Author Note:Happy Valentine's Day, dears! This is my lame little gift. I promise a happy ending for this. It's all written, though, just editing. Apologies if that's inconvenient to anyone. But you'll see the whole story soon enough. This is NOT the A Scandal in Bohemia inspired story I promised in my tumblr. That's coming after I finish Fragments, if I have time.

As you will soon see, you don't get to see Alfred's confession. For Arthur's, go read Sonata in C Minor. Alfred's will come later. This comes eight months after Sonata in C Minor. And it is set three years after Snapshots of a Meeting. So it took these two a while to get together! Woah. Quality in this one might be particularly poor. I rushed as much as possible, and it is a 15k work.

Irene (Part 1 out of 3)

Now everybody asks me why I'm smiling out from ear to ear

(They say love hurts)

But I know

(It's gonna take the real work)

Nothing's perfect, but it's worth it after fighting through my tears

And finally you put me first

-Love On Top; Beyonce

There seemed to be a general sense of relief that blanketed all the Kirkland children when Elizabeth and John Kirkland died. Not a single tear was shed from the eyes of the three eldest children during the funeral, perhaps because they did not mourn their parents but their expectations.

Only the twins cried for their parents; the emotions a result of their youth. They were only seven, then, after all. It was the nature of their vulnerability to search for the warmth of a maternal touch. Brangwen provided it eagerly, albeit quietly, sitting in a chair as her hands soothed their red hairs, slicked back for the occasion. She watched with her yellow-green eyes from behind the veil of black lace as the few guests crowded closer to the coffins.

Arthur could remember the date well. He would try to delete it from his mind for years without success. But on that day, he could remember that it was raining, and cold, and as Arthur became lost in the pitter-patter of rain, Angus took his hand. It was warm, soft, much like being little again

Angus had dropped to his knees, then, almost pulling Arthur down with him. And he'd dabbed at his baby brothers' eyes with the handkerchief in his free hand, whispering all the while, "Oi, what's this, lads, why the tears? It is quite shameful lads. Neither Arthur nor I are crying, see?"

Arthur had blinked, suddenly aware of his dry eyes. But still he had turned to look at his baby brothers with a curt nod.

Alsainder, always the more outspoken one of the twins, whimpered his reply. He rubbed at his eyes with his fist as he tried to hide his face in Brangwen's skirts. "Arthur has to be dignified," he sobbed, fighting against Brangwen's attempts at rubbing circles on his back. "Arthur's going to b—be a B—Baron. And you're old. But we're little!"

Angus sighed, letting go of Arthur's hand to drape his arms around the quieter child, Antoine, "Yes, yes, you're little, indeed."

Alsainder turned from Brangwen's touch to seek out a hug, too. But Arthur seemed unwilling to move.

"We're little," he reminded his brother, pouting as he grabbed for Arthur's hand stubbornly. Arthur's eyes widened in surprise, and his lips curled in slight distaste. "You have to take care of us as the Baron!"

Arthur had always known his father hated him. Why else give him the title when Angus was so much more qualified? – Because Angus didn't want it, surely. And neither did Arthur. Still, here he was, stuck with a set of contemptible little brothers and a set of older siblings that would surely make their way into the world now free from the constraints of the Kirkland family curse. He flexed his fingers around the smaller hand now in his, and he looked towards Brangwen, who reached for his other hand and smiled.

"How undignified," someone gasped from around them. The soft buzz of murmurs followed, drowned out by the hush of rain. But Arthur could hear them: How undignified. She smiled. How undignified…

As if a smile could ever be insulting, especially one from Brangwen, though it most certainly chilled Arthur's spine, especially when she gently pulled the veil from her face and geared her gaze to the group of women, many whom, Arthur was sure, had sons, marriageable sons, the like someone of Brangwen's beauty and stature would have charmed. And as she pushed the veil back, she smiled—bright and sunshiny and pressed Arthur's hand.

Is that what a promise felt like?

Arthur blinked.

"Don't be scared," she reassured him, speaking to Arthur for the first time in years.

.

Angus meant "exceptional." It was a fitting name, what with Angus' mysterious position in the British Government.

Now, Alfred had always known Arthur had an older brother. It wasn't something easy to hide having a brother like Angus Kirkland. Not that Angus was particularly strange. He was just exceptional. But Alfred hadn't really known Arthur also had an older sister and a set of younger brothers.

