Darwin's fingers clenched the doorknob. He'd bolted it the instant he entered.
Thus, if someone were to try to open the door, they would surely suspect that someone was inside.
Darwin paused, warily counting three silent beats in his mind; a small ritual to steady his senses.
Suddenly, the brass doorknob quivered under his hand, attesting to his dread.
He eased himself back, sliding soundlessly across the creaking floorboards.
Once he mastered the steadiness of his breath, Darwin's pulse resumed its deliberate cadence as he swiftly charted an escape.
'Hiding merely grants time…time that springs a trap,' he reasoned.
He could not tarry.
His eyes flicked to the only egress: a narrow window.
Four floors above the cobbles, it opened onto a slender ventilation shaft bereft of a fire escape.
Outside, the brickwork was pierced by a skeletal lattice of drainpipes, shutter hinges, and clothes‑line hooks.
Two floors below, the butcher's workshop resided near a copper awning that had been blackened by coal soot and littered with pigeon feathers.
Darwin whispered to himself, "That shall serve as a precarious foothold at best."
The doorknob trembled again, metal rasping against metal.
Darwin's hand moved of its own accord. He eased open a drawer and slipped his fingers in.
Moments later, he withdrew a slender brass opener, long since forgotten amid the clutter.
Crossing the room with broad, measured strides, he drew his coat across the candle's flame.
There was a very subtle hiss as the light surrendered to fabric.
The brass handle pressed into his palm, cool and resolute.
Individuals of intellect did not lean on force; they anticipated broken locks and resistant shutters.
Behind him, the doorknob rattled violently, the key grinding within the lock's teeth.
Darwin shut his eyes for a heartbeat, savouring a shard of relief.
At the window, his hand pressed against swollen wood, sopping from the rain.
It fought against his patience until he coaxed it upward.
The sash groaned in relinquishment.
Without pause, he slipped through the narrow opening.
Outside, soot-laden air clawed at his lungs; cold stone radiated from the shaft as his boots met the ledger‑thin ledge.
Before him, a fog-damp wall rose blankly into the black.
The door shuddered inward behind him.
Darwin did not glance back.
He crouched, probing the drainpipe he'd memorised, testing its age with cautious fingers, and detected the brittle rust as well as brick-anchored bolts.
Then he sucked in a breath and pulled his leg from the windows ledge.
As he clung tightly to the pipe, two floors fell beneath him in swift sequence.
He heard a series of oddly measured footsteps rustling closer to the window as his hands grew warmer from the friction.
Darwin clenched his jaw. 'They're not as frantic as one might expect.' Curiosity warred with caution, but there was no time for introspection.
His boot struck the butcher's copper awning with a heavy thud and slid off in a fluid arc.
Darwind crouched low to steady his footing before springing the final six feet into the alley, landing among coal dust and cabbage leaves.
He remained prone behind a barrel, eyes fixed on the window above.
A slender figure passed behind lace curtains. Candlelight danced upon the sill, as if flames had been rekindled.
Darwin pressed the letters tight to his chest, his collar rising against the draft.
He held his gaze a beat longer than prudence permitted. Then, he wrapped his coat firmly around the precious documents and fled into the shadows.
. . .
That night, Darwin lay awake on his back in a rigid bed, the room pressing with a silence that was too profound, yet inescapably loud.
His coat and hat hung by the stove.
On the table beneath the window lay the brooch, sealed atop a stack of loosely tied letters.
The gas lamp by the window flickered as drafts seeped through the hallway crack.
Darwin had collapsed into the flat without even unfastening his waistcoat, still clutching at his breath.
Earlier, amid peeling lilac walls and sunken furniture, he'd felt dislocated.
Now, in the familiarity of his own room, that feeling had inverted into unease.
His gaze drifted upward to the uneven plaster ceiling, pausing at a stain in the far corner, unchanged since February.
A neighbour often stomped overhead, but tonight the boards remained silent.
