Blair looked over at him, again and again, eyes searching, only he did not know what he was searching for.

The clock ticked and the room was deadly still.

"Who—who are you?"

Emmanuel—no, the man who was not Emmanuel—gave a small, crooked smile. There was a pain in his expression, a strangeness in the way his eyes crinkled, and suddenly Blair was aware of how old, how tired the man looked. How desperate he looked.

"Imagine what their reputation would be if they allowed the very son that ruined Cynthia, Gregory, and Jeremy, and killed his father, be the next Duke."

Blair looked at him, without moving.

"You're—"

"Yes." He looked down. "I'm Charles."

"You're—you're the real son of the Duke and Duchess."

"No, I am Charles Jesse Waterhouse, now Emmanuel, Duke of Thornton. I am Emmanuel's older adopted brother. I was his replacement, his half-brother, the one who went to France."

"Then you didn't ruin your siblings!" Blair was guilty, but he felt relieved. "You were never assaulted, nor did you ever—"

"No, that was true."

Blair paused, unable to process it.

"I was his replacement, and yet he died, therefore I was heir. Do you want to know why I go by Emmanuel?"

Blair didn't reply. But it didn't matter, because Charles continued.

"You see, the story I've been telling you is slightly wrong. I am Charles, the bastard son of the Duke and Duchess of Thornton, but was the older one. I was not 'The Ripper'. Growing up, Emmanuel, my younger brother, was named 'The Ripper'.

"He was the one locked up, and I was the one assaulted by the duchess. He was popular in his academy, and I was the one bullied in mine. That part was not a lie. Yes, I was nicknamed 'Charlotte the Harlot'. That was my real name."

"That's not your name." Blair felt sick. He had never felt so strange, so painful, so much like he wanted to run away, and yet he couldn't. "Stop it."

"I will not. You will listen to my story, whether or not you will write it. You promised, didn't you, that you wouldn't leave me?" He laughed, closing his eyes. "What a lie. I know you will, like everyone else. I don't believe you, and I never will, for you are just like everyone else. I see it in your eyes. That fear, that disgust."

"I'm not scared, nor am I disgusted. You never chose any of that."

"I have always given people what they desired. I've always done want people wanted, to avoid being locked up, to avoid the pain. I was not strong, like Emmanuel."

"That's not your choice. You were forced, you were—"

"No!"

Emmanuel opened his eyes again, and they were blazing. His lips were turned down, and his hair fell about like a mane.

He had never seen Emmanuel so angry.

"I'm an accursed child! Emmanuel was the strong one. I could only ever use my body. I could only ever run away from the pain, from everything!

"I slept with the headmaster, and Emmanuel was the one who protected me. Yet in the end when the news of what happened traveled he was kept out of jail, but not so he could live! He was thrown into an asylum so he was hidden from the public, and I could take on his name! It was so the family name wouldn't be stained! You see, in the end, a heir who attacked the headmaster was still better than a sodomite!"

Blair sobbed, and bent down, his face in his heads. He didn't want to hear any more. And yet he was trapped, just like a butterfly in a spider's web.

No, he wasn't trapped. He stayed of his own choice. He knew he could not leave Emmanuel—no, Charles.

Not now, when he was so red in the face, and also crying as he spoke.

"My father, the Duke, still planned on having me take over the dukedom, but he couldn't let a sodomite take over. Yet my dear brother, Emmanuel the Ripper, was disliked by everyone. He had more incidents than the one with the headmaster, he had beaten up boys in his school and other sons of prominent figures. The duchess was always angered and punished him, but not once did his fire fade. Not until that happened.

"Then I heard my only friend; the brother who never cared I was the bastard son who would replace him, the very person who ruined his life, and murdered him, had died. I knew what I must do.

"You see, Cynthia, Gregory, and Jeremy had been terrible to me, but now that he was gone, and I was indefinitely heir, I befriended them. It was easy, for they knew once I was the head of the house, they needed my power, therefore they stopped bullying me.

"And then I destroyed them, one by one. And then I committed a sin so grave it was not redeemable. Do you know what I did?"

"I heard," Blair whispered. "I heard about it, from Morris Davis."

"Your editor. So you heard." Charles gave a crooked smile. "Say it."

"No, it doesn't matter anymore."

"Say it!"

Blair shook his head, hoping he could deny it.

"Say it. I know. You know. We all know, so that's the matter?"

"I won't believe it."

"It's true. Say it."

He had admitted to it, and this time, Blair could no longer lie to himself. He parted his chapped lips, and the words came out cracked and hoarse.

"You killed your father."

"Yes," Charles said. "I slipped the poison into his wine. Only they said Charles did it. Which I suppose was true, because I am Charles. Only later did I became Emmanuel."

"I don't understand," Blair whispered. "How did you change your name to Emmanuel?"

"You finally asked. Very well, I shall tell you." Charles stepped closer until his face was in his. He faced down and their faces were inches apart. Blair wanted to run, but the Duke's eyes locked his, only now they held no warmth. They were unsympathetic and cruel.