He soon found out, though, thanks to his correspondence with Angus—correspondence that filled Arthur with a furious annoyance toward Alfred, which wasn't quite fair considering Alfred hadn't chosen to correspond with Angus. Angus, on the other hand, had carefully chosen to correspond with Alfred, mostly through messages and telegrams and cards during and after each case he partook in with Arthur. The outcome might have been the same, regardless. Arthur was always angry with Angus.

Sometimes the messages were helpful, even. More than once, Angus' government connections and constant surveillance had saved them from death. However, Alfred had never really had the opportunity to meet with Angus face to face, much less hear his voice.

But on that particular day, it seemed the moment had come, for Angus had not written in a while, and neither had Arthur had a case in a while.

After the incident, Alfred should have expected all of Arthur's family to be equally strange. He should have known from the moment Angus Kirkland, Arthur's overprotective eldest brother, kidnapped him in the middle of the afternoon as he was making a beeline for Baker Street from his new job at a nearby hospital. Yes, he should have known when he was dragged into a private cabbie and taken to an expensive, large home—at least larger than anything Alfred had seen in London—and ushered in by a beautiful maid that showed him into a study stuffed to the brim with shelves and books.

To be fair, Alfred would later have the gift of hindsight bias. Still, he should have known then that there was a reason why Arthur, with his nerves of steel, trembled at any mention of his family.

But on that particular evening, he had sat on a plush black chair, the smell of leather tickling at his nose as it met the aroma of mahogany and pine. He'd crossed his legs, waiting impatiently for the tea offered to him at the door. His eyes had scanned everything around him, and then stopped.

In front of him lied a strange device, much like the end of the modified speaking tubes he'd seen recently in the hospital offices. Slowly, he neared it, fingers splayed out for exploration.

Behind him, the pretty maid approached, setting a tray with tea and biscuits.

"Press it to your ear," she instructed, lifting the trumpet from its position on the desk. After, she hurriedly took her leave.

Alfred stared at the device, taking it slowly before pressing the trumpet to his ear.

"Ah, Doctor Jones, a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. Lord Angus Kirkland addresses you. Pray, press the button on the speaker to talk."

He'd jumped, throat dry. Then, followed the instructions enumerated to him

"Uh, Mr. Kirkland… I mean, Lord Kirkland."

"Angus will do, Doctor Jones. We have been in correspondence before. We are friends now, aren't we, Alfred? I may call you Alfred?"

"Y—yes, yes, of course. Alfred is fine."

"Wonderful." There was a curt silence. And then a posh voice roused Alfred from his thoughts. "Now, Alfred, it has come to my attention that your relationship to my brother has undergone some changes."

Alfred's breathe hitched.

"Do not fret. I'm quite glad to hear it, for it matches wonderfully with my needs and purposes." Angus' voice grew small in the static. And Alfred missed a few words. "Am I not incorrect to surmise that you care deeply for my brother?—and you would not want to see him come to any harm?"

"I do. Care for him, I mean," Alfred blinked, a small blush inking his cheeks. "I would wish it that Arthur always be safe. Even if it might need me to take a hit for him, I would do it. Without question."

"I am glad to hear it. And I am glad that it is a friend and someone as trustworthy as yourself to have chosen to be by my brother's side now most of all. However, I must come to a precarious point in the conversation now, for you see, Alfred, the family is concerned. We have noticed that despite your best efforts, Arthur continues to be, well, Arthur. And, as such, we are, well, deeply concerned. Surely you understand, then, why I'd like to ask for your help in helping me procure a meeting with my younger brother."

"A meeting? Can't you just... I mean, what can I do?"

"Oh, then you will help? Marvelous! Most wonderful."

"I mean, if it is for Arthur's benefit—"

"Yes, yes, absolutely. This is what's best for Arthur. You will find that he will be most ecstatic once he sees-well, yes, I am getting ahead of myself. But as I have now acquired your assistance-ship, and your reassurance, allow me to explain how we will proceed. All I need you to do is to get Arthur to accept my invitation to come to the family estate. He has not been with the family for a while. It will do all good, even our sister and younger brothers, to see him. The rest will fall to me. It is nothing too serious, but something that I've been meaning to chat with him about and found myself unable to with his constant ability to... evade me and my efforts. That's putting it nicely, isn't it?"

"I'd say." Alfred chuckled, pressing the bright brown button on the speaker before talking into the trumpet. "He's not very family oriented, is he?"