Still, it was just past one-thirty on Monday morning—small wonder the house slept.
Yet exhaustion from the day's ordeal denied him refuge.
He closed his eyes and pictured the intruder who had entered the flat.
"They showed no interest in the window… merely walked in…"
'They could hardly have missed me. I left in haste; the candle's wick was surely still smoldering, my exit hardly quiet, and the window was wide enough to admit a body.'
He opened his eyes again.
'Perhaps my speculations are… unfounded. Maybe they expected my departure, had no desire for confrontation after all, there were no valuables to take.'
Darwin rubbed his temples in frustration.
'Ugh… It's no longer important. I wasn't seen, and no one can predict intentions. I was fortunate, that's all.'
Despite his inward protest, a new possibility that hadn't escaped him until now settled: "What if the other girl in the portrait was the one who entered her flat?"
Darwin sat up slowly, as though his mind had already turned the corner some time ago, and his body was merely catching up.
His fingers pressed lightly against the mattress while his eyes fixed on the stack of letters beneath it.
The letter he had read lay separated on a shelf.
'Why set it apart, if they bear the same address?'
He chastised himself; he should have asked the question earlier. But Sylvie's death had swallowed it whole, as a sponge might gulp spilled ink.
Leaning over, he placed the brooch aside, scooped the letters from the table, untied their twine, and spread them out across his bed.
Forty, perhaps more, he estimated with a precise eye.
As he sorted through them, a pattern re-emerged: the letter he'd examined was from a doctor, and addressed solely to Sylvie, not a guardian, nor to the mysterious third occupant of the portrait.
"Yet all bear the same signature…" Darwin murmured, scanning each front and back, noting only discrepancies in dates.
A flurry expected one cannot dispatch dozens of letters in a single day, but another detail caught him off guard.
He recalled the letter's content: "Llwellyn March was admitted into the ward in early spring of 1876."
"It's now February 1877…so she remained for nearly a year before escaping."
His gaze shifted to the end of the pile, where older correspondence awaited.
"…Then why are letters arriving from France dated three years ago, around the same season…?"
Questions multiplied, urging him onward. Without hesitation, he began to skim their contents.
Darwin had intended to deliver the letters to the constabulary untouched, wary of anything seeming contrived.
Yet the more he examined them, the more he was drawn into their contents.
He exhaled slowly and reached for the envelope at the very end of the stack.
"They've already been opened, anyway."
The envelope was thick and off‑white, its edges faintly yellowed.
A watermark, increasingly faint, lay concealed beneath. Darwin turned it over in his hand, his thumb brushing the broken red‑wax seal.
Two fingers slipped beneath, and he drew out the letter.
The paper released with a soft, cloth‑like whisper as he unfolded it, fingers lingering at each crease.
. . .
'The Medical Asylum of Saint Audric's Heath
East Wintrime, the 1st of November, 1873
To Miss Sylvie March
Rue d'Aubépine No. 17
Fontainebleau, France
Dear Miss March,
Permit me to introduce myself formally as the attending physician responsible for the care of your esteemed mother, Madame Ida March, who was admitted into our facility on the 27th of October of this year, following her referral by Dr. Fournier of Le Havre.
As this is our first correspondence, I write to assure you that Madame March was received safely into our care and is presently under careful observation within our Quiet Wing.
Her condition upon arrival was one of considerable disquietude, further marked by confusion of speech, mild catatonia in the early hours, and a pronounced mistrust of both staff and surroundings. However, no immediate physical ailments of concern were identified, and she has since permitted limited verbal exchange, particularly in the early evenings, when she appears most lucid.
It is not uncommon, particularly in patients of her age and disposition, for the first fortnight of residence to be marked by a temporary exacerbation of symptoms. I would therefore advise against premature alarm should you hear report of agitation or silence during this initial period. Madame March has been afforded all dignity, and we have taken special care to preserve those items of personal significance she brought with her, including the velvet-covered journal and brooch.