"When Emmanuel died, they never reported the death, and I was sent to France. I lived there for a few years, as matters in England settled down and I was forgotten, and then when I returned, I was Emmanuel, no longer Charles. For all of England knew he was still in France, and died in France."

Blair blinked, eyes so tired. So tired of crying. "You've hurt your siblings, and killed your father."

"Yes."

"You're truly heartless."

"Heartless?" Charles face twitched. "Me? Heartless? Not my father, not the siblings who despised Emmanuel and I?"

"They didn't deserve what happened. Not Cynthia."

"You don't know anything—"

"She's still bedridden!" Blair screamed. He lunged forward, and clutched Charles's shirt. "Have you ever seen her? Morris has, and even now she can't return to the way she was. She's sick, she can't get up and has nightmares every night!"

"So do I!" Charles gripped Blair's hands and tried to pry him off, but then he stopped. Blair was crying, and he wasn't sure who it was for.

"You're pitiful, Charles, don't you see what you've become? How would Emmanuel feel to see you like this?"

Then Charles stopped. He had tried to run away from it for a long time.

"I, too, didn't want to do such things." The tears fell from his eyes and he fell to his knees. "You don't understand. I didn't want to. But I had made Emmanuel go through all of it. All that suffering. Lost his spot as heir and forced to be replaced by me, for someone so weak. I had to avenge him."

"It wasn't Cynthia, Gregory, or Jeremy who did it! They were children, too. Cynthia was only fourteen." Blair let loose his fists. Charles stepped back, stretching out an arm to stop Blair from coming closer.

"That didn't matter! She never liked Emmanuel. She never liked us. She is not my sister."

"She is!" Blair shouted. Who was the man before him? He had thought Charles would be sorrowful, but here he was, so much like the demon he'd always compared him to. "She wasn't the one who killed Emmanuel, or cut the throat of your cat!"

"What can I do now?" he roared. Charles leaned down, back hunched, burying his face in his hands.

"Did you not think I've hesitated, too? Her eyes were so much like Emmanuel. So beautiful, so clear! And when I read your story, 'The Lady of White Roses', I thought of her. Why, why did I think of her, when I cast her to hell with my very own hands!"

"You know you've made a mistake. You know, don't you?"

"That's not true. When I went to the asylum where my mother was, they told her I was Emmanuel. Yet the moment she touched my face, she knew I wasn't him. She was the only one, in the whole world, who knew. And as the guards shouted that I was Emmanuel, she shook, and no one believed her. You see, no one in the world besides her, and my family, knew. The world accepted it so easily.

"But I was sad, too, for she said I wasn't her son. She could not recognize me. She could only tell me I wasn't Emmanuel, and that pained me so."

Blair went over, and he leaned on his knees, too, before the sobbing man.

"You are Charles. You are not Emmanuel."

"I know! And it haunts me! As much as I try and become him, I'll never be him! He's died, and he's forgotten by everyone!"

"It's time you stopped acting, Charles. You've long forgotten you're wearing a mask."

Blair bent down and held his face. Charles's face. Yes. Without the mask, he was much more human. The way his brow creased, tears flowed out of his eyes, and he sobbed, like an impending storm. He was a storm, taking him by rage, with so much buried feelings and secrets. He was such a sorry person. Drowned in a lifetime of tears. Buried in a sea of camellias.

"Leave me." Charles pulled away from Blair. "Once you published the story, I will leave."

"Leave?" Blair clutched his hands. "No, I will not. I said I wouldn't leave you."

"Don't you understand?" Charles slapped away his hands. "You irk me! You make me feel shaken! You make me feel—feel strange. I don't want it anymore. I hate it, I'm sick of having relationships that will never last. I've always wanted to be alone, so go!"

"I promised, I won't go!"

"Go!"

Charles stood up, and stepped back, all the while his eyes on Blair's, with raw hatred.

"You do not love me. You fear me, like everyone else. And you were right. Charles Jesse Waterhouse always gets his revenge." He turned away. "I will give you the according payment tomorrow morning, so pack your things."

Blair stood there, and he could not understand. He thought of those nights with Charles, when he felt as though there was something between them. But why?

Why did he never truly believe this man?

Did he always feel the insincerity in him?

Did he always feel as thought he was hiding something from him?

"If you want me to leave, then I will." Blair clenched his fists. "You've always made me feel confused, too. One moment you're flirting with Christopher in front of me to annoy me, and another you're using me to make him jealous."

The Duke froze, and he didn't face Blair. He couldn't.

Blair's teeth clattered as he spoke up again. "I've never felt like you loved me, or thought of me as a friend. Those times you looked at me it was always so fleeting, like you had already planned on leaving me. Like you never believed in me."

Charles didn't respond.

"If you have already planned on leaving me, then it's useless, no matter how much I promise. In the end, you'll always escape."

"There's nothing between us," Charles croaked out. Blair smiled, bitterly.

"If you so say, then it shall be. Goodbye, Duke."

With that, Blair turned and left the room.

***

...Both the musician and the storyteller left, and then the Prince was all alone once more.

Some say the Prince cried, alone in the castle, until he died—but no one could've known, for the Prince was always alone.

Forever, and ever.