An Uncommon Witness Ch 6

[mangaka-chan.livejournal.com]

It's been months since I've updated, but here's the sixth chapter of my 1920's AU fic. Hope you guys will enjoy it! ^_^

 

Chapter 6

A series of precisely spaced knocks interrupted Fakir's otherwise peaceful morning. Lethargically, Fakir went to the door and undid the deadbolt.

"My name is Autor Brahms, I'm—" the bespectacled young man at the door began, but with scarcely a glance at him Fakir was already closing the door.

"Whatever it is you're selling, I'm not interested."

Autor was taken aback for a second before he found his voice and spoke indignantly, "I am a journalist! Not a traveling salesman!"

Fakir's hand paused, peering at him from behind the half-opened door. "So?"

With a clear look of displeasure at Fakir's dismissive attitude, Autor composed himself and said, "I am here to talk to you about an important matter."

"And just how important is this for it to be worth my Sunday morning?"

At the question, Autor smiled. "I am here to talk to you about Domenico Corvo."

Fakir looked hard at Autor, measuring the newsman with his sharp green eyes before finally stepping aside and allowed him in. Once inside Fakir wordlessly gestured for him to sit down by the small dining room table. Autor removed his hat, and undid his scarf and gloves before placing them, along with his brief case, on the plain table. Fakir grabbed a chair across from him and sat down, eyes still locked on this stranger. Noticing his gaze, Autor scoffed. "No water for your guest?"

"An uninvited guest is not a guest," Fakir answered pointedly.

Autor shrugged and reached for his brief case. "Very well." He undid the clasps of the case and took out a thick envelope. Fakir watched as Autor spread the contents out on the table. There were pages of newspaper clippings, notes, and photographs; all organized together with the meticulous organization of a professional clerk. "Don't you find it ironic?" the bespectacled man said conversationally, "The Volstead Act that was meant to rescue mankind from the corruption of alcohol gave rise to the organized criminal enterprises that now plagues this country and continues to contribute to the delinquency of its citizens?" Autor sifted through the top of the documents and laid out several sheets on the table.

"40 years ago a man named Domenico Corvo came to Bronx from his native Sicily. A very business-minded and brilliant man, when the old city of Bronx was annexed into New York City, Domenico saw an opportunity in the real estate business and carved out an empire for himself.* However, he also had another 'business' on the side." Autor took out a yellowed newspaper clipping with the bold headline: "Three Unidentified Bodies Found in Hudson".

"When Domenico came to New York he did not forget his connection to the old world. He employed some of his fellow countrymen as agents who would extort protection money from businesses operating in his new territory, and pretty soon he had a piece in every shady business on this side of the river. But his empire really took off at the start of Prohibition and he became involved in smuggling and operating speakeasies, and there are rumors he's also getting a cut of the illicit drug market. He lives a secluded life as one of the city's elite, appearing occasionally at ritzy social gatherings and performances, and is a well known patron of the arts. Even so, he still maintains an iron grip over his kingdom. Anyone who dares to cross him find himself buried six feet under—alive, sometimes—and his underlings are absolutely loyal to him, be it out of fear or admiration."

Autor looked up and the surprise in Fakir's eyes brought a satisfied smirk to Autor's face. "How—" Fakir paused, thought better of his question, then continued, "Why are you telling me all this?"

"As I told you, I am a journalist. I'm writing an exposé on Domenico Corvo. He's very clever, and gathering just the information I'm showing you now has taken me years of work. No one has any concrete proof that links Corvo to any of his deeds. But being a journalist rather than a member of law enforcement, certain information is off limits to me." Autor's confident demeanor faltered for a moment when he frowned. "I know the police are interested in him as well and that you people too are having a difficult time finding evidence to convict him with. This is only a fraction of the information I've gathered on him and I'm willing to share the rest if you—and the police—would be willing to share what you know with me."

Fakir was silently impressed with what he saw before him. Both the organization and breadth of Autor's collection was impressive, and from the newspaper clippings there were a few cases possibly connected to Corvo that the police had overlooked.