"Never has been, but that will have to change. I am counting on you to help with that, seeing how much you care for his emotional well-being."

"Yes, of course. Count on me for anything."

Alfred should have known—he really should have just known—that there was a reason why Arthur did not like his brother. But as Alfred did not have the gift of hindsight bias, he could not, did not know there would be any problems.

There were many things, after all, that Alfred did not know.

.

Alfred slammed the door closed with a bright smile. He lifted the newest letter for Arthur to see. But it seemed his flat mate was going through one of his typical moods.

"I see you've received another one," Arthur waved him off disinterestedly from his position on the divan. He turned his body towards the window, still keeping the violin tightly grasped under his chin. He plucked at the strings, breathing in the sound of music as it pilfered into his ear. "No, Alfred, I'm not curious as to what my brother could possibly have to say to you. I presume it involves requests for information and bribes in the form of obscure childhood stories of me, none of which you should believe."

"Oh? Well," Alfred smirked, throwing the letter seal-face up at Arthur's thighs. He bounced from foot to foot. "Maybe you will be curious what he has to say to you because this one is addressed in your name."

A string was plucked rather unkindly, letting out the sound of death. And Alfred cringed, though soon recovered when he saw Arthur's bewildered face.

"P—Pardon me…?" the detective asked, scrambling to sit straight. He scanned the area with his eyes. "Quick, Alfred, reach for your gun."

Alfred smiled, dropping into the sofa opposite his friend. "My gun is right here, Arthur. And, you're welcome."

"For what?—I have not thanked you," Arthur replied frantically, dropping his violin gently beside him before taking the letter into his shaking hands. "I have no intention of thanking you. Why ever should I thank you?"

"Oh come now, Arthur. I'm plenty aware from your brother that you and he seldom correspond. And that is when I said to myself: well, Alfred, why not simply encourage a bit more communication, and mentioned it'd do you good to hear from him. He was a bit reserved at first to do it, but I'm glad to see he came around—"

"You," Arthur blinked, almost breathing out the word like a threat. He gulped, eyes flickering between the letter and the man in front of him. "This is your fault. I should blame you, then!—for the misery that is about to befall me. Tell me, dearest, how would you prefer to die? I do have a brand new poison, recently arrived. I think it would do a most—"

"Wait, die? But why?"

"Because you have unleashed a monster on me! I—I thought you were keeping him entertained! What good is it to me that you correspond with my brother if not to pretend to spy on me in a way that would appease his insatiable hunger for making my life an utter misery? There is no other appropriate course of action, Al. You have failed me, horribly."

"Arthur, it's just a letter."

"There is no other appropriate course of action!" Arthur blanched, opening the note, "well, let's see the damage, shall we? – And, yes, worst than I thought. Tea. Tea time with Angus. At my childhood home. Oh, I do hope you are happy. This is just brilliant."

Alfred missed the sarcasm in Arthur's voice. "Oh, tea! That should prove exciting. I've been meaning to ask you when I could meet your brother. We've formed a most formidable of friendships through our letters and his telegrams. He also has the most adorable stories of you as a child."

"Friendship? Alfred, beautiful, beautiful and stupid, Alfred, you are the worst paid spy in Europe, dear—in exchange for key information on my person, you are being paid in stories. Stories! I could forgive you if at least there was a fee to split for my misery, but there is none."

"Oh, Cubbie, stop it," Alfred grinned.

Within seconds, Arthur lurched and had his hand wrapped tightly around Alfred's throat. His knees touched the American's strong thighs, feeling the muscles flex. "Let's get one thing straight, dear: Cub, ergo Cubbie, was an unfortunate childhood nickname Angus used to torture me, simply because he loved how my name meant bear. I dare you to repeat it and hope to live to see another morning."

"That's not how he explained it," Alfred breathed out once Arthur had released him. He massaged the imprints of fingers left on his skin. "Goodness! You're strong, Arthur! There was no need for violence. Besides, all older siblings have nicknames for their younger ones. I had an unfortunate nickname for Matthew as well."

"Tortured, Alfred, tortured. That's the only word I can use to describe my childhood," Arthur offered, pacing the room. "He must want something. It must be something serious; else he wouldn't bother to offer to come in person anywhere, not even that house. My brother, as you have witnessed, is absolutely brilliant, perhaps more so than myself, and still he is a lazy bastard, the like that would rather stay trapped in the confines of his bureaucratic bubble than stretch his legs in a chase."

