The night connecting Saturday, October 8 to Sunday, October 9
Before the weight of night had fully settled, we had gathered in the high-ceilinged hall, its crystal chandelier catching the last traces of light. The polished black body of the piano reflected the flicker of candle flames, and Elora's slender fingers brushed gently over the keys. Laurence stood behind his sister, guiding her with the patient air of a seasoned instructor.
I sat in an armchair, my black leather-bound notebook open on my knee; my fingers drifted between the thin sketches, measurements, and brief notes scattered across the pages. In the seat right beside mine, Jasper had slightly turned his head toward the others, listening to the melody with a quiet smile. Every so often he glanced at me, waiting in that familiar habit of his reading even the smallest shift in my expression.
After a while Jasper finally voiced what he had been holding back. He leaned in, speaking in a near whisper.
"Are we going out tonight, brother?"
No choice but to lift my gaze from the notebook. I had been forced to postpone the spreading emptiness inside me for days; I hadn't been able to examine the corpse, would never see again in the morgue, and my siblings' meddling had delayed my own priorities. October had not begun well. The familiar darkness lingered beneath my eyes, but the certainty in my voice remained unchanged.
"Of course we are going," I said. "Whatever the work becomes, it must no longer be delayed."
A wrong note rang out on the piano. Elora immediately lifted her head, as though she was about to apologize to me, but Laurence gave his sister a gentle smile. He held her fingers steady above the keys and spoke in a soothing tone.
"It's alright, Elora. Let's try again."
Effect of the poisonous tea had faded quickly since he had taken only a single sip, yet it had made her more withdrawn; he no longer spoke to me unless necessary. I could endure that.
Elora took a deep breath, a faint mix of embarrassment and determination settling on her face. Laurence showed her the rhythm with a small nod. When the piano began to echo again, the stone walls of the house became a memory chamber absorbing my siblings' voices.
I leaned back, closed my notes. For a while I simply observed the elegant soundscape filling the hall. Darkness growing within me, even if only for a fleeting moment, chose to breathe behind the music.
Closed my eyes, following in my mind how the keys Elora and Laurence pressed carried their sound to the strings, and slowly, the notes blended with the clatter of wheels and the sound of hooves. I was no longer in that memory, before me, Laurence's head had drooped toward Jasper, dozing off. Jasper, meanwhile, was staring out the window with a distant look in his eyes, more than usual.
When we stepped down from the carriage and left the twins behind, the night wind blew the smell of rotten bread and dampness toward Cowgate. The lantern in Butler Sebastian's hand flickered lightly; he knew what I was doing was wrong, but his loyalty to the Ravencroft family was stronger, so he ignored it, at times, he even helped.
No one was on the streets; this part of the city turned into a living graveyard once night fell.
I took the thin tobacco stick from the pocket of my old coat. I struck my lighter and inhaled. Smoke dispersed into the freezing air as a silver streak.
"I'll walk alone for a bit," I said with cold clarity.
"Laurence, prepare the brush kits. Fifteen meters apart… follow me after five minutes."
They both nodded at the same time. Sebastian would remain with the carriage; he would direct the Ravencroft coachman depending on the situation.
I dropped the tobacco stick to the ground and crushed it under my boot, extinguishing it completely. I only smoked one on nights like this, just one. Exhaling smoke from my nose and mouth, I began to walk. My perpetually unruly hair stayed confined under my hat, casting a shadow across my forehead. My coat was long, heavy, coal-black.
Walked Edinburgh's stone streets with my hands in my pockets, steps steady. Was looking for my winner. Planned, calculated, always one person. Because at the top, there was room for only one seat. Tonight I was going to place someone in that seat. My ears warmed on their own. My heart began to fill before anything even started.
As I neared the entrance of Fleshmarket Close, a hand grabbed my wrist, interrupting my excited thoughts with its presence.
I turned my head unsurprised.
The man before me was out of breath.
"Mr. Ravencroft? I couldn't recognize you for a moment because of your hat."
After straightening himself a little, he added:
"What are you doing here at this hour? It's dangerous, isn't it?"
Smile on my face was so thin it scarcely counted as an expression. In that polite tone that belonged solely to me, I extended my hand.
"Someone would have to be a fool to pick a fight with me, don't you think, Mr. Wood?"
Alexander Wood gave a light laugh and looked around.
"Still… who can escape the Crow Father? Rich or poor; it makes no difference, or so I've heard."
Nickname Crow Father was on everyone's lips because of the bloody crow drawing left on the wall by Edinburgh's night killer—killers, perhaps. My gaze sharpened in the darkness.
