Tears stuck to Paisley Rose's throat like a dagger stuck in a piece of meat.

But she did not dare to cry. No matter how hard did her heart pound against her ribs, or how sick she felt she did not dare to cry. It would have been a foolish task to do, for she was right in the den of the lion. And if Paisley was not wholly wrong, then she was standing on the lawn of her sister's murderer.

Nonetheless, those treacherous tears flowed out of her ebony shaded eyes and streamed down her swollen cheeks, like a boundless stream of melancholia. Felicity was nothing less than a child to Paisley. She had taken care of her for as long as she could remember. To find the very same Felicity's corpse lying at the doorstep, with her neck broken and those pretty green eyes glassy and gaping into oblivion was just too much to bear.

In the faint light of the moon, the pallidity of Paisley's face was jarringly evident. The underside of her eyes was red and swollen and so were her peach lips. The red freckles upon her cheekbones seemed to have lost colour and looked like little pink pinpricks. Her grey dress swayed with the winter winds, which also suppressed her sobs.

Paisley wiped away her tears with the back of her palm. She was grateful for the blanket of gloom that the night provided, letting her sob in peace without no one spying on her. Pulling the blue woollen shawl tightly around her shoulders, Paisley looked at the dark path ahead. She would have to bring justice to her sister.

Minutes bled away when at last the crunch of footsteps broke the silence of the deserted lawn. From the path in front of Paisley emerged the outline of a lanky man in dishevelled clothes and hair. He hurriedly made his way over to her, his countenance bearing a worried frown.

"Paisley!" He exclaimed, stopping in front of her. "Is it true? Do you really know--"

"Johansson, keep your voice down," Paisley raised her hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. "I do not want anyone to overhear us."

"You do not understand, Paisley," Johansson complained, the edges of his thin moustache quivering. His hazel eyes were bloodshot indicating his lack of sleep. "Mina has been missing for three days now and the officers are doing nothing at all. You would not believe how worried I am for her! I do not want anything to happen to her like what happened to Felicity." He said, his eyes welling up with tears.

Paisley gulped down the barrage of insults she was so close to pouring out on Johansson. He after all had no idea about what all was happening. Like all others in the town he knew that a freak accident had claimed Felicity's life. He did not know that she had been murdered and that the murder had been committed by his very own older brother.

"Wilhelmina is dead, Johansson." She said after a moment of silence, her face set like stone. "She has been killed, just like Felicity had been."

"What are you speaking of!" Johansson retorted. "Mina, my little sister, she can't be dead! And why would she be killed? She never had any enemies."

"Enemies need not be made. They are here around us always, hiding under masks of family and familiarity." Paisley answered. "I am certain that she is dead, murdered in cold blood."

"No, no. It can't be," Johansson shook his head. Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes at the very thought. His sister could not be dead, much less murdered and he was certain of that. "And if you are so sure of it, then who has killed her?" he questioned.

"Your brother, Jonathan."

"Paisley!" Johansson had enough. The veins in his hands throbbed ferociously with rage. He inched closer to Paisley, his angered breaths falling upon her face. "How dare you accuse him of such a heinous thing? How dare you!"

"Scream and yell all you want, Johansson, but that is not going to alter the truth," Paisley said, her nostrils flaring with resentment. "It is your brother. He has killed both Wilhelmina and my sister Felicity."

"But how do you know that it is he who has done it?" Johansson countered. "Why would he do that?"

"I do not know why he did it," Paisley replied. "But I know that it is he who has done it."

"What proof do you have against him?"

"I do have proof," Paisley replied. "I can show it to you too. You just have to come along with me."

***

In a room on the first floor of the château, the white glimmers of the moon entering through the gaps of a closed window danced with the darkness of that room, fusing and becoming one with it. It barely illuminated the outlines of an oval-shaped bed, a wardrobe, a mirror and a shelf full of books. An eyorish silence filled the place.

Seated upon that bed was Jonathan Andras, his back resting against the head post of the bed. Beside him was a little girl of barely seven years of age, an uncomfortable frown etched on her sleeping face. A soft quilt was laid over her and Jonathan constantly caressed the top of her head. He would stare at the girl at times, a look of intense despondency marring his chiselled triangular face.

His young motherless daughter. He was the only family that she ever had and he could not hate himself enough for all the mistakes he had made. How could he have forgotten about this little angel, the only solace in his forlorn life? Had he been a bit more careful, none of this would have happened.

A deep sigh escaped his lips. He did not really want to murder his sister or her friend, Felicity. No, he never had the intention. Had Felicity not overheard his conversation with them, he need not have gone through such troubles to close her mouth and that of his sister.

Again, it was his fault. He had never realised what he was doing till it was too late. Too indulged in grief he was overwhelmed with all his feelings. And if he went on to explain it to his household, they would have never understood. Johansson might not have retaliated given his nature, but Mina?

She had always been particular about the matters involved with her and her wellbeing. Had she known the truth before her death, she would have fought and would have given Jonathan a hundred lectures. But she would not have stopped there.

She would surely have gone to a solicitor, he was sure about that. And if she did that it would have caused much damage to both his name and that of the family. No, it was better that she was dead. It was way better for both her and him.

"Daddy?" A soft whisper broke his chain of thoughts. Jonathan turned around, only to find his daughter staring at him with wide, sleepless eyes.

"Go to sleep, Winona," he said to her, patting her on top of the head. "I am here with you."

"I can't sleep, Daddy," she pouted. "Aunt Mina would always tell me stories when I went to sleep. Where is she, daddy? I miss her." watery adoration swam in those pretty eyes.

Jonathan felt as if someone had staked him. That simple question of a child felt like an enormously heavy burden to him. How was he supposed that it was he who had killed Winona's aunt Mina with his own hands?

"She-She has not gone anywhere," he said instead, averting his eyes from his daughter's gaze. "She will be back. She will be back soon."

"How soon daddy?" tears almost fell out of the little girl's eyes. With her mother dead after her birth, her aunt had been the matron she needed so badly. "Why did she have to go away? She knows that I can't sleep without her."

"She will come back, I promise you, Winona," he replied, his voice quivering at the mention of the word promise. "I will bring her back."

"Really!" Winona's face lit up with false hope. "You will really bring her back, daddy?"

"Yes, I would do it, my little angel," he smiled at her widely, despite the muscles of his throat constricting themselves, choking him from within. "Now, go to sleep."

Smiling at her father for one last time, satisfied with the promise that her aunt would be back again, little Winona turned to the other side of the bed and closed her eyes.

Her mind reeled with the thoughts of all the stories her aunt would tell her, the warmth of her hand upon her head and the way her voice rang in her ears as she would sing her a lullaby. She was pleased with a fake promise, too young was she to comprehend the complexities and the darkness of the world.

And beside her, Jonathan put a hand upon his mouth, silent sobs racking his body. Intense pain clamped at his heart, threatening to tear him apart into pieces. Warm tears ran down his cheeks, warm like the blood of his sister which he had spilt. His daughter did not deserve this, she did not.

And deep down in his soul, he knew that neither did Mina deserve that horrible fate.