"That woman… Miss Jane?"
My heart nearly stopped, then slammed back into my body. I had quickened my pace without realizing it; Elora called after me, but it was too late. I ran into the alley.
And then, Jasper's hands were pressing a thick cloth over Miss MacLeod's mouth. The woman was struggling; her small, elegant hat had fallen to the ground during the fight, and from beneath it spilled her hair; jet black, straight as a sharpened blade, cascading to her shoulders. The wind lifted the strands, making them tremble like the flame of a dying candle.
Laurence held his brush case, not intervening.
Miss Jane's eyes darted away from Jasper and locked onto me. There was no panic in them… yes. It was an unfamiliar look, a bright one. Then those eyes closed, and the last of her strength slipped from Jasper's fingers as she collapsed to the ground.
My heart… God. For the first time, it beat like this because of a woman. Until I saw her hair, she was just anyone. And now I wanted her child wanted her genes. The perfect straightness of her hair alone had aroused me.
I immediately knelt, touching a strand. Her hair flowed through my fingers as if it were pouring. I checked her pulse, irregular, wildly fast… her chest rose and fell in the faintest movements. A voice in my head whispered one clear sentence: She's faking a faint.
Slowly, I rose to my feet. My gaze snapped to Jasper. A false, theatrical rage burst open inside me.
"Are you an idiot!?" I shouted, my voice cracking through the alley.
"What are you doing to Miss Jane!?"
Jasper's eyes widened with fear; his breath shook.
"B-brother, I… you talked about her like that during the hunt… I thought you meant something bad…"
He was trembling. Like a beaten dog.
"I'm taking Miss Jane home." I scooped the woman sharply into my arms. "You two are taking Elora and going back to the manor. You will sleep at your bedtime, and you will not wait for me. If I find even one of you awake when I return, God is my witness, you'd better pray the punishment I give stays limited to herbal teas."
They all lowered their heads, slipping out of the alley in heavy silence.
And I walked toward Miss Jane's house with her in my arms, careful with my words because I knew she was only pretending to be unconscious. I held her gently.
To better hold the light yet stubborn weight resting in my arms, I drew the woman a little closer. Miss Jane's head lay against my chest; the sleek, ink-black strands of her perfectly straight hair brushed against my shirt buttons, sliding with each step. I forced myself to stay composed. The street was veiled in a deep, smoky navy; the dim lamps cast long shadows of the two of us across the pavement.
After about ten minutes of walking, I felt a faint tremor beneath my hand her heartbeat, fast yet gradually slowing beneath my palm. As I considered that thin line between feigned faintness and real unease, my lips curved of their own accord.
"Ah," I said, my voice low and firm, cutting through the dim air. "My affection for you must have driven my siblings into certain misunderstandings."
Whether it was sincere or mocking was impossible to tell. Yet Miss Jane's eyelids did not even flutter; her lashes remained closed, as perfect as the straight black hair resting against my chest.
I drew a deep breath. I wanted to know where the boundaries of this little performance lay.
"Miss Jane," I said, this time in a more serious tone, "how long do you intend to keep up this fainting act?"
She spoke without opening her eyes.
"Until we reach my doorstep. I walked too much at the fair today, and I'm tired. I don't want to walk." Then, with a smile so subtle it was barely perceptible, she added:
"Also didn't wish to make a sound while you were carrying me, Mr. Ravencroft."
I carried her all the way to her door; climbed the steps slowly but steadily, and set her gently on the small landing before her entrance. The silence hanging in the air was heavier than the weight I had lifted from my shoulders.
"You surprised me, Mr. Ravencroft," she said as caught her breath. "I thought you would drop me the moment you realized I was awake."
"Knew you were awake from the very beginning," I replied, smoothing my wrinkled clothes. "I decided to perform my role as a gentleman properly. Besides… I wanted to know why you weren't truly fainting."
"I can hold my breath for a long time."
I raised a brow. "Impressive."
Standing before her, I placed one hand over my chest and tucked the other behind my back, offering a light bow.
"I apologize on behalf of my siblings. As I said, my interest in you must have led them to certain misconceptions."
"Raise your head, please."
The moment I lifted my head, an unexpected crack split the air; the warmth of the slap striking my face burned my cheek instantly. My head snapped to the side from the shock, teeth clenched, a thin line of fury stirring in my veins.