But like Autor himself had admitted, the envelope's contents were correlative at best, suggesting possible links but insubstantial enough that none of it would stand up in court. In Fakir's own investigation he had found a few interesting leads on the financial side of things, but that part of his work had been slow as a large portion of Domenico Corvo's assets were overseas and the police were still in the process of negotiating with the appropriate foreign agencies to gain access to the records.

Both Fakir and Autor must tread carefully however, as any false move on their part would alert the mob and their efforts would be in vain. Bringing their investigation to light before they've gathered sufficient evidence was akin to shooting oneself in the foot. More than that—it was suicidal.

This was both reckless and foolish, Fakir determined. If the mob caught wind of the exposé project Autor might find himself making the front page of his own newspaper one day. Better to have him put this idea out of his head before he got into trouble.

"Most of the information you have here is redundant," Fakir leaned back into his chair to appear uninterested. "It's true that we don't have a strong case against them right now, and it will take months—if not years—for the investigation to pan out and build a solid case against them. Publishing a story now with half-baked evidence will convince no one, and you'll only make a fool of yourself. You also do realize that by putting this story out there you are setting yourself up as an enemy of Domenico Corvo. I don't think I need to tell you how dangerous this man is from the collection you have amassed here," Fakir tapped the documents.

Autor's lips drew thin, then swallowing his pride, argued, "The investigation is on going. I understand that this will take time but don't you think we can speed up the process if we join our resources? Together we can bring this villain to justice a lot faster than either of us could alone!"

"Like I already said, your information is redundant." His patience wearing thin, Fakir's voice rose. "What use do we have for things we already know? It's better to content yourself with another story; there must be plenty of other sordid tales in this city for you to write about."

Autor flinched and his expression was as if he had been slapped. "I see...that's how it is, is it?" He scrapped his chair back sharply and stood with violet eyes burning. "The police want to keep the glory for themselves, and so they leave the rest of us in an ignorance far more frightening than darkness itself."

The journalist gathered his papers and with narrowly controlled anger, shoved them back into the envelope and gathered the rest of his belongings. Fakir did not bother to stand and open the door for him as Autor turned his back to the detective, slamming the door loudly on his way out.

As Autor stormed out into the hallway he nearly collided with a brunette haired woman. Hurriedly stepping out of his way, she raised one gloved hand to hail him. "Excuse me, but could you tell me—" But Autor walked on toward the stairs without so much as a glance back, and she looked down at the slip of yellow notebook paper in her hand.

Walking up to Duck's door, she knocked and when Duck appeared by her door seconds later the woman asked, "Excuse me, but I was wondering if you know where I could find Fakir Rameiras."

Autor paused at the top of the stairs and looked back at the woman and Duck, the edge of the stairwell shielding him from their sight as he listened. "I was told he lives at this address," the woman continued, "but I must've written down the wrong apartment number because I don't see a 524 here."

"Oh! Fakir lives right next door," Duck walked out to guide the woman to Fakir's door. "I think he's home right now because I thought I heard him earlier," she said and knocked.

Her knuckles have barely tapped the door before it swung open and Fakir barked, "What do you want now? Didn't I make it clear to you that—!"

Stunned and affronted by the unexpectedly tirade, Duck shouted back. "What's gotten you all worked up this morning? It seems like every time I talk to you you're always rude, or loud, or both!"

When Duck didn't hear a retort from her usually contentious neighbor, she noticed Fakir staring past her at the woman in the hallway.

"Hello Fakir, it's been a while."

Fakir looked away, one hand in his pocket while the other mussed with his hair. "Rachel, what are you doing here?"

The corners of Rachel's mouth curled playfully. "To see you of course, silly."

Fakir groaned and Duck heard him mutter, "The one day I get a break, the world comes to my door step."

Pushing the door open fully, Fakir tilted his head to the interior of his apartment. "Come in. You won't mind drinking coffee out of a cracked mug, would you?"

