When Charles finally came to, the first person he saw was a little boy.

He was carrying a pitcher, hands shaking from the weight as he poured water into a glass on a nightstand. As soon as he realized Charles was looking at him, the boy's brown eyes widened as if he had seen a ghost, and he raced out of the room, spilling water all over himself in the process. "Mister James! Mister James!" Charles heard him shout down the hallway. "He's awake!"

James appeared a moment later, all tousled blond hair and wide worried eyes. "Charles!" he cried. "How are you feeling? How's your head?"

"Head's fine," Charles mumbled, looking around the room. He was in his bed, he realized, back home. "Body feels like it was trampled by a fleet of horses."

"That's likely from the reaction potion you took. It really takes a toll on the muscles, but that should get better in a few days."

"And my skin feels like it's on fire." Charles looked down. He was naked from the waist up, and he was startled to see a  strange pink pattern etched into the skin of his right arm. It reminded him of the branching lines of a tree.

"Lichtenberg figure," James explained. "It happens to those struck by lightning. It's already fading—should be gone by tomorrow. Your hands though..."

As he trailed off, Charles finally noticed that both of his hands were bound in thick white cloths. And of all the parts of him that hurt, his hands stung the worse.

"After Juliette struck you, the book burst into flame and burned your hands," James said. "I got to them as fast as I could, but the burns were fairly deep." He winced. "You'll likely have scars after all of this. Might have some trouble moving a finger or two."

"Well, good thing I'm not a piano player," Charles mumbled, trying to piece everything together. His memory was surprisingly foggy. "What do you mean 'after Juliette struck me.' Why did she do that?"

James blinked. "You don't remember?"

Charles shook his head. "Just flashes of things: Lillian almost getting her throat slit, fighting Monroe, you and Juliette coming to the rescue... Nothing much after that."

"You grabbed Monroe's spell book and it looked like... it looked like it corrupted your mind. You wouldn't listen to us. And then you started reading from it and we had to stop you before..."

Before I did something incredibly stupid, Charles finished silently, remembering the dark whispers of the book.

"The authorities arrived pretty quickly after that—Lillian went with Andrew to get them. But I stayed behind with Juliette because... because Cecilia..."

He trailed off, and suddenly the last few memories came rushing back to Charles: Monroe slapping his daughter across the face, Cecilia lunging at him to save Lillian, and then that horrible moment Monroe's knife had dug into her abdomen and she had collapsed in a pool of blood.

And then Charles noticed that James was wearing an all-black suit. James, who eschewed the dreadful color every chance he got, opting for green velvet and deep maroon and elaborately embroidered suits from Mister Morgan's shop, was now wearing all black. The color of mourning.

"Where is she?" Charles demanded.

"Charles, please calm down—"

"Where is she?" Charles shouted, his voice rising in pitch as his heart pounded wildly.

"My chambers—"

With an energy that Charles didn't know he possessed, he leapt out of bed and raced down the hallway towards James' room, despite James yelling at him to stop. Please be okay. Please be okay! he thought fervently as he ran.

He barreled into the room without knocking and stumbled to a stop. Cecilia was lying in bed, still as stone. Her face was a pale shade of cream.

"Cecilia," he cried, falling to his knees at the side of her bed.

At his cry, her eyes fluttered open. "Charles," she whispered.

Charles couldn't help it; hearing her voice, he started to cry. He tried to clasp her hands in his, tried to stroke her face, but the bandages made his hands clumsy and he only managed to cause himself excruciating pain.

But damn it, she's alive, he thought through his tears. She's alive.

James joined them in the room, looking down at him sternly. "Charles, you should be resting."

Charles ignored his brother. "How are you, my love?" he asked Cecilia.

"I'm alive," she said, wincing as she turned her head to face him more fully. "Thanks to your brother."

"I just kept her stable until we were able to get a doctor and a healer on site," James said. "They stitched her up and did what they could, but the stab wound went deep."