"Rumors are the only time most people come close to the truth."
Without taking my eyes off Alexander Wood's face, I tilted my head slightly. In the foggy background of the street, the twins' shadows shifted.
"Aren't you afraid? You're out at this hour."
Wood shrugged. "Have you ever stayed in the same house with my wife? I'm sure the Crow Father is quieter."
Alexander was a man who did not hesitate to cheat on his wife. If he couldn't stand her, then why was he married? If he wished to have children from multiple women, I would have found that more reasonable; but Mr. Wood only cared for the act itself, its fleeting pleasure. Bloodlines mattered, and I preferred people to be selective. A gene should choose the fittest among all others, ensuring the right one bears offspring. His habits ran counter to everything I believed in unacceptable.
"Stayed."
Man frowned. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Ravencroft?"
I stepped closer to him; leaned in.
"I have stayed under the same roof with your wife, Mr. Wood. But you seem to prefer the company of the Crow Father. Odd, considering your wife never sounded as nagging or as cold to me as she apparently does to you."
His face tensed instantly, eyes widening. I found the shock on his features pleasing. His wife, Margaret Wood, on the other hand her facial symmetry, body proportions, practical and emotional intelligence, her frame suited for carrying children, she was ideal for lineage continuity. Except for her curly hair; despised those ringlets. I smiled lightly.
"Well, at least one of your wishes has come true."
At that exact moment Jasper appeared behind him. He pressed the dark cloth soaked in chloroform over Alexander's mouth and nose.
Man struggled to make a sound, but within seconds his consciousness slipped. His knees gave way.
Jasper seized him by the arm and took on his weight, and I took the other arm. We looked like we were carrying a drunk man.
Laurence approached immediately; from his pocket he produced a slender blood-drawing syringe, along with cotton and a small vial.
I signaled with my head, and Laurence rolled up Wood's sleeve, bringing it closer to the small flame of the candle Jasper held for better light. He inserted the needle into the vein, and the warm, dark blood began to fill the glass tube.
Spoke without looking at Laurence's face.
"L. The watchmen pass through here at fixed hours. You have fifteen minutes to paint the crow on the wall. Use them well."
Laurence detached himself from the syringe and straightened up. "All right," he said, taking the candle from Jasper's hand and walking back toward the entrance of the alley. He pulled out his brushes from his satchel, his footsteps nearly silent.
Jasper and I dragged the heavy man deeper into the streets. The darkness tightened; the night's breath grew harsher.
Once we reached a certain point, Jasper lowered the man gently to the ground and took a small candle from his pocket. With trembling fingers, he lit it and held it toward my face revealing a pale, emotionless, utterly focused expression. With his other hand, he kept checking the direction we came from; he was well used to the rhythm of the watchmen.
Alley fell completely silent.
Only faint crackle of the candle…
Soft sound of Laurence's brush spreading blood across the wall in distance…
And my steady breathing.
The night belonged to the Ravencrofts. To the Crow Father. To me.
I knelt over him, wearing double gloves and the old clothes that would be burned later today. My hands were cold and damp. My fingers slid to his throat they touched, sensed, felt the pulse beating beneath my ring and middle finger. My heart began to fill; the warmth gathered in my hands. His life was mine. Closed my eyes slowly and inhaled deeply as my hands tightened, little by little, pressing, constricting—tick, tick—the heartbeat fading beneath my fingers until it was no more. Chaos ebbed, the complexity dissolved.
Opened my eyes, breathless.
Looked at his face, he seemed as though he were merely asleep.
I rose off him sharply, then sat beside him. Three minutes I had spent taking his breath. Now came the time for my art.
Took the roll from my pocket, unfastened the cord, and opened it. I peeled away Alexander's clothes stitch by stitch, revealing the stillness of his cooling chest, he would no longer feel cold; I was glad for him.
From the velvet-lined roll, I took out my scalpel and drew a thin line across his chest so precise it barely bled.
I wouldn't touch any organ; cutting deeper would only make a mess. I worked clean.
Over the cut, I sewed a perfect stitch with my black silk thread and curved needle.
Wounds of the dead don't close. I had given him a wound he could never close and then I had sewn it shut.
Cleaned his chest with an old cloth from my pocket, soaked with vinegar. I buttoned his shirt again, straightened his collar, smoothed his hair.
"You look beautiful, Alexander."
Rolled up my tools and smiled at him a real smile, a part of the true me that the living would never see.
It was Sunday. I prayed to God for him.