Letters may be addressed to my office and will be given to her at an appropriate time.
Please do be mindful that references to past events may require a delicate hand.
I need not elaborate on this point; your mother has, on several occasions, referred to you by name with evident fondness, though at times she appears to conflate timelines or transpose memories with fictional occurrences. We are observing this pattern closely.
I will, of course, write to you again should any significant change arise in her condition, or should she express particular requests. If you would like to be kept apprised with more frequency, I would be pleased to accommodate a monthly update upon receipt of your reply.
With my respectful regards,
Dr. Noé Cendreuil
Senior Attending Physician
Saint Audric's Heath'
. . .
When Darwin reached the bottom of the page, his gaze froze on Dr Cendreuil's last line, though the ink had begun to blur.
Yet the date had been typed crisply in black ink: 1 November 1873. That was a full three years before the correspondence about Llewellyn.
His hand hovered mid‑air before he brought it slowly to his lips and lowered the letter onto the creased sheet.
'So it hadn't been only the brother.'
The realization inevitably fell into place.
Darwin reached into the bundle, sifting swiftly through the envelopes penned in the same hand until one halted his motion.
Its corner was dog‑eared, the ink smudged by damp fingers gripping too tightly. The date, however, was clear: 3 February 1875.
He drew it toward him, sliding his thumb beneath the brittle lip.
A strained breath escaped through his nose.
. . .
'The Medical Asylum of Saint Audric's Heath
East Wintrime, the 3rd of February, 1875
To Miss Sylvie March
Rue d'Aubépine No. 17
Fontainebleau, France
Dear Miss March,
I write to inform you that your sister, Miss Eveline March, was admitted into our care on the 27th of January. Her transfer was made with urgency following a period of escalating disturbances, the details of which I presume were made known to you before her arrival.
At present, Miss March's physical condition is stable. However, her mental state displays a persistent and deeply disordered fixation on identity.
Most notably, she expresses an unrelenting desire to inhabit your likeness entirely, by name, manner, and outward appearance.
This compulsion appears to extend beyond conscious imitation and into something more insidious. She will not respond to her own name, and instead insists she has always been you.
We have taken the precaution of restricting her access to reflective surfaces, as they provoke intense episodes of dissociation and self-injury.
At present, her eyes are kept loosely veiled during waking hours, as she has repeatedly attempted to claw at her own face when allowed to observe it unimpeded.
Though these restraints may appear severe, they have markedly reduced the frequency of what we can only describe as hallucinatory corrections, wherein she seems to "revise" her features by force, believing something has been done to her image in malice.
Should you wish to provide any personal recollections that may assist in her treatment, I would ask that you refrain from discussing childhood memories or familial resemblance directly.
I remain, as ever,
Dr. Noé Cendreuil
Senior Attending Physician
Saint Audric's Heath'
. . .
Darwin remained motionless for several seconds as emotion coiled tighter within him.
'Eveline March,' The more he integrated the similarities to his own terminated draft, the more engrossed he found himself with the "March's" peculiar affairs.
Eveline, alongside Sylvie's revealed that the March family's misfortunes ran deeper than a solitary accident.
A prickle crawled along his skin as he silently tallied each instance of Eveline's name on the page.
His fingers tightened around the letter.
'The notion that Eveline had profound troubles with her reflection and identity… It almost feels like a jest staged at my expense.'
He scoffed softly, lifting himself upright. Elbows perched on his thighs, fingers pushed back his hair, and his forehead rested in his hand.
He turned to the window. The glass was darkened, reflecting a figure that he didn't immediately recognize as his own.
'In that old tale, Sylvie's sister killed out of splintering obsession, staging it as suicide to project her desire to harm herself onto another.'
But if Eveline and Sylvie's existence and the entire setup were orchestrated to mirror his own creation, then Darwin's internal question emerged:
'Who read my draft?'
His jaw clenched.
'Even if all this is coincidence, there's a niggling ache aside from the fact most of Sylvie March's family ended up in the same asylum.'
