The sleet lasted for several days.

Leah would sit at the window each day and look out onto the grey streets. She watched the sleet lash the windows, and the people daring to step outside dash through the weather. The cold seeped in through every crack. Winter had arrived, and it was not holding back.

Every night, Leah would retire to be early, crawling under the blankets that had been warmed with a bedpan. She would listen to the sound of the wind as it rattled the windows and wait for her father to return from work. Despite the weather, he had continued to stay late and often Leah would already be asleep by the time he walked through the door.

She had scarcely fallen asleep on the fourth day when she heard the front door swing open. Her eyes snapped open, surprised by the sudden loud noise which had become a rare commodity in their house.

Silence had always been the loudest sound.

For a few moments, Leah remained curled up in her blankets. Outside, the storm continued to rage. Leah kicked the blanket off, goosebumps forming on her arms as the cold air hit her skin. She stood up and grabbed her robe, which had been draped over the chair under the window by Emma. To fight the darkness, she lit the small candle she often kept on her dresser.

Her footsteps were silent against the wooden floorboard as she stepped out into the hallway. Mrs Manston's bedroom door remained closed and undisturbed. Downstairs, she could hear voices; her father and Eric, his servant.

"Perhaps we should get you to bed, sir. It's late and you need to get out of these wet clothes before you catch your death," Eric said.

"Lighten up a little, Eric." Mr Manston slurred his words. "You are no fun."

Leah took a few tentative steps forward. From the upstairs landing, she could smell the stale scent of alcohol and sweat. Mr Manston had spent his evening at the local public house despite the ongoing threat and the raging storm.

Mr Manston looked up the stairs to where Leah stood. He stumbled, grappling for Eric to keep himself steady. His hair was plastered to his forehead with rain water and his cheeks were flushed from the alcohol. "My sweet! How lovely you look this evening."

"You're drunk," she said.

"Drunk and content with life, my dear."

Leah walked down the stairs, her hand resting on the bannister and her fingers shaking a little. She had never felt so angry. Her father should have known better. He should have known better than to go out in the middle of a storm, known better than to return home drunk, and known not to walk the streets in the middle of the night.

He was supposed to be an adult.

"How could you be so stupid?" Leah said, her voice hushed so as to not disturb her mother. "Someone is out there killing people and you have the audacity to stumble home drunk as though none of it will affect you. No one can say for certain who or when this murderer might strike and this is how you choose to behave?"

"It is a celebration! Alcohol is a requirement."

She shook her head and turned to Eric. "See to it that he is put to bed, and quietly. Mother has already been disturbed by his noise and her headaches have returned.

"Yes, Miss Manston."

Eric removed Mr Manston's jacket, slipping it off his shoulders and hanging it up by the door. Water pooled on the floor under the jacket and ran down Mr Manston's hair, but he didn't care. He pouted like a child who had just been scolded, as if Leah had ruined his fun.

Leah climbed the stairs to the upstairs landing and waited, drawing her robe tighter over her chest to protect herself from the cold air that seeped out of the walls. Her candle flickered, offering a small glow of light against the darkness that had lingered for the past few days.

With the help of Eric, Mr Manston stumbled up the stairs. He walked into the wall and the bannister, giggling to himself as he slipped on the water running off his body. Leah shook her head, disappointed in him for acting so recklessly and stupidly. This wasn't like him.

At the top of the stairs, Leah held out the candle so Eric could see. She led them down the hall to Mr Manston's bedroom, where his fireplace had been burning for several hours. Mr Manston collapsed backwards on the bed, laughing to himself.

"You people are no fun," he said.

"And you need to grow up," Leah said.

Mr Manston glanced down at his shirt, pulling on the fabric. "Aw, I spilled something on my shirt."

Leah took a step forward and held the candle closer to her father's chest. Dark red spots covered his shirt. They were splattered across his chest as if he had been standing close to liquid hitting the floor rather than spilling something down himself. It didn't look like alcohol.

She turned to Eric. "See to it that he is put to bed immediately and make sure his shirt is cleaned properly."

"Yes, Miss Manston."

"After that, you can leave him to it. If he wants to act like a child, then he can roll around in his own vomit and suffer the consequences."

Leah left the candle on her father's dresser and stalked from the room, emerging into the darkness of the hallway. She didn't feel an ounce of regret for the way she had spoken to her father; he deserved it. Ever since she was a child, he had warned her to be careful in public and in front of the servants, as they would judge what they saw, not who the person was.

He should have had more sense to stumble around in such a state, especially given the current situation unfolding across the city. How could he have been so stupid? If the killer had chosen him to be a target that evening, it would have been his own fault.

Leah had always looked up to her father, but she felt those years of respect fading away after what he had done.

She shook her head and returned to her bedroom, fighting to quell the anger building inside her.

~~~

First Published - February 7th, 2023