The Duke was once named Charles, then Emmanuel, the Duke of Thornton, before he finally was known as the Duke of Camellias.

He waded through dark dreams, and clutched at his nightshirt, sweating, skin sticking together, and then gave loud shouts and screams before he finally sat up.

He came to see his room empty, no flowers in vases, lonesome figures in each canvas, and empty, gilded figurines, expensive stained glass lamps, and foreign decorative carpeting. Blair was no longer in his house. Of course, despite all his words and boasting, he was afraid of him.

He pulled off the covers, which felt heavy, and stared at a small vial by his night side.

For the first time in many, many years, he thought of visiting his dreaded childhood home in Thornton. He thought of his mother and Cynthia, still imprisoned there, one dubbed hysteric and the other an addict. It wasn't wrong, he thought bitterly, but couldn't find it in him to rejoice at the revenge.

Before Flemings woke him up or wiped him down, he dressed himself and then pulled on a coat lined with red satin and a silk hat. He would look the part of a Duke, even if he did not feel like one.

Downstairs, he heard chatter, and then saw the young footman, Ethan. There were two maids with him.

"Oh, good morning, your lordship!" all three stammered and then did something like a bow, only two of them knocked heads.

"Yes, good morning," he replied coldly. The three looked at each other before Alicia spoke.

"Mister Blair wouldn't be returning, would he?"

"No," he said. "Anyways, prepare a carriage for me. I'll be setting out." They have each even more blatantly awkward looks before Ethan rushed to get dressed properly and prepare the carriage.

Charles stood by the hall, swinging his walking-stick, and was suddenly struck with nostalgia at the thought of that night they went to the opera. Blair's eyes had been so bright, and he had enjoyed the ballet more than he could have anticipated.

Nevertheless, it had only been temporary. He shook the memory from his head, and stepped outside to wait in the cool spring breeze. When the carriage was readied, he told them the destination and then jumped on without waiting for help.

He was still nauseous, no, even more now, but despite the shaking and his dotted visions, he held on. It would be worth it, he thought, once he went to them and told them of the novel they've written.

When they arrived at the familiar house, hidden behind black gates with pointed bars, perfectly pruned rose bushes, and the fountains and statues lined with age as all marble sculptures did, he felt dizzy. The sight of it was enough to make his chest rise and fall and his knees weak, but he still stepped out of the carriage, Ethan steadying him.

"Are you fine, your lordship?"

"Yes." And yet he gripped on the boy's hand with immense strength, his gloves creasing, face paling. "Wait here, I shall not take long."

But he didn't know. Visits to the Thornton estate never quite went as expected.

He somehow managed to take the steps up the house, and then knocked. A new maid greeted him at the door, face lined with weariness, as did all maids in the house. It was not easy taking care of a fallen duchess and a sick girl.

"Tell Lady Lydia the Duke of Thornton is here," he said bitterly. "Emmanuel."

The maid brought him to the drawing room to wait, and within a few moments, the previous duchess of Thornton appeared, eyes wild.

Her wild dark hair was unbound and loose behind her as she dragged her foot to him, still in her day dress. Her neck was bare of necklaces, and held wrinkles. She looked so old and frail Charles could only wonder how she managed to walk to him without a cane.

"You—spawn of the devil," she said, voice hoarse, but eyes shining with hate and some sort of alighted fear. "Why have you returned?"

"I am the spawn of the devil. A devil that was once your husband," he replied, only he was smiling. His fingers wrapped around his walking stick and his would not show any sign of weakness.

"Tell me, why are you here!"

"I thought I ought to tell you, the novel has been written, mother." He flashed a smirk. "The novel story of our family. Of Emmanuel. Of you and your husband."

She paused. "The man, the editor, Morris Davis, came some months ago. He said he would not let it come to fruition—"

"And how will he stop me?" Charles stood up. "The novel is finished. My beloved writer has finished it for me."

"Beloved?" she snarled. "Who would be loved by you? You know nothing about love. You were never loved."

"Emmanuel loved me," he said. She raised her eyebrows, in the way that looked eerily similar to Emmanuel at times.

"He never loved you. He was The Ripper!"

"Shut your damn mouth." Charles could not find it in him to say anything beyond that. "Where is Cynthia?"

"Don't you utter her name!" She reached out in an effort to stop him. "You ruined her! I will not let you see her!"

"Don't touch me!"

She heaved and at the same time, Charles swatted her away. The older lady grabbed herself in time to slink back. Like a serpent, he thought to himself.

"Why?" she asked. "Why must you ruin us further? Have we not repented for our sins? Must you live with hate and anger forever?"