"Arthur, don't you think you're being a tad bit paranoid? – He probably wants to see that you are well. I would be worried, too, if my little brother was half what you are."

"I should've known he'd grow tired of sleeping with Bonnefoy for information."

Alfred blinked, "wait, what?"

Arthur looked up from his position on the divan. He'd dropped much like a heavy sack, and presumed to rather dramatically pose with his palm stretched out on his forehead. He moaned unhappily. "Not even that could you deduce? – There is a reason why Bonnefoy is so fond of speaking of Angus. He is brilliant has multiple connotations."

"But I thought you said—but you said that Angus… he works for… he works for the government!"

"No, I did not say that."

"Yes, you did!"

"I said, and I repeat, my brother is the British Government, dear. Now kindly bugger off, will you? I have a need to think. There must be somewhere I can hide. Perhaps I could leave the country. Paris. Yes. I'm sure the continent would do me well; in the continent I might even find myself a willing—"

Alfred frowned, throwing a pillow at his flat mate, "you are most certainly not going anywhere near the continent!"

"I wouldn't have to if you'd not meddled, as you're wont to do, really."

"Not Paris, Arthur," Alfred warned, heading for the kitchen. "I mean it. France or Italy and I'll tattle on Angus. I've already told you that I loved you. Need you pressure me into more? – If I hear from Angus, and I am sure he'd tell me, that you've been in the continent gallivanting with other men, I'll maim you just enough to keep you bored and unhappy in 221B for the next quarter of a year."

"You wouldn't!" Arthur gaped, frowning. "I'd die of boredom!"

The reply was a loud bang, and the sound of broken glass, quickly followed by a shaking Arthur turning to point at the puncture window. He turned to give Alfred a quivering smile. Alfred pouted, looking every bit as upset as he felt while trying to ignore the way Arthur had stretched his arms out to him. Arthur called to him in for an embrace.

"Alfred," Arthur tried, giving him that one disarming look that tended to made Alfred's soul dip deep into his stomach. "Alfred Jones, come at once."

He sighed, giving in and marching over to the detective to envelop him into a tight hug. Arthur dropped his head on his shoulder, reaching behind him to close the curtains. A soft kiss was pressed on Alfred's jugular.

"You know I'd take you with me, yes?—I wouldn't leave without you, ever. As such, there should be no worries of me gallivanting, much less trying to bed anyone in the continent." He dropped his arms down to Alfred's waist, pulling the other closer for a kiss, "I have waited so long, silly, beautiful man. I have no need for anything or anyone else, not here, not in the continent, not anywhere."

"Hmm. You're in a romantic mood," Alfred smiled, pecking Arthur's lips. "I should know better than to listen you; you're just telling me what I want to here."

Arthur grinned, "Is it working?"

"Perhaps; what if I promised you that we'd take a trip to the continent after we visit your family?—Might that change your mind?"

"Why would it?" he waved his flat mate's comment dismissively, already beginning to disengage from the taller, warm body, "We're planning a trip to the continent now to get away from my family."

"Yes, but there is nothing that says I'd go to the continent, too. I do have a job."

"Inconsequential," Arthur's eyes narrowed, fingers pressing over the sides of Alfred's neck gently as soon as the words were out. "I'm very knowledgeable of crimes. I could always just kidnap you."

"Need I be more explicit, Arthur?—be a good little detective and you'll get a prize," Alfred purred, blue eyes twinkling behind his glasses. It was an empty promise. But Arthur didn't need to know it.

The detective simply licked his lips, grinning. "First you're jealous and now you're… like this. It's like Christmas! Well, I do daresay I'm corrupting you. Deal, then. Now mind pointing the gun away from my arse, dear? It's digging into my lower back, rather indecently and painfully, I might add."

.

Just a few days later, they were ready. Or as ready as Arthur could ever be to see his family.

"Wait, wait, I'm not yet ready to leave!" Arthur clambered from the kitchen, almost tripping over himself as he reached for his cane. He held it high over his chest, a wild look of panic etched clearly on his typically cool green eyes. Alfred rolled his eyes, trying to hide a tiny smile behind a cough. Arthur tried to ease the muscles in his shoulders, hurt by his flat mate's lack of sensitivity. "Fine. Fine. I can see you're on the arse's side. Alright, then. Let's take the things to the cabbie—wait, not so fast, not yet!"

Alfred chuckled, "Arthur, it's just your brother. It's just tea. It's a week. You're not really practicing baritsu right now, are you?"