"Your siblings have no fault in this," she said with an icy calm. "If anyone is guilty, it is you. Failing to give them a proper upbringing must be the mistake of the eldest Ravencroft."
"You slapped me," I said, still feeling the sting on my cheek.
"Yes."
"Have you considered the consequences?" My voice held a dangerous calm; even the night wind hesitated to carry the last of my sentence.
A restrained fury gleamed in my eyes; the flickering light of the dim street lamps sharpened its edge. Yet Miss Jane, as if she could not feel the weight of my gaze at all, unlocked her door with complete indifference. She stepped inside, I didn't give her the chance to close it. I wedged my foot between the door and frame, forcing it open with my hands; the wooden frame shuddered. I followed her in and shut the door behind me.
Inside was almost entirely dark; only the faint moonlight slipping between the windows made the shapes of the furniture appear ghostlike. Still feeling the painful throb in my cheek, I walked toward her with slow, heavy steps.
"You slapped me."
Miss Jane stepped back; her skirt whispered over the wooden floor.
"Are you not afraid that someone else might be in this house?"
"If that were the case, you wouldn't have opened the door," I said with a cold certainty. "I know you have a servant, but the lights are off. And even if someone were inside, I could invent any number of convincing lies for this situation."
"What you're doing right now is disrespectful, Mr. Ravencroft."
I only smiled at that; rolling my shoulders back and straightening, as if the darkness inside me was making room for itself.
"You're right," I said with a faint trace of mockery. "I merely wanted to frighten you a little. Well then… good night, Miss."
I turned toward the door. Yes, I couldn't stand her, but… ah… for those perfectly straight black strands of hair, I restrained myself. Just as my hand reached for the doorknob, the sky outside suddenly split open; rain poured in torrents, and the wind howled fiercely enough to rattle the door.
"Perhaps you should stay here tonight," she said, her voice echoing faintly through the dark.
"Does sharing a space with me not frighten you? Besides, inviting a man into your home when no one else is present… how improper."
"If it were a corpse, I'd certainly feel more at ease," she replied. "But I don't despise you enough to throw you out in this weather. You are a person, after all… and I do have mercy. Also, why is it that a woman is scolded for letting a man in, while a man is not? Absurd."
"I don't need your mercy," I said sharply, turning toward the door again.
She grabbed my arm then; her fingers were decisive.
"I insist. Besides, my father will be home in a few hours. The rain will stop by then."
Time passed. Miss MacLeod lit the candles and the fireplace one by one, slowly pushing the darkness back; the trembling light of the flames cast fragile shadows along the walls. The crackling of the burning wood formed a delicate veil between the world being battered by rain outside and the small shelter formed within.
The warmth of the chamomile tea she handed me seeped into my palms, yet it wasn't enough to melt the restlessness inside me. She seemed to be doing everything in her power to calm me, while I refused to utter even a single word, pulling myself back every time my gaze, sharp as a blade, fell upon the pulse beating in her throat. Then her long, perfectly straight black hair would slide off her shoulder, briefly severing my thoughts.
Sitting by the fireplace, drinking my tea in the shadow of silence, Miss Jane spoke in a gentle voice:
"You seem unable to tolerate me. I'm going to bed now, my sleeping hour is passing. You may leave whenever you wish."
I lifted my head and looked at her.
"You know I'm the Crow Father," I said, my voice blending with the hiss of the fire. "To stay alone in a house with a murderer and then simply go to sleep… bold."
A restrained smile tugged at the corners of Miss Jane's lips.
"We're in an environment that doesn't suit your methods," she said. "And you don't seem very prepared tonight either. You want it to be known that your victims were killed by you that's why you're a serial killer. At the very least, right now, you can't kill me… so I can sleep peacefully."
She bowed her head softly.
"Good night, then. Don't rush to finish your tea."
Ah… I despised her, yet her perfect black hair seized my body as if it owned the very sinews of it. Perhaps I could postpone her death for nine months. A child could grow without a mother, thus becoming perfect, like me.
As I watched the wood crackle and flare in the fireplace, I listened to Miss Jane's steps ascending the staircase, opening a nearby door.
By the time I finished my tea, I rose to my feet. With slow, unhurried steps and my hands tucked into my pockets, I climbed the stairs. A faint, muted light glowed through the crack of an ajar door. I peered inside; Miss Jane sat at her mirrored vanity, brushing her long, straight black hair while reading a book of poetry, her glasses glinting in the candlelight. Her voice blended with the rain as she read:
"How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death."