He released his forehead and reached for the brooch. Fingers curled around its frame; he lifted it before himself, inspecting every tiny detail.
A nuance from "Ida's" letter flickered across his mind.
'Receiving this brooch could be as random as Gabriel's claim of seeing me one day at work. Yet it's so specific… If they intended me to see the portrait, why not mail it alone…?'
Darwin's forehead creased. 'Though Eveline's letter omitted any detail of the brooch in her mother's effects, it did remark on it.'
He let the letter slip from his fingers and onto the bed.
'Between Gabriel's offer and this strange twist of events," he murmured, his voice taut with unease, "How could her brooch have returned from France and landed in the hands of a stranger that is utterly unconnected to her lineage?'
The room felt smaller with every passing moment, as doubt welled in abundance through his veins.
With a half-curse, he swung himself from the bed and stalked across the floorboards.
He paused at the window, raising the sash just enough for a draught to slip through.
Below, the street lay deserted, as London ought to be at such an hour.
After a moment, Darwin drew back, surveying his chambers.
His shirt was draped across the chair back, papers strewn in chaotic order across the desk, his boots mottled with earth, and abandoned beside the stove.
These were the remnants of a man confined mid-thought.
When the chill had suffused the room, he closed the window and drifted toward the stove.
Its flames were reduced to a pallid blue beneath the grate.
Only then did he notice: the brooch was still clasped between his fingers.
He providentially turned it over.
The click that followed made him still alert to every nuance.
He pondered for a long time, 'This brooch is fashioned for a woman, not a man. It's ornate filigree looks more like a centrepiece destined for a lady's gown, perhaps the matron of a grand household.'
He paused, gaze fixated on the piece, as if seeking within its design the next clue to resolve the mystery.
'I can't claim to know Gabriel well, we only met last night, but it strikes me as unlikely he'd have any leisure for romance. He must slave to carve out every spare hour. And his work… he hinted it's clandestine. Even contact with kin would be perilous."
A tremor of suspicion passed through Darwin, pulling a fresh thread in his thoughts:
"Where on earth did he obtain something like this? Although unlikely isn't impossible… Could this gift have been an invitation? Or a discreet threat?"
He snapped the brooch shut and leaned toward the stove.
Lamentably, it wasn't London's murky fog that trapped him tonight… it was his own rumination, a stubborn pattern his mind circled back to, as though another observer had plotted the same course first.
Perhaps most disquieting: there had been no further direct entreaty from Gabriel. No letters, nor inquiries.
Hence, the choice remained entirely Darwin's.
And that impassivity, more compelling than words, is what kept him tethered in his modest flat.
Across the room, the wooden clock ticked twenty minutes past one on a Monday morning.
He recalled that it had been in Gabriel's message to meet at eleven on Sunday.
Now… Sunday had come and gone.
The man had likely vanished already with whatever secret obligations held him in its grip.
Impersonation was the heart of the assignment.
Up to now, Darwin had seen only through Gabriel's eyes.
"But if I invert the lens," he murmured in a deep voice, "then I do not merely don Gabriel's identity, I gamble with the risk of faltering as myself."
In that admission lay the truth: to become Gabriel flawlessly was one thing; to confront his own shortcomings was quite another.
Wearing another's face masked Darwin's flaws, but facing himself would lay them bare, and that, he realized, cleaved far deeper.
From a tangle of seemingly irrelevant clues, one unsettling truth evolved: his path had not been guided by any puppeteer, but by a compulsion within himself that he had long battled to suppress.
Darwin clenched his jaw until the pressure pressed the brooch's pattern into his palm.
He pried open his fist and stared down at the relic.
"If he stays in town…perhaps then I can inquire how he acquired this."
He allowed a slow breath to steady him.
Then, he lifted his coat from the warmth of the parlor stove and slung it across his arm.
"If I flag one of the first hansom cabs tonight," he reminded himself firmly, "I'll return before dawn."