"It'll be a bit of time before I'm up and about again," Cecilia said, but her beautiful features curved into a smile as her eyes traced Charles' face. "But I'm so happy to see you, Charles. Yesterday morning, I thought we were over. And despite how horrific last night was, there was a bright spot in that I knew you trusted me. I knew perhaps we could still have a life together. And once my father stabbed me, as I was lying in a pool of my own blood, the world around me went fuzzy, and the only thing I could think of was you. I didn't want to slip away. I didn't want to lose you, Charles."

Charles pressed his forehead to hers. "You didn't. I'm here now. And we're going to get through this together."

James cleared his throat. "While I'm very happy for you both and hate to break up this happy reunion, I must impose some limits." He shot Charles a stern look. "She needs to rest. She nearly died last night. You too."

"Right," Charles said, climbing back to his feet; he inadvertently used his right hand to prop himself upright and had to bite his tongue to stifle the cry of pain. It was a reminder of how fragile the human body was.

He looked down at Cecilia, at her angelic face as her eyes fluttered shut, already descending back into dreamland.

James took his elbow, like a man escorting his wife, and tried to guide Charles out of the room. "Come on," he said. "Back to bed. I can make you a cuppa if you'd like."

"I have a feeling you'd slip a sleeping draught in there," Charles whispered, pausing when he reached the hallway. "Where are Lillian and Juliette? Are they all right?"

"They're fine. They're downstairs. We're... technically we're holding the wake for Lillian's mother right now."

Suddenly James' all black attire made sense. Someone was dead; Charles had just forgotten about Madame Bisset in all the chaos of the past twenty-four hours.

"I'm going downstairs."

"Charles please—"

"You can either argue with me and watch me tumble down the steps, or you can be a good brother and escort me down."

James clearly wanted to scream, but in the end, he opted for the harm reduction strategy of taking Charles by the arm and escorting him down the steps.

It was slow going. Charles' muscles screamed with every step. All he wanted to do was lie down. But he gritted his teeth and tried his best not to use his brother too much as a crutch.

When he finally limped down the last step, he turned and saw that the front parlor had been transformed.

The curtains were drawn, the clocks were stopped, and all the mirrors were draped with black cloth. James seemed to have found every plant in the home and brought it into the parlor in lieu of flowers. And there was a casket lying in the center of the room, upon which Madame Bisset rested.

Lillian looked up at the sound of creaking stairs, then jumped to her feet and wrapped Charles in a hug.

"Charles!" she cried. "You're awake!"

"I am," he said. He was so in shock that she was hugging him that it took him a moment to realize how painful her grip was.

"Careful," James warned. "He just woke up and he should be resting."

This prompted Lillian to let go, but Juliette didn't seem to get the memo, as she suddenly appeared beneath him and wrapped her arms around his waist. "I'm so sorry I zapped you, Mister Abbot!" she said.

Charles reached down and mussed her hair with his forearm. "It's okay, Juliette. It had to be done. I was not myself."

"Have a seat," Lillian said, nearly forcing Charles down onto the settee.

Charles appreciated the rest and turned to Lillian who had settled on his right. "How are you holding up?"

She glanced back at the casket, and when she turned to face Charles again, he could tell she was fighting back tears. "It's hard. But I'll make it through." She squeezed his arm. "Glad you're okay."

"You as well," Charles said, noticing that she had a small bandage on her throat, right over the spot Monroe had pressed his knife.

"Things were very touch and go last night," Lillian said, looking at James who hovered above them. "Not sure if James told you."

"I heard a little about it."

"I'm glad you're alive," Juliette said. "And Miss Cecilia. And me."

Her bluntness surprised Charles; he laughed for the first time in a long time. It hurt his body, but it felt so good.

Still, not all of them had made it out of this adventure alive.

He turned to Lillian. "Do you mind if I sit here with you for a while? I'd like to pay my respects to your mother."

Lillian nodded. "Of course. I think she would have liked that."

And so the four of them sat in the parlor, sometimes in silence, other times listening to Lillian tell tales of her mother, and over all feeling very grateful they were still alive.

