever willingly subject herself to a repeat of this morning’s humiliation. She grabbed at the card, poised to rip it in two.
The tiger’s wild eyes stared out at her.
With a trembling breath she set it back down on the table. It would be a useful bookmark, if nothing else. And maybe she’d give the phone number out to one of those infuriating marketing firms, just to make Mrs Brown – Mary – lose a little of that maddening patience.
She certainly wouldn’t be calling.
Not today, at least.