"No, no, it's never just my brother, and it is never just tea, Alfred," he replied, already testing out different maneuvers with his cane. "Angus and I are never just brothers. If I've come to understand anything in my short twenty-five years of life, it is that I do not have so much a brother as an arch-nemesis, which means that any physical interaction with Angus could only result in tragedy. No, let go. I am not finished practicing!"

Alfred huffed, pulling Arthur to the door. He received a tap on the head for his efforts, which resulted in hissing acknowledgement of the pain from him. "Arthur! Bloody – bad detective! Stop this. We're going to miss our train—Oh, I see. That's precisely what you want. I should have known you'd be in the mood to act like a child today. Well, no, this is not alright, understand? Now stop this acting out. We're going to your family's estate; you'll play nice. You promised. Think of the continent!"

Arthur pouted, "You just want to ask him embarrassing questions in regards to my childhood. I can read you like a book, Alfred."

Alfred nodded. "That's right. I do. To be fair, I run around half of London chasing criminals for you. Least you can do for me is accompanying me to meet your family."

"I hate you," Arthur retorted, walking out the door. He dragged his cane next to him, making sure that it inflicted as much damage on the hardwood floors. "Hate. You."

"Yes, yes, I love you, too, dear," Alfred locked the door behind them, "Happy early Valentine's Day, Arthur."

.

When they arrive, there's this beauty—abound and perfect in the symphony of youth—standing at the threshold. It's written all over her face when she opens the door. And Alfred can't speak. A set of unruly red-haired twins stare out at Alfred and Arthur from behind her.

"Brangwen," Arthur clears his throat, stepping into the mansion, cane first. "Antaine, Alsandair, good to see you both."

That is her name, or at least Arthur whispers as much when he drags Alfred across the threshold and past his sister. Brangwen is Celtic, he learns later. It means dark and pure. He could instantly see purity; he's not sure if dark is a deserving word for such sweetness. Perhaps he should have known better than to judge a book by its cover, especially a Kirkland book. Still, when he first sees her, Alfred feels like he could swear at her feet—for implanted on her is every single feature that he had ever loved on Arthur's skin and face. After all, they are siblings. It must be in her, then: the immaculate conception of her flawless female form.

"You have a twin?" Alfred blinks, turning to Arthur once they're sitting side by side. Their shoulders touch, even if Arthur is fuming and trying hard to stare away so that Alfred might not see the flushed red inking over his neck. "You never—"

"Brangwen is my senior by two years," Arthur snaps, moving towards the arm of the sofa. His foot tics, tapping the air once, twice, thrice, and so it continues in perfect motion. Maybe that's the only symphony Arthur knows. "But of course you couldn't tell. Oh don't act so surprised I noticed the way your eyes lingered on her every move."

Alfred watches as Arthur pouts. "Arthur, have I offended you?"

"No, no," he dismisses with a biting edge to his tongue, "plenty men find my sister quite the charmer. Why care about me? I'm not offended. It is but nature that dictates you would be too busy admiring her other qualities."

Antaine and Alsandair grin in unison. They look like one mischievous imp standing by a mirror, like a reflection peering from the realms of fantasy into the world. Two sets of bright green eyes stare down at Alfred. He feels like they're dissecting him. Maybe they are: these are Kirkland boys, after all. The thought is almost frightening—two twelve year olds dissecting him.

"What other qualities?" Antaine ponders aloud. Next to him, his twin leans forward.

"Yes," Alsandair grins, "what other qualities?"

Alfred gulps. He is helpless, trying to find Arthur's help in the fog of anger now surrounding the detective. "Well, she seems, she seems like a lovely person."

Arthur snorts, amused. "Yes, lovely. That's one quality."

"Yes," Antaine nods, "one, but I do think Dr. Jones said qualities."

"There are many qualities that come with being a lovely person," Alfred furrowed his brows together. It never dawns on him that he ought to ask how the twins already know his name, his full name and profession. "Lovely people are kind, and noble, and—"

"Kind, noble," Arthur chortled. His eyes gleamed with amusement, and his hand fell on Alfred's thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze before removing it. His brothers seemed to have noticed it, though, much to Alfred's embarrassment. "Oh, this should be fun. Just wait until she speaks to you."

"Fun," Antaine parrots, looking every bit like he is in agreement with Arthur.

Alsainder elbows his twin, chuckling. The two seem to share a secret. Alfred looks to Arthur for guidance, but the detective is just looking tense, almost as if expecting to be attacked at any moment.