The next few days went by excruciatingly slowly for Charles. While he had managed to dredge up some energy for Madame Bisset's wake, his body simply couldn't keep up with it and he found it almost impossible to leave his bed for the next several days. The Lichtenberg figure faded, but his muscles felt finely pulverized, and the burning in his hands was near constant.

The first time James had come in to change his bandages, James had told him not to look, but Charles was too curious to listen to his brother. As soon as the gauze was pulled back, Charles had to stifle a gag; his skin was pink and angry, with large bubbles of burnt flesh, some of which were oozing yellow gunk. From that moment on, Charles agreed to let James take care of his wounds without looking.

And yet Charles was frighteningly bored. He was in pain, and relished the moments when he was asleep and couldn't feel anything at all, but other times his mind was too awake. So he laid in bed for hours on end, only occasionally getting up to limp to the bathroom, wave to Lillian from the top of the stairs when she left for her mother's funeral, or peer into Cecilia's room.

As slow as his recovery felt, Cecilia's seemed far worse. Most days when he stepped into her chambers, she was fast asleep and he felt too guilty to wake her. A few other times, he had caught her when the physician and healer were doing their rounds. Charles had always viewed his brother as a skilled healer; despite his lack of magick, his ability to brew potions meant that, for most of their lives, Charles hadn't needed to see a trained healer or a doctor. It was sobering that James had called in professionals for her, and it made Charles worried that something was going on, something he wasn't being told about.

And yet the few times he was able to speak with his fiancée, she seemed to be getting better—slowly, but surely. Her green eyes would perk up, tracing his face. She'd laugh—a light tinkle of bells only punctuated by the occasional wince if she tensed up her abdomen too much—and that was enough for Charles.

After about a week of dreadfully boring rest, Charles felt that his strength had returned enough in his legs that he could once more attempt the trek downstairs. He didn't tell James—he doubted his brother would ever let him out of his bedroom, and he wanted to see what he could do on his own. Still, it was a painful process. Although his muscles had partially recovered, he still found that he walked with a limp, and when it came to the stairs, he didn't feel confident enough in his steps to walk down without grasping the railing. Unfortunately, his hands were utterly useless at this point, so he made it down doing a strange side-step down the stairs, his forearms resting on the banister as he went.

When he finally reached the parlor, he breathed a sigh of relief, happy he had made it. However, he was immediately greeted with a, "WATCH OUT, MISTER ABBOT!"

Charles didn't have time to react, but a jet of flame whizzed past his head. Luckily, it didn't hit him or anything important; the flame fizzled out mid-air behind him. Still, it set his heart racing.

He looked down and saw that Juliette and Elijah were chasing each other throughout the parlor, although they stumbled to a stop when they saw Charles. A moment later, Lillian ran into view.

"You two need to stop that!" she said, then saw Charles and stopped. "Charles! You're downstairs."

"Figured it was time," Charles said, looking at the children who were staring at their feet bashfully. "It seems like I've been missing some of the excitement."

"I'm trying to help Elijah with his powers!" Juliette said innocently, fiddling with one of her braids. "We're training."

Lillian put her hands on her hips. "You two were playing a madhouse game of chase around the house. That's enough 'training' for one day."

Charles was shocked to see Juliette behave in such a manner, and it took him a second to realize why. She's acting like a kid. For so long, he had subconsciously viewed the girl as much older. In actuality, she was only ten; she was a kid.

Juliette set her lips into a pout, but Charles could tell that she wasn't that upset. "Fine. We'll read some books instead, right Elijah?"

The boy, who seemed perpetually mute around Charles, nodded, and then let Juliette drag him away.

As the two raced up the stairs, Lillian rolled her eyes. "Children."

"Let them have their fun," Charles said, sitting down on the couch. "God forbid they have the chance to act like children."

"It's exhausting," Lillian said, settling down next to him. "To be honest, I think Juliette is acting out because she's sad. Elijah's going back to the orphanage today."

Charles blinked. "He is? Already?"