"A cracked mug?" Duck said, aghast. "You can't let a guest drink out of a cracked mug! Don't you have any other cups?"

"No, I don't, and the sole reason it's cracked to begin with is because a certain someone dashed off without telling me and made me chase after her when I was having my morning coffee!"

It took a few seconds for Duck to realize what Fakir was referring to and she lowered her head sheepishly. "I'll bring over some cups for you to use then, if you don't mind that is," Duck mumbled, with the last phrase directed at Rachel, who had been watching their exchange with a half concealed expression of surprise and amusement.

"Not at all. That's very kind of you, Miss..."

"Oh! My name is Duck."

To Duck's great relief Rachel's eyebrows didn't shoot up in bewilderment as others have, wondering if this was a pathetic joke or what could have inspired someone to name a girl after poultry. Nonetheless, Duck decided it was time to take her leave. After all, for this lady to speak so casually to Fakir they had to be close...maybe she was his girlfriend, and Duck felt awkward being the third wheel in their conversation.

"I'll bring them right now; give me just a moment!" She turned to go, but Rachel stopped her.

"Actually, I was wondering if you could join us, Duck."

Rachel's request surprised both Duck and Fakir, and Duck waved her hands about as a flush crept onto her cheeks. "Oh no! I-I don't want to intrude on your conversation!"

"On the contrary." Rachel smiled mysteriously, her amethyst eyes twinkling as she shifted her gaze from Duck to Fakir. "In fact I have something I would like to talk to both of you about."

As the group's conversation moved into Fakir's apartment, Autor's departure from his listening post went undetected.

---

Duck placed a cup of coffee before Rachel who nodded her thanks. Picking up her bone china cup, painted with intertwined peonies and rose buds, Rachel took a sip of the steaming hot liquid, hiding a smile behind her cup as she watched Fakir look down at the dainty porcelain dishware Duck placed in front of him with thinly masked chagrin. Evidently this wasn't what Fakir was expecting when Duck offered to bring drinking vessels.

Once Duck sat down with her own cup of coffee, Rachel said to the red haired girl, "How rude of me, I haven't introduced myself yet. I'm Rachel, Fakir's cousin."

Duck had to make an effort not to gape. She hadn't expected someone related to Fakir to be so affable, so polite, and the shop girl now noticed the gold band on Rachel's left ring finger which had previously been concealed by a glove. This revelation only made Duck blush at her previous assumption about their relationship. "Ah! I-I mean-! I didn't know Fakir you had family here in New York," she looked to her neighbor who merely huffed.

"You should've told us you moved; it would've saved my feet from a lot of walking yesterday," Rachel reprimanded gently.

"I have a lot of cases on my hands, and I forgot," Fakir sighed, "but what about yourself? I thought you were busy rehearsing for your new gig at the Met."

"That's exactly what I've come to see you about." Rachel placed her cup on its saucer. "The theater is producing The Bartered Bride this season and this will be my first role as the leading soprano. On opening night there's going to be a large reception party to celebrate the performance and cast member may bring their own guests to the reception. Hans, my husband, will be coming of course, but I was hoping you—and Duck— would come as well."

Duck's eyes widened. "Me too?"

Rachel nodded affirmatively, and Duck still could not quite believe herself. "You are Fakir's friend and I would be so glad if you could attend."

Duck opened her mouth to clarify, but before she could make out the first word Fakir interjected. "Rachel, I have a pile of cases on my desk and new ones coming in almost every other day. I really don't think I can make it. If you really want me to hear it I can tune in to the radio."

"Fakir," Rachel made a reproachful face, "that's not the same as listening to an opera in concert. And besides," her expression softened, "it's only one evening. I know you're not particularly partial to opera but this performance means a lot to me. Won't you indulge me this one time? Surly you can set aside one evening for this."