"God loves you, Alexander. You are with Him now. Don't be sad, I'll take good care of your wife, my friend. Rest in peace."
For the last time, straightened Alexander Wood's legs. Into one palm I placed an ink-black feather, into the other a small cogwheel, then folded both hands over the stitched cut on his chest. He lay there as one should in the realm of the dead, proper, composed, almost ceremonial.
From my pocket, I took a small vial containing the mixture of herbs Elora loved and sprinkled it over him.
"My God, if you exist, I know you're watching from up there.
And I know you won't take me into your heaven, don't worry, I never desired it.
My heaven is here, in the things you created. Amen."
When I rose to my feet, I heard hurried steps behind me. I slid my hands into my coat pockets.
"Brother, Laurence is done. He's heading back to the carriage."
It was Jasper. The dim light of the tiny candle he carried cast his thin shadow over the cobblestones. In that faint glow, even Wood's corpse looked elegant.
"I'm finished as well. Let's go."
We walked back toward the carriage. On the way, we stopped briefly, climbed in, and then rode off toward the manor. Inside, none of us spoke.
My arms were folded, my legs crossed, and I watched the night passing outside the window with a contemplative stare. The hollow inside me had been filled, yes but only for a moment.
I was a broken vase, and the water I poured into my cracked side kept leaking out. Perhaps I should repair it… If only knew how, maybe I would attempt it.
My expression faltered. Feeling of life in my palms had lasted three minutes, three precious minutes. If only there was a way to keep it longer.
I didn't notice my gaze drifting to my own hands until Laurence's voice startled me.
"Brother, are you alright?"
He had never asked after a job before. In truth, he almost never asked how I felt. Jasper must have been just as surprised, because he was discreetly watching my reaction.
"Sad, I suppose," I said."It bothers me when the feeling in my hands fades."
"Maybe what you're looking for is warm skin," he said with insolent ease.
Jasper nudged him, trying to shut him up but I wanted to hear more.
"What do you mean?"
"Have you ever considered seeing someone? What you're searching for might be… love."
Jasper cut him off at once, shouting, "Laurence!" His voice cracked through the carriage like a whip. He turned to me, visibly angered.
"Forgive him, brother. He didn't mean to intrude in your affairs."
It took me a moment to understand, he was protecting his twin.
I let my shoulders fall in tired resignation and turned back to the window.
"Don't shout at your brother, Jasper. He can be… fragile."
My voice shifted to Laurence without warning.
"There is no such thing as love, Laurence. You read too many poetry books. It's nothing but a fiction made to support reproduction an animal impulse dressed up in sweetness. Still, thank you for thinking of me. I will consider your concern."
A hush had settled over Sunday morning so completely that the whole of Edinburgh seemed to have drawn a breath and forgotten to release it.
Bells of St. Giles had not yet begun to ring, yet people drifted along High Street beneath black umbrellas, flowing toward the church in a somber current.
That day was more than a Sunday.
Alexander Wood was dead.
Half-drawn curtains hung in many homes, Edinburgh's quiet way of mourning.
In some quarters, women whispered on doorsteps; men folded up their collars and avoided conversation.
For death especially on a Sunday was a loss God Himself watched in silence.
A municipal cart had been sent in the early hours of dawn; the black-painted, sun-faded coffin was carried in without ceremony.
Wilted white roses and purple ribbons adorned its sides purple ribbons symbolized the dignity of death.
Jasper and Laurence stood at the edge of the city, shoulder to shoulder, watching the passersby.
That the rain had not yet begun was a small miracle.
"There's a lot of talk in the streets," Jasper said, hiding his tension in the pocket of his coat.
"They say Alexander Wood's heart stopped, but… no one seems to wear the expression of someone who believes a heart simply stopped."
Laurence tilted his head slightly.
"Why don't we have details about the death of someone so important? Do the constables know nothing, or are they pretending?"
I enjoyed it, how they spoke as though last night had never touched us, as though it had all been the design of some invisible hand.
Just then, Elora stepped down from the carriage. At the sharp toll of the bell slicing through the quiet, she shuddered.
The bell rang three times signaling the death of one of the city's prominent figures.
As the funeral cart passed through the narrow street, the crowd drew aside and bowed their heads in silence.
Even the horses' hooves struck the ground in a rhythm heavier, sadder than usual.
And then… the whispers.
"Did they call a doctor?"
"They did, but he couldn't arrive in time."
"Who knows what happened…"
"Perhaps God took his life on a Sunday."
And then a woman's voicethin, trembling with unease:
"They say… his face didn't look peaceful at all."
