Dearest Mother,

I am writing this to you in case something happens.

Part of me believes I am being naive, childish, gripped with irrational fear. Why would my life be in danger? What happened to Bryon may have been a fluke. A depraved, ungodly fluke, but a fluke nonetheless. There could have been some type of animal attack. James was the first one to propose a somewhat plausible theory.

"Trauma messes with young minds," he claimed. "Their memories may be confused. Once one convinced themselves that Angelica had done it- and, let's be honest, they aren't very friendly with her, so they may be inclined to blame the girl -the others would join in too."

We were sharing two glasses of wine after dinner, sitting out on the back porch. Once Bryon and Alfie would be sent away, the banker would arrive. Then this entire matter with the will would be decided. And, if James would not be inheriting the house, I would like to take advantage of the time I had with him.

"You're smart for a blacksmith," I had remarked. 

He'd chuckled, his smile reaching the corner of his eyes.

"My brother is a physician, and I almost was."

That is all he had to say on the matter. I tried to push him further, but he refused to talk further, and instead shifting to how lovely Anna is. 

I won't lie; His words did hurt. But that is not the focus of this letter. I am not quite sure that James is right about Angelica- But I desperately want to. Because despite it all, I am growing fonder and fonder of the girl. She is sweet and says the silliest things. If she was my age, I have no doubt that we would become good friends. 

All of my experiences with her are black and white. Sometimes, they are joyful, peaceful snippets of time. The warmth of the glowing sun on my back as Angelica plucks rogue flowers, handing me her bouquet with a smile wider than the crescent moon. But other moments are terrifying. Screams in the night, my blood frozen, even in my very core. Shadows dancing out of the corner of my eye while she sings in front of me. What scares me most is when the shadows appear. I barely see them, and I would assume they are mere figments of my imagination if not for Angelica's stare. She follows their movements, looking right over my shoulder. 

That doesn't happen often.

The screaming and crying are, on the other hand, becoming more and more frequent. Last night, she refused to eat her final meal for the first time. I served it to her with shaky hands, laying the silver down as quickly as possible. I turned, muttered something I don't remember, and swiftly moved towards the doorframe. Halfway there and I hear a crash. 

Angelica had thrown her food, plate and all, onto the floor.

"What's wrong. . .?" I had asked.

"Nothing," she said, looking up at me.

"Why did you throw your food? That is not how a young lady should act."

"Sorry."

I kneel down next to her, looking in her eyes. She was still emotionless, almost bored as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. I place a hand on my shoulder, picking up the platter and spilled greens with the other.

"Do you not want to eat your vegetables, Angel?"

"You won't believe me. Like with Bryon. You didn't believe me then."

The shaking I had been trying to conceal broke. I didn't want to believer her. It was then that I realized that Angelica did not comprehend how strange her words were. Of course, if there was some mysterious force, it would be as normal to her as birds or trees. 

I think that's what scares me most. As I cleaned up her food, keeping her in her room until I hear her knock, I can't stop myself from crying. Tears stream down my cheeks. The screams of terror, frozen rooms, and an armless Bryon; These were all normal to her. 

Things no man should see are normal, day-to-day operations for a six-year-old orphan, dealing with a variety of relatives clawing their way towards her fortune. I almost don't care if she was the one who hurt Bryon; I want to protect her. I feel it is important for you to understand this in case something happens to me. Please, make sure Angelica is taken care of if I am not able to.

She is an angel, my angel. It is not her fault that she is fallen.

Your son,

Percy Kenneth Brookwood.