Fakir fidgeted uncomfortably and seeing him wavering, Rachel added, "Our sponsors and board members will be there and they've also invited the mayor and the police commissioner to the event. It might be good for you to meet some of these people. And I think—"

"Board members?" Fakir started. Wait a minute, his mind raced to something Autor had said earlier in the day. "...Appearing occasionally at ritzy social gatherings and performances, and is a well known patron of the arts."

He had nearly forgotten that Dominico Corvo was a member of the New York Metropolitan Opera's board of directors, a position the old man had achieved more for his infusion of money than any artistic sense he brought to the company. While Corvo was not an artist or a musician he had a thorough understanding of the prestige and connections that came with swimming within that circle. If this event was as Rachel suggested it to be and if there was to be a great deal of important people present, then just maybe...

When Fakir looked up sharply he announced, to the surprise of the others at the table, "Never mind what I said earlier; I'll ask the captain for a day off and we'll be there."

Before Duck could process the word "we" in his sentence, Fakir turned to her. "Do you have an evening gown?"

Duck just blinked at him, which was answer enough for the detective. He turned back to Rachel. "Do you think you could help her with getting a dress for the event? She'll be coming with me."

Duck's jaw dropped. Rachel was equally shocked by her cousin's sudden intent to participate in the event, but managed to say, "Oh. Well, yes, sure. But shouldn't you ask if Duck would be coming first?"

"Exactly! I didn't even say I was going yet!" Despite her outrage, Duck found her face turning fretfully from pink to scarlet. The idea of attending a beautiful opera was certainly enticing, but the thought of having to mingle with the rich and famous was too much for a simple shop girl like Duck. She had no idea how to act and what to say in front of these people and here Fakir was, ready to thrust her in their midst without so much as asking for her opinion.

Abruptly, Fakir grabbed her wrist and the tea pot-cum-coffee pot, and with a terse, "The coffee's getting cold. We'll make some more; wait here," to Rachel, disappeared into the small adjoining kitchen before his bewildered cousin could protest that the coffee was still warm, or why it would require two people to make the beverage.

Once Duck's foot was inside the small room, Fakir bumped the door close to keep their voices to themselves. But Duck did not care about what he was trying to do in the least. By now the red haired girl was absolutely furious and yanked her hand from his grip as soon as she set foot on the tiled floor.

"What are you doing! First you say you don't want to go, now you all of a sudden want to go and want drag me along with you!"

"Shhh!" Fakir whispered sharply. "She'll hear you!" Remembering Rachel's presence, Duck lowered her voice but she continued to glare daggers at Fakir, who ignored her glower and set the tea pot down before reaching for the kettle on the stove.

"What is this all about anyway? Why can't we say this in front of Rachel?"

Speaking over the sound of running water filling the kettle, Fakir explained, "Dominico Corvo is a member of the New York Metropolitan Opera's board of directors. If this performance is as Rachel says it is chances are he'll be coming to the opera and the party." He turned the faucet off and looked at Duck, "And that means it's possible that Principe will be there as well."

The anger fled Duck's voice, replaced by a quiver of uncertainty. "You mean you want me to identify him there? At the party?"

"It's a long shot," Fakir admitted. "But it's the only thing resembling a chance that we have right now."

Duck grimaced. She did want to go, not for the celebrities or the glitz and glamour, but for the performance; for a chance to see something beautiful and wonderful, something she would not be able to afford without this invitation.

Yet the edge of apprehension dogged her still despite her eagerness to take Rachel on her offer. Ever since the proposition of identifying the man they knew as Principe had been set before her, Duck had been torn by the thought of coming face to face with that person again. After all, he had supervised the murder of a man in cold blood, and yet...

Duck drew her hands to her chest. When she caught a glimpse of him at the parade her feet had chased after him, all for another look at the elusive eyes always hidden from her from the gloom of a dimly lit ally or behind the brim of a hat. Maybe that's why she couldn't get the thought of him out of her mind. The need to know whether this beautiful man, whose appearance was as princely as his name suggested, has the eyes of a man or a beast. It was the possibility of the latter that frightened Duck, and yet she still wanted to know. And this was her chance.

