((The city I am going to describe – or the two places in it that I will offer in detail – is very real and one I have seen. These particular places even. Now the thing is, this is the very beginning of the 20th century. I have no idea if the first place was publically accessible at that time and I know for a fact that the second place, the park, to be precise, did not exist for half a century after this story. I don't even know if the city already spanned that far or if it was still only on the other shore of its river.

Because of this lack of historical accuracy, I will not give the city's name or any information about the country other than what is in those two descriptions. Should you, despite that, want to guess, please do. I'll let you know if you were right.))

1. Guttering

An agonised groan awoke him. His mind, sluggish and hazy, was assaulted by the smell of blood and a silence so complete it was oppressive. He swallowed drily and remained as he was, on his back on the hard … floor? That thought jerked him to consciousness. He sat abruptly and another groan escaped him when pain shot through his body, his chest, his face. He realised then that the first sound that had roused him must have been his own.

Thomas took a few steadying breaths and looked down on himself. Two dark red stains were on his clothing, and when he brought a shaking hand to his cheek he found it swollen and sticky with drying blood. His mouth was dry, his limbs felt weak and … where in the world was Lucille? Where was Edith?

For a couple of minutes, trying to remember was all he could do. He managed, somewhat. Lucille had attacked him. Of course she had. She had wanted him for herself, hadn't been able to bear the thought that he loved someone else. And he did. Oh, how he did.

And Edith … was that a memory? How could it be? He saw flashes of a fight to the death, saw Lucille, what sanity had remained in her chased away by grief and jealousy. He remembered Lucille looking at him, but he couldn't speak to her. He remembered watching her die by Edith's hand and feeling both sorrow and a wild, harsh satisfaction. He remembered … he remembered Edith, this wonderful woman, approaching him, her hand on his cheek but also not there, not there enough for him to feel it. And now he was here.

Had he been dead? No. It didn't work like that and Thomas's feet were too firmly on the ground to believe that something had brought him back from something so final. Unless even hell preferred to spit him back out. He'd probably been very close. Considering his injuries, he still was.

Edith would be gone. Lucille definitely was. And Thomas needed to make a choice.

What he wanted to do was finish the job for Lucille. It would be the most painless, cleanest solution. Edith would be a widow, free to live and love and forget him. But he knew this wasn't what he was going to do. He was too selfish for something like that. He would try to survive this. If he was to die, it was just as well, but he didn't need to speed it.

What Thomas needed to do was get down to the kitchen. It held liquor, and while he didn't drink it, it was the best disinfectant they had.

The first challenge was standing. The two injuries in his chest soaked fresh blood to his shirt as he moved. It looked like a lot, but blood always looked like more than it was. Lucille must have missed his heart very narrowly indeed, considering where the wound was. He wasn't sure if he should consider himself lucky.

On the way, Thomas ditched his shirt. He poured clear liquor over his cheek, his chest, used a relatively clean cloth to cleanse the wound. He only stopped when he thought the pain would make him pass out again.

Before he could decide what he was to do next, Thomas heard a sound. Voices. He held his breath and listened. Not Edith. Not even Alan McMichael. Maybe they'd help him. A hiss jerked him up from his chair, and he cried out in pain. Before him, black as death, stood Lucille.

And just like that, Thomas was calm. He had lost his mind. 'Can't you leave me alone? At least now?'

'They will hang you!' Her voice was strange, distorted, but unmistakeably hers. 'Hide. Hide!'

And Thomas hid. As fast as he could, he dragged himself back upstairs. The house had secrets that villagers looking for his body were unlikely to uncover. So he crawled like a rat out of sight and collapsed. He awoke with a fever, his only company the ghost of the woman who had – he understood that now – owned him and refused to share.

Suddenly, irrationally, he remembered the waltz with Edith, the candle they'd held and that somehow hadn't gone out. Now he was the candle and his flame was guttering in the forces pulling at him.

He still wouldn't kill himself, no. He'd keep himself alive. He couldn't keep food but he drank water. After a couple of days, the villagers stopped searching for him. Lucille had wanted to kill him. She kept near him even now, just to taunt him, proving that any excuse he made for her was nothing more than another lie. He would not do her the favour to reunite himself with her. So he would live, if only out of spite, and he would die away from her and this place, damning her to an eternity of loneliness, roaming the fields when the house had sunken into the clay for all he cared.