I didn't understand why she was reading aloud, until she closed the book and turned her head toward the door, toward me.
"Was it pleasant to listen to the poem, Mr. Ravencroft?"
I pushed the door fully open; leaning my shoulder against the frame, my arms crossed before me, the angles of my posture casting a sharp shadow in the dim light.
"You wanted me to hear it."
"Yes. She is a writer I adore, Elizabeth Barrett Browning."
I gave no answer. I simply walked toward her; my body had slipped from my command, my steps heavy, unhurried, each one beating like a second pulse beneath the floorboards. I kept my hands in my pockets, lowering my head just enough to let my eyes rest on her straight black hair.
"Do you know what I'm going to do with you?" I asked, my fingertips brushing through her long, straight black hair. My touch was slow and deliberate; each movement sent a quiet tremor through me.
Miss Jane stopped the sound of her comb, clasped her hands before her, and faced me fully.
"Because I know who you are? Or because I slapped you?"
"Because you slapped me."
Jane lifted her hand to my cheek; her fingers touched my skin with a feather-light graze before tracing a softer circle. The candlelight wavered and broke upon her fingertips.
"Did it hurt that much?" She murmured. "I'm sorry. I struck you with all the strength I had… I only wish I could have done more."
My vision no longer held its shape; my thoughts no longer obeyed me. I was drunk without a single drop, intoxicated by something far more potent. With a sudden motion, I seized Jane's hand, my grip harsh, trembling and pulled it downward to my chest. A stillness curved at the corner of my mouth; a sharp glimmer settled beneath my eyes.
"Miss Jane, do you feel my heartbeat?"
She rose to her feet with a startled expression. When she pressed her palm more firmly against my chest, genuine bewilderment washed over her face.
"I don't understand, this makes no sense. I thought I was… upsetting you," she whispered, her voice twisting between fear and astonishment.
My gaze clung to her, her hair, at times her eyes, at times her lips. Her reactions magnified the fragility of the moment; the air in the room thickened with a tension born of our closeness, something at once dangerous and strangely intimate.
"Yes, you are upsetting me. And I do want to kill you."
Her eyes widened as she caught sight of the swell between my legs; the candlelight flickered across her iris with the briefest tremor. The corner of her mouth pulled into the faintest, unreadable line, too swift to discern whether it was anger, disgust, or a curiosity she could not admit.
"Then why?" She asked softly. "Did the thought of killing me… excite you?"
I tilted my head, examining her, my fingers tightening around hers with a subtle insistence.
"No, no… it's your hair, Miss MacLeod. It's beautiful."
Jane tried to mask her surprise, but the slight flutter of her lashes betrayed her.
"Oh… that is unexpected," she said, a breath-thin smile flickering at her lips.
"When I was little, no matter what I did wrapped them in cords, braided them, tied them overnight, they would never curl. I hated them. But one grows older and learns to love oneself. So… may I ask why my hair affects you this way?"
I stepped closer. I wanted her skin against mine; I burned for it. The muscles along my jaw tightened with a quiet, dangerous restraint.
"They're perfect," I said my voice this time deeper, instinctive.
"You fulfill every expectation I have of a woman: intelligent, capable, beautiful, straight-haired. I want to have a child with you."
A gentle smile appeared on Jane's face but it vanished like a candle snuffed between fingers. Her pupils contracted; her breath quickened so slightly it was almost imperceptible. She withdrew her hand from my chest, her fingers trembling faintly.
"I'm afraid that's impossible," she said, swallowing.
"I am... infertile, Mr. Ravencroft."
Something collapsed in my face, not an expression, but the very notion of hope.
The light in my eyes dulled, my gaze darkened. After a beat, I gathered myself with a cold, mechanical discipline; straightened my posture, adjusted the collar of my shirt.
"Then you are of no use to me," I said, my tone falling into a flat, emotionless line.
"Good night."
I walked toward the door, grasped the handle, pushed it open halfway then stopped.
Without turning my head, I spoke into the darkness of her room:
"God punished you by refusing to let you pass on such a beautiful gene." A short, sharp breath left me. "I carry your sorrow."
"Do I no longer interest you?"
I didn't even grant her the courtesy of a glance over my shoulder.
"You no longer make my palms sweat."
And the door closed behind me, leaving a silence so deep it felt like a second night descending.