((I thought I was done with them. I had two possible directions for my fic to go, the first one I thought of was actually this one. Then I thought, no, I'll chase them to the other end of Europe, which became So Far the Reach of Fate. But this keeps nagging. So, my original plan A gets its own, much more sinister story. Not that I planned it sinister, but it's started to run away with me and who am I to deny it. And then I'd like to get them out of my head again, if they please.

Also, other than the first one, I haven't written this in one sitting (I'm done with chapter 4 right now and have written everything up to and including it in one day) but will post a chapter a day until I catch up with myself (which means I'll have to slow it down a bit if I want to keep my job) and don't want to wait until I'm finished. I know where I'm going, my path is mostly fleshed out, so it's really just the putting it all into words.

There are two things – aside from the obvious – that inspired this, but I cannot list them at this point. One would be misleading, the other a spoiler.))

1. Dust and Bones

Edith's steps faltered as they neared the gate leading out and away. Away from this toxic place, away … People were coming from the village below, only the sheen of their torches visible in the fog. 'Edith. You need to go to a hospital.'

She felt irrational laughter threatening to bubble up from deep within. 'You're one to talk.' She halted. 'Alan … I've got to go back.'

His eyes were wide and blue and judging by his expression he thought she had lost her mind. 'Edith …'

She clawed her fingers into his arms. 'I have to say good-bye.'

Exhausted, pale with pain and blood loss, Alan groaned. 'To what?'

'Thomas,' she said quietly. She had seen him, his ghost she had thought, but she knew enough ghosts now to say for sure that they didn't, shouldn't look like he had.

'The man that tried to murder you with his sister? The sister he, need I remind you, bedded?'

No reminder was necessary, although how Alan had figured that one out was beyond her. She saw it as clearly as if she hadn't just had seconds to witness it but hours: Thomas on his sister's bed with her hand between his legs … and his eyes squeezed shut. 'He saved your life. And mine.'

'No, Edith, you saved your own life. He's gone.'

'He was there.' She shook herself and took a step backwards. 'Stay. Go with them. You need help.'

'So do you, you …'

'I just need a moment.' It was a mark of how drained Alan was that he let her walk when he clearly didn't want to.

No ghost greeted Edith when she set foot in that horrible house again. Slowly, she started to feel the pain in her broken ankle again and she leaned heavily on the bannister as she dragged herself up the stairs to where Lucille had coaxed her signature from her.

Edith pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling when she found Thomas's broken body on the floor. He was almost as pale as the apparition that had distracted Lucille, had looked on impassively as she had slain her, had tried to snuggle into her hand …

Gently, she brushed the hair out of his face and sat with his head on her lap. His skin was cool, but she had expected it to be much colder, almost as frozen as the air in the draughty room. A ghastly wound was in his cheek, blood had flowed from it and from his left eye. More was on his clothing. He was still, so still and peaceful. 'Thomas,' she said, her voice surprisingly steady. 'Let me say farewell, if you can hear me.' She peered into the dust, waiting, waiting … A mixture of a sob and a laugh broke from her. 'The one time I want to see a ghost, he isn't showing.'

There was a soft knock on the doorframe outside, and Edith froze. A face appeared, not that of a ghost but of a man with tufty white hair and friendly grey eyes. 'Mrs Sharpe?' He entered and crouched beside her husband. His brows were furrowed slightly. 'Unbelievable. What a terror, the last hours.' He shook himself. 'My apologies. I am Doctor Vincent Pilgrim. I was the family doctor, whenever one was needed. Which was incredibly rare. The Sharpe's have always been a more resilient lot than one might think by looking at them. And we certainly haven't met.' He extended his hand and Edith shook it automatically. 'I hear that you have a broken ankle and have been poisoned. Your friend, the other American, I sent him with someone to the hospital. The rest are waiting for us outside. You still need taking care of.'

'He saved him,' Edith said. 'Thomas saved Alan.'

'So he told me.'

'He did?' She was genuinely surprised by that, although she probably shouldn't have been. Alan was an honest man.

'Indeed. Mrs Sharpe. Let the dead rest.'

Her hands had been brushing through Thomas's hair all the time, she noticed. She forced herself to stop. 'I'd hoped …' She fell silent, knowing that her voice would break at last if she continued.

Pilgrim looked at Thomas's face with a wistful expression. He touched the back of his hand to his cheek. 'How long since she's attacked him?'

'I … I honestly don't know. Minutes. Hours. No idea.'

'Ah. Small wonder. But still.' His face hardened and he opened Thomas's shirt rapidly, revealing two deep stab wounds in his chest. He placed his hand on his neck for a few seconds before examining his injuries closely. At last, he looked at her with a grim smile. 'Mrs Sharpe, can you walk?'

'No. I flew up here.'

She got a small chuckle out of the doctor and wanted to punch him in the face. She did not. He sobered at once and roughly closed up Thomas's doublet. 'I intended to assist you, however …' He stood and offered a hand, this time to pull her to her feet. 'However, this changes that, of course. You see, your husband cannot. Walk, that is. Or fly, for that matter.'

'Doctor …'

His grim smile turned marginally gentler. 'He still lives. He lost a lot of blood very quickly and fainted. Anyone would have. I'll get him downstairs, don't worry, I'm not as frail as I look.'

'No.'

'Well, I cannot leave him here in the dust and cold, or he will be dead in a very short time. No matter what he has done, I am a doctor, not a judge.' Already, with surprising strength, Pilgrim had gathered Thomas's frame in his arms and pushed himself upright.

'That's not it. They'll … they'll lynch him down there!'

Pilgrim tutted. 'We are not barbarians, you know. Also,' he panted a little under his cargo, 'given Lucille's history and your friend's statement … I don't know how much blame we can even put on this fool. If someone were to testify that all that was done was done by the sister … only he himself would be able to correct them.' He stopped and looked at her walking next to him. 'Assuming he survives this, which I can't promise. Mrs Sharpe, do you understand what I am telling you?'

And finally, the penny dropped. 'Yes. I do.'

'I'm not telling you what to do, but you have a lot of power over this man. You can get him hanged, you can get him into an asylum, or you can help him walk away free. If you want a divorce, I don't recommend the latter.'

'What …' She swallowed.

'I can't answer whatever question this was meant to be. This is your decision alone, Mrs Sharpe. Just be aware of the impact every word you say will have. What I want or think better is moot.'

'Doctor, I killed Lucille.'

Pilgrim snorted. 'Come now. It takes one look at you, your friend, and even your husband to know what that was. Not worth even a court date.' He stopped as they reached the exit, leaning against the wall briefly. 'No. The only one whose future is hanging in the balance is this fellow here. Maybe he'll be dead by the time we get him to a hospital. Ah. Judging by the look on your face, you hope otherwise. Think about this. Think about it hard and soberly. Leave your heart out of it, whether it wants to forgive or to take revenge. Think of the dead, of yourself, of that woman out in the snow. Think of the kind of husband he was to the others and to you but stay detached. Then, I am certain, you will make an informed decision. The kind you will not come to regret. Can you do that?'

Slowly, Edith nodded. 'Yes. I absolutely can.'

((Doctor Pilgrim got his given name and the first letter of his last name from an actor I love dearly. His bad guys all inspired more compassion from me than horror, no matter how much blood on their hands. While not exactly Byronic heroes, they are the closest thing to that I encountered when I was as young as nine years old. Pilgrim's appearance does not match that actor, however.))