"Yes!" Charles leaned forward to her face, and thought of all the times she used to touch him, and haunted him, again and again.

"You're just like a woman," she would laugh. "What a pity you were born a man. You could've been a girl, and then you wouldn't have taken away Emmanuel's place as heir. If only you were a girl, I would've left you alone..."

"You're a monster. A Devil. I will never forget the things you did to me as a child. I only wished I could inflict more pain on this family before he died, and you turned into this miserable mess." And it was true: he wished for every words he said. Then he thought of Cynthia, and he laughed. "Cynthia, too."

"Leave her alone!" she howled, but Charles pushed past her and started up the stairs.

The maids huddled away from him in fear, and he saw how dark the house was, as it was in his memory, and there were cracks in the stairs, and certain places that creaked beneath his weight. His body had not forgotten the house, and with ease, he entered the hallway and ignoring his room and even Emmanuel's, he headed straight for the room he knew Cynthia would be in.

Without a knock, he opened it, and there laid the girl.

Her hair was yellow, and eyes blue, like his brother's. But they were wide, with both terror and hunger. She turned her head, like a mechanical doll, and stared at him. She reached out a hand, and then struggled to sit up.

Suddenly, Charles noticed a maid nursing her by the foot of the bed. She looked like a doe, staring at him in frozen shock.

"Get out," he said. "I need to talk with her."

The maids here were too docile and terrified to question anything, and obeyed without an utter.

Before long, Cynthia had pushed herself up weakly, and leaning on an elbow, looked at Charles.

"Brother?"

The despised word. It gave him shivers. Sent his blood cold. And yet, her eyes were still on him, and held no hate, unlike her mother's.

"Cindy," he said. He hadn't planned on saying it—it simply left his mouth. The pet name he always called her when acting. It sounded sincere, and he felt disgusted.

"You came back." She mustered a smile. "For me?"

He could not bring himself to say anything, nor could he walk closer. The girl's collarbone protruded from her nightgown, like two sharp daggers. Her wrists crooked at an unnatural angle, and her face, too, was thin, and so terribly green.

She still smiled, and then the tears fell.

"It's been lonely, brother. Here the camellias don't grow, and mother is always crying. You, Emmanuel, Gregory, and Jeremy have all left me. Father's in Heaven. It's all so terribly dull, so awfully sad." Her lips quivered, and then she tried to push herself up. She failed, and then tried again, and spoke as she struggled.

"I've repented for my sins, brother. I've prayed to God, again and again, for Emmanuel in Heaven. But it's not enough, is it?"

"You—?" Charles's hands twitched, but he did not know what to do. "You? For Emmanuel?"

"I'm so sorry," she continued to speak. "I was always laughing at you and him with Gregory and Jeremy. And I went to the opium den and got you in trouble. It was all my fault. They've wronged you."

Her face contorted, and tears fell without cease. She picked up a hand and wiped it away. Yet they continued.

"I'm so sorry, Charles. You must be even lonelier than I. You suffered so much. But believe me; I'm sorry. I want to be your friend. I want to—I want to atone! I love you, Charles! You are my brother, and Emmanuel, too. I never held hatred for you two. I never meant to hurt you so. I never knew Emmanuel was detained at the asylum. Trust me. Trust me!"

Then all at once, Charles thought of the lady of white roses, Eleanora, Blair, and then his hands were on Cynthia's, hat on the floor.

Her small hands were so much colder than his, and barely three-quarters the size. Since the opium, she hadn't grew. She had stayed so small and skinny, like an injured bird, bones brittle, eyes hollow. She sobbed and sobbed, body small.

Charles did not dare hug her, and could not bring himself to wipe her tears. All he could do was hold her hand as she cried. What a brother he was.

"I know," he said. "I know you were innocent—I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry, Cynthia!"

"Trust me, trust me!" she chanted, shaking with cries.

"I know, Cindy! Please, I know! I trust you! I believe you!"

"Trust me—" she whispered, and leaned her head against his. "Trust me, brother. I'm sorry."

The brother and sister sat there in the room, unable to say what they want, words stuck in their throat, only tears and murmurs of consolation coming out. The house had been his worst fear, Charles thought, but now he realized it wasn't. It was this, the realization of his mistake, and the understanding he would never be able to atone for it.

***

Back at his mansion, Charles shrugged off his coat and then brought up a cup of tea. He looked at the camellias in his vase he had picked for the first time. They were beautiful, and so soft, too. His sister had always loved camellias—and so did Emmanuel.

Everything is finished, he thought. His hands were still unsettled and unsteady, but he managed to tug open the glass cork of the vial, so much like the perfume that night. He swallowed, and then tipped the contents into the amber liquid in his cup.