"I..."

Fakir turned to look at Duck, her hands playing nervously with a loose thread on her blouse.

"I'll go...I said I'll go, so I will!"

At the last word Duck's eyes shot up, startling Fakir. He had expected to cajole, goad, and bully her into going along with his plan. Instead she had surprised him with her assertive answer. He wanted to remind her of the potential dangers, how with one ill-phrased question she could expose her identity to Principe, to the mob, which Fakir was sure would have a presence at the event, albeit in the shadows. Of course, this was assuming they didn't know about her already. Maybe it would be better to call this off; a plan based on a hunch and good luck wasn't worth risking your star witness on. But the determination in Duck's voice told Fakir she had made up her mind, and if he had learned anything about this girl in the past weeks it was her tenacity.

There was something else too, something that had been bothering Fakir. The silhouette of a boy kept emerging from the depth of his memory and try as he might to dismiss the thought the unsettling feeling would not go away. More than identifying his suspect, a part of Fakir acknowledged that seeing the true face of Principe would put his mind at ease.

"Good," Fakir said over the whistling kettle which he took off the stove. "Make sure to wear something appropriate but low-key for the event. You need to keep your eyes open but others must see you without noticing you."

"Um, what do you mean by appropriate?" In Duck's mind opera conjured images of men in perfectly pressed suits, top hats and monocles, accompanied by women with fur boas and silk gowns. Somehow she couldn't envision herself walking around with a dead seal's pelt wrapped around her neck.

A cloud of steam rose up from the counter as Fakir went about the task of brewing the coffee. "An evening gown of some sort, but Rachel will help you with that."

"What about you?"

"I have a tailcoat from Rachel's wedding. It hasn't been worn in years and will need to be cleaned, but other than that there shouldn't be a problem on my end." He picked up the coffee laden tea pot and paused at the kitchen door.

Seeing Fakir with the floral teapot in hand almost made Duck laugh, but she choked it back when she saw the dead-serious look in his eyes. "Remember: she mustn't know about the real reason for our plans. The less people that get involved in this the better."

Duck gave a firm nod at his severe warning. She knew what Fakir was really trying to say was, I don't want her to get involved in this, and Duck could sympathize with his concern.

When the kitchen door opened and Duck returned with Fakir to the dining room, Rachel looked up from her hands on the table. She raised her brows but said with a smile, "You really didn't have to make more coffee; there was plenty left in the pot still."

Fakir cleared his throat and picked up the thread of their conversation and said, "Yes, well…as I was saying, do you know a friend who might be able to lend her a dress for the party or anything?" He tilted his head at Duck. "We talked about it, and she's decided to come."

Rachel giggled at Fakir's awkwardness. "So that's what you two were chatting about behind that door! Do you have anything particular in mind, Duck?"

"A-anything's fine!" Duck sat up sharply in her chair and stammered. "I mean, I've never been to a large party and truth to tell, I'm a little embarrassed being around so many important people and I'd prefer not to stand out in a crowd…"

"What a pity. Because I don't think you would look out of place at all, and you have such a nice figure." Duck blushed again at the compliment as Rachel considered the younger woman's request. "If it's something unobtrusive you want, in that case I think I might have something for you. It's an older dress that I have and the hemline will need to be adjusted, but it has a simple, elegant design and I think will look very flattering on you without making you stand out too much in a crowd, if that's what you're concerned about."

Relieved she wouldn't have to walk around with a dead animal's coat around her neck, Duck nodded. "Uh, yes, that would be great."

After further discussion, Duck agreed to meet Rachel to pick up the dress in a few days at the opera singer's home and a time was set for Fakir and Duck to be picked up for the performance. With the coffee in her cup truly cool by then, Rachel looked at her watch. "It's almost 12; I have to attend a dress rehearsal this afternoon so I'm afraid I have to go." Rising from her seat, Rachel smiled at Duck. "Thank you again Duck, for the coffee; it was a pleasure meeting you."