"Fun, indeed," the other twin replies.

.

Arthur Kirkland's mother made a single mistake when Arthur was young.

When Arthur was three, she touched her son's cheek in the height of fever's hallucinations and smiled dotingly upon him to curb his whining tears.

In the background, her eldest son Angus stood by a beautiful six year old girl with long-lashes, bright emerald eyes, and ringlets of gold curving over her shoulders. In front of her, though, was Arthur—Arthur with his well-defined brows, blonde hair, and big green eyes now filled to the brim with tears.

So her cool hand brushed over the fringe of Arthur's blonde hair, and she pressed a soft kiss on his pink forehead. And whispered: "Brangwen, my pretty Brangwen. Do stop crying, my darling."

And Arthur stopped rubbing at his eyes, confused.

.

Brangwen walks into the sitting room, now set up for tea. A few maids usher around her, helping hand out cups. All the while, she remains quiet, almost demure. And Alfred watches her, careful to not scare her.

She meets his eyes every single time, giving him an amused smile in return.

The twins sit beside her, one on each arm. They drink their tea carefully, making jokes at each other. Sometimes Brangwen reaches down with her lips to whisper in their ears. For intelligent young boys, Alfred notes, they are well-behaved when around their sister.

"Brangwen would like Doctor Jones to introduce himself," Antaine waves his hand out in invitation. "She has read some of the stories."

"She's read them to us, too," Alsainder adds, reaching for another biscuit.

Arthur's eyes flash, though. "I see you still keep your voice hostage for the laurel leaves of the family. Alfred is my friend. He has saved my life more than once; if he is not family, then I have none."

She purses her lips together, pressing her hands together in prayer form. But she does not speak. Instead, her eyes fall on Alfred, who falters under her undivided attention. Arthur turns, trying to call Alfred's attention to himself.

Alfred shines under her attentions, obviously interested in her. "I'm Doctor Alfred F. Jones. I served for a time in Afghanistan, where I saw a great number of—"

Brangwen yawns, delicately, turning her attention away. She is not interested in a courting speech.

Alfred blinks, turning to Arthur, who now has his hand over his arm, pushing him back as the detective himself edges close to the end of the sofa. He stands and paces the room. The twins and Brangwen stare, watching silently as he sweeps through the room.

"I know you're listening in somehow, Angus," he barks, still searching. Alfred watches him. "Is this why you have brought us here?–Is it?"

"Angus isn't here yet," Alsainder offers, grabbing for a scone this time. "He asked that we three keep you entertained."

"He's not?" Alfred asks for Arthur, "But he invited us for tea and to—"

"Stay the week, yes," Arthur interrupts, growing increasingly paranoid. "The bastard is here. I know it. Just listening—he's always listening, and he has something planned, and I will be damned if we stay here one more minute not knowing, alright? You hear that, Angus? This is between us, but I'll be damned if you hurt Alfred. He's a good man, you hear?"

"Arthur," Alfred tries to drag Arthur back to the table, but he refuses. "Arthur, stop. He's not here, alright?—Alright?"

"Brangwen thinks we should walk around the grounds to give Alfred a tour," Antaine urges, already dabbing at his lips with his napkin before turning to his sister to take her hand. She stands carefully, giving Alfred an inviting smile.

Arthur almost jumps, grabbing Alfred's arm possessively.

But his sister merely reaches over Alfred, letting her hand touch Arthur's arm. She rubs gentle circles on the fabric of his suit. Alfred stands aside, watching mesmerized as Brangwen drops both hands on Arthur's temples, rubbing slowly. She presses her nose close to his, breathing in slowly, until their breathing is equally even.

And, taking his hand, she pulls him behind her.

"Go on then," she smirks, pushing Arthur towards Alfred. "Be a child. Take your pet."

.

Brangwen Kirkland had grown up being told she was beautiful.

Being the only female heir for the Kirkland family, though, Brangwen had also grown up hearing several things that made her resent the softness of her sex in the eyes of political power. While marriages were no longer arranged for respectable girls, Brangwen knew by age six that she was being bred to be a Prime Minister's wife.

And that was when Brangwen decided to stop talking.

She only graced her brothers with hers words. After all, she was a Kirkland heir. Only another Kirkland heir could even begin to appreciate, or perhaps curse, the noise and chaos inside her mind.

.

.

.

To be continued…