Lillian nodded. "James and I decided it was the best thing for him. He needs a real family. Neither of us are up to the task at this point in our lives, and I'm not sure you or Cecilia are either, frankly."

"Well, we have discussed having children one day—"

"One day when you can actually use your hands and Cecilia can cough without crying."

Charles winced at her candor. "Good point. I just... Aren't you scared to let him out of your sight? We still don't know if we fully dissolved the cult." James had done his best to hide any news regarding the cult from him, but the parlor was right below his bedroom, and Charles had been able to catch wisps of conversation through the floorboards. "What if there are other members, people who weren't at the gathering that night? People who weren't arrested? For example, Benjamin Hughes was there, but what about his wife?"

"Monroe gave a full confession to the authorities," Lillian said. "He admitted that he was the one who started the cult after he bought that book from that antiquities dealer, Mister Fox. He said it was full of dark magick and corrupted his mind. And he listed the names of everyone involved—Madame Hughes was not on that list."

"He could be lying," Charles said.

"They used a truth potion on him."

"He could have found a way around it. You're the one who taught me that."

Lillian rolled her eyes. "Of course he could. But we can't sit around in fear for the rest of our lives. These children need a chance. We can't adopt them all."

The doorbell suddenly rang. Charles narrowed his eyebrows, not sure if he was ready to face company, but Lillian stood up and smoothed her skirt down, suddenly all business. "That should be her."

"Who?" Charles asked, but Lillian didn't answer. Instead, she went to the door, opened it, and Charles saw a familiar woman standing out on the threshold.

"Good morning, Miss Bisset," Madame Levy greeted brightly. "I'm here to pick up Elijah."

"Come in," Lillian said.

"Oh, that's all right, I don't have a lot of time—"

"Have a seat," Lillian insisted, and this time, Charles could hear in her voice that she was not taking no for an answer.

Madame Levy seemed to realize this too, for after a brief moment of hesitation, she stepped into the parlor and took a seat in an armchair.

Lillian sat opposite from her, staring her down with hard dark eyes. "Now, Madame Levy, I understand the authorities had you drink a truth potion, and you were not involved with the Monroe scandal?"

She shook her head firmly. "No. I had no clue what Thomas was up to. And it's been keeping me up at night, thinking about what happened to Emma and Theodore..."

"And how have you changed things at the orphanage? To prevent this from happening again?"

Madame Levy blinked. She clearly hadn't expected to be interrogated this morning. "Well, we screen all our potential parents—"

"You did that before—you told Charles and I that when we met with you at the orphanage. And it clearly didn't work."

"Well, we're going to change—"

"And what about the entrance to the underground network of tunnels on your property? Will you allow the authorities to block off the entrance?"

"We haven't discussed that—"

"Are you planning to follow up on all the adoptions to ensure the children are being treated properly once they find new homes?"

"Miss Bisset," Madame Levy said, looking a bit exasperated, "we're trying our best. But it's only been a week since we found out about everything, we're severely short staffed, and to be honest the press as of late has not helped our cause. And we're still trying to adjust to the news and..." She looked as if she was about to cry.

Lillian chewed the inside of her cheek. Charles could tell she was angry and had a lot more to say. He tried to place his hand on hers, but the gesture was awkward due to the layers and layers of gauze.

Finally, Lillian sighed. "Well, I guess that leaves me no choice but to help you."

Madame Levy looked shocked. "What—"

"You will hire me for my work," Lillian said pointedly. "I know you have the money—if Monroe paid you enough to get new windows, you can pay me for my time. I will screen every single potential parent alongside you, and I will arrange follow-up visits to see how they are doing, and I will make sure that what happened before will never happen again. You understand?"

Madame Levy could only stare at her with an open jaw, but eventually the older woman nodded.

Lillian smiled suddenly. It could have been considered sweet had someone not heard everything she had said. "Wonderful. Now that we've settled that, I'll go get Elijah."

As Lillian went upstairs, Madame Levy locked eyes with Charles. She looked a bit frightened.

Charles could only chuckle.