"Me too, I'm really glad to meet you as well," Duck replied sincerely.

At the door Rachel paused, reached out to clasped Fakir's arm, then leaned in and kissed his cheek. "I will see you at the concert, Fakir. Take care of yourself, mm?"

Fakir grunted and said, "I'll be fine."

Rachel shook her head and chuckled before bidding them good bye one last time and took her leave. Fakir and Duck watched from his doorway until Rachel's figure had disappeared down the stairwell.

"Rachel is a really nice person; I like her a lot." Duck said smiling to herself, and looked up at her neighbor.

Fakir gave a small snort, but by the upward tug on the corner of his lips, Duck thought he too agreed with her feelings on the teasing but kind opera singer.

---

"You're going?" Rue turned sharply from her seat on the settee. "What if a reporter takes your picture and that witness recognizes you from a newspaper? You'll be identified!"

Mytho gave a light shrug of his shoulders. Dressed in a dressing gown, he glanced back at Rue while his hand swirled the glass of elicit Scotch. "I want to make up for missing the party with you last time. I thought you'd happy if we went to the party with Father."

Rue was aghast by Mytho's nonchalance to his present jeopardy. When she learned that a witness was present during Mytho's last hit job the anxiety she had been keeping bottled up inside her had exploded like an uncorked Champagne. Trying to give her nervous hands something to do, Rue reach for a cigarette and went about the ritual of lighting it on her ivory cigarette holder. "You can make it up some other time," the young actress said in a tight but controlled voice, "but we'll skip the party at the Met. There are too many people there and the risk is too great."

With his back to her, Rue heard Mytho chuckle as he said, "Ah, so you intend to hide me in the dark then." He laughed again, this time it made Rue look up at him as the sound sent a quiver down her back. "But that's what you wanted to do from the beginning: lock me in the darkness with you."

"What are you talking about?" Rue demanded snappishly.

The ice in Mytho's glass chinked as he raised it to his eyes to study the amber liquid. "Back when I first found out about Father's line of business I wanted to leave, but you convinced me to stay. Do you remember that night?"

Of course she remembered, Rue thought to herself and took a short puff of her cigarette. Mytho started out doing innocuous tasks like counting the number of crates delivered to a warehouse or helping to unload packages. The Corvo family usually hired unemployed, uneducated young men for these tasks, but through his daughter Don Corvo picked up on Mytho's diligence and intelligence. After two years Mytho found himself promoted from being a porter to being a courier, accompanying the goods his employer dealt in and making sure they reached the right hands. It was around that time that the Volstead Act was passed and Rue's father decided to extend his business ventures. It was also at that time that Mytho finally learned what was inside the crates he had been shuttling.

That night Rue had found him at the door to her house, looking nervous and worried, not unlike how she felt now, she thought ironically. After ushering him to the sitting room and dismissing the maid for the day, Rue had sat down next to him and exclaimed, "Mytho what's wrong? You look like you saw a ghost!" she slipped her hand over his but he refused to look at her.

"Rue…when you asked me to work for your father, did you know what exactly his business involves?"

At this question Rue froze, but she trained herself to relax and put on an innocent expression. "Of course I do. Daddy imports fancy things, like silk carpets from Asia and glass from France. I've told you this before haven't I?"

Mytho shifted uneasily in his seat. "Bobby and I were unloading some crates from the dock today when one accidentally tipped over. One side of the crate split open and when we went to survey the damage we saw several broken bottles inside, the liquid inside them had leaked all over the floor. Bobby said it smelled like whisky, and although I couldn't tell if that's what it was, I could tell it was some sort of alcohol. Our overseer then found us and told us not to tell anyone about the contents, or else he'd—"

"Oh, it was just a little accident, no need to get worried about it." Rue interjected. She reached out to touch his hair. "I'll tell Daddy this wasn't your fault and make sure no one will ever yell at you again."

Mytho shook his head and pulled away from Rue's hand. "That's not the issue, Rue! Selling alcohol is illegal now. What we're doing is breaking the law!"