Heard them. All of them. They were speaking of my work my art. Closed my eyes. Their voices dissolved into my depth like meaningless ripples;
and yet, for a fleeting moment, the corner of my lips stirred with the faintest trace of satisfaction.
The bells tolled again. Edinburgh was ready to place its loss into a box and hand it to God. A crowd had gathered at the doors of St. Giles; black coats and dark umbrellas swayed like trembling shadows in the fog.
A white cloth had been laid before the coffin; silver cross upon it caught the pale morning light in a dull gleam. Murmuring crowd sighed and shuffled forward in solemn procession.
Alexander's wife, Margaret Wood, held a laced handkerchief in her trembling fingers.
It was soaked through so much so that she seemed to hold onto it for support rather than for wiping her tears. A sorrowful beauty, and she looked as though she might collapse without an arm to steady her.
Stood at the edge of the crowd, observing everything with quiet composure.
Jasper and Laurence flanked me; Elora hovered just behind my shoulder, her posture tense and uneasy.
Then through the sea of mourners, Miss Jane Florence Euphemia MacLeod appeared.
Dressed in a form-fitting black gown, with a sheer mourning veil casting her pale face into a softer, melancholy grace.
Every step of her shoes on the gravel sent a faint tap echoing against the church's stone walls.
I stepped forward to greet her.
We shook hands her gloved fingers were slim, and her grip assured.
"Miss MacLeod." I inclined my head.
"Black suits you remarkably well."
"Thank you, Mr. Ravencroft. I only wear black to funerals."
"Then perhaps Edinburgh needs more murders."
Jasper immediately cleared his throat, shrugged his shoulder, and turned his face away. He was trying so hard not to laugh that his eyes watered.
Laurence raised his eyebrows, wearing an expression somewhere between surprise and warning.
"I didn't know you would take my words so quickly into account, Brother."
Elora, on the other hand, was staring at me with her mouth open; unable to decide what to say, she only whispered:
"Brother… what kind of compliment is that… we're at a funeral…"
As for me, I didn't say a word. I simply adjusted the cuff of my coat. There wasn't the slightest hint of regret on my face.
The inside of the church was dim; the gray light entering through the narrow windows seemed to freeze on the stone walls. Crowd sitting on the wooden pews waited in a low hum, hesitant even to breathe. In the front row, Alexander Wood's wife clutched her handkerchief, her trembling fingers tightening around it; water-like rings from her tears marked the cloth. The woman struggled even to breathe at times, her chest shaking with each inhale. I must say, she was a good actress.
I quietly took the only empty seat I noticed in the back rows next to Miss Jane MacLeod. Her black dress, with its veil-like fabric cascading from her shoulders, drew the attention of anyone who turned their head. Yes, it was worn for mourning, but it carried an aesthetic darkness on her.
Miss MacLeod leaned slightly toward me and whispered,
"They say there's a flawless stitch mark on his chest."
My head moved just a little; I was surprised, but not really.
"Do they truly say it's flawless? Who says that?"
A faint curve formed on the woman's lips. She turned her gaze to mine; her eyes darker than even her black dress, calm as if looking at a corpse.
"I do."
She paused for a moment, her voice dropping even lower.
"I say it, Mr. Ravencroft. A flawless threadwork for a flawless incision. I was able to look closely at Mr. Wood's body. They had dressed him, but I could see the black threads through the thin shirt. I think I saw it in the morgue as well; I know my threads."
Her words ended.
Every emotion on my face dissolved into emptiness, neither denial nor acceptance nor panic; only a wordless hesitation. I clasped my hands on my knees. I didn't know why, but I could feel my heartbeat quickening.
Jane MacLeod rose from her seat with a silence that felt satisfied, as if she had been waiting for my reaction. She gathered the tulle of her skirt delicately and moved between the pews, taking a different seat, leaving me alone inside my thoughts.
Jasper was watching me from a few rows back; his eyes were asking, "Did something happen?" Laurence, unlike Jasper, was looking with suspicion, and Elora was whispering about the woman who had been looking at me from beneath her black hat.
When the priest began to speak at the front of the church, I fell silent. The howl of the wind outside circled around the church walls, and it felt as though Alexander Wood's spirit was wandering within these walls, trying to tell something.
Now I was thinking of only one thing:
Did Miss Jane MacLeod know that I was the Crow Father? She made me feel as though she knew far too much about me. Was that truly the case? From what I could gather from her reactions, she was trying to intimidate me.
But only one person could win this race, and I would make her regret choosing to stand against me.