"Daddy has been importing spirits and wines for years now. He can't just tell his old customers that he's all up and done with them just because a bunch of old women made a fuss and the government passed some silly law*," the heiress replied coolly.

Mytho said nothing for a long moment but his expression was grim. At last, he said quietly, "I don't know, Rue. This whole business…it makes me feel uneasy. Maybe I should leave and go find work somewhere else."

"And where would you go? What would you do?"

"I…I'll look around. New York is a big city and there are plenty of places looking for people to hire. I might even try going back to the studio and start dancing again; I don't want those years to go to waste."

"But the whole reason why you came to work here was because you couldn't find work else where, remember?"

"I knew someone at the studio; maybe she could help me…"

Rue scooted closer to him and cupping his cheeks with her hands, gently but firmly forced him to look at her. "Mytho, do you really want to leave me?"

Surprised by her questions, Mytho shook his head. "No, I don't. But what your father's doing—even if it's out of deference to old customers—is still wrong. I just can't…"

"You have no place to go, you have nothing here in this city. If you leave you will leave everything you've gained behind."

Looking into his eyes she saw the apprehension there, from both her words and from what he had learned that day. Seizing that vulnerable feeling in her hands, she knew she could use it to turn him around. "If you stay here with me you won't have to worry about where to go, how many dollars you'll have in your pockets, or where your next hot meal will come from. This job may be rough now, but Daddy just wants to see what you are capable of so he'll be able to put you to a task you're really suited for, and before you know it all these concerns will be behind you, nothing more than memories."

She reached up and kissed Mytho and the sweet scent of her perfume wafted over him. Breaking the kiss, their faces inches from another, Rue whispered, "We can keep this a secret; no one has to know any of this. So stay with me and don't go anywhere."

Mytho was torn, but at last he gave a small nod.

Back then Rue had smiled, her triumph glowing on her face as she embraced him. Now years later she felt herself embraced by a pair of arms and startled her out of her recollection.

"You were right, Rue. At that time I had nothing. You were the only one I had and so I stayed in the darkness with you. But I don't intend to stay here forever."

Mytho's arms fell away from her, leaving an empty gap between them. "I won't let anything nor anyone hold me back, even if it's you, Rue."

"But I gave you everything that you have!" Rue stood up, her face a storm of horror, anger, and despair. "I gave you my love; my heart. Are you going to abandon me now?"

"I won't abandon you." Mytho picked up her hand and gently kissed the pale knuckles. "After all, the blood on my hands, too, was given to me by you."

The house was still; the only noise was the faint sluggish chug from a boat as it worked its way up the river. It was a fragile silence, and Rue was afraid that by breaking it her world too would break. But it had to be done. She had to know.

"Do you resent me for that?"

"No." Mytho planted a chaste kiss on her ashen cheek. "In fact I am grateful to you. Because it was here in the darkness that I found things I would never have found in the light."

---

A/N After five months of inactivity (due to the nasty juxtaposition of writer's block and a deluge of projects at work) I'm back! And yes, I know, yet another chapter where nothing really happens. But rest assure, more revelations await in the future. Now for some notes:

* The Bronx effectively became a borough of New York City in 1898. Previously it was a rural area but underwent modernization in the late 19th century and experienced a rapid growth in population in the first three decades of the 20th century.

* The Volstead Act (which defined the terms of the now repealed 18th Amendment) was passed in 1920. The Women's Christian Temperance Union was an important organization that promoted prohibition, and whose members were exclusively female in the early 20th century. Thus Rue's comment about "fussing old women".

I named Autor after the German composer, Johannes Brahms. Brahms is known for being a perfectionist and I can definitely see Autor as one too, seeing that he made an exact replica of Drosselmeyer's study in the anime. You might also be wondering why I'm using "Rachel" for Raetsel's name. Well, there is a reason for that, and if all goes according to plan I'll explain that in more detail in the next chapter. ;)

Many thanks to tomoyoichijouji  for proofreading!