What magic trick—?! Gascoigne glew ghastly, garishly grinning. A brow lifted, intrigued by her sense of excited skepticism— and rightfully so— he had done little when it came to pulling out any tricks from his sleeve, or even being half the father they deserved. Annabelle was his dreary daddy's girl, but Isabeth was by far his favorite from the litter. It was nearly a decade ago, as the story goes, that Gascoigne hovered over their shared cradle at the orphanage and chose to rescue Isabeth first. At such an age it might have been hard to decipher his methods, displaying more affection to one than the other as one hand brushed the back of her sister's head, silver sights sternly set upon her. He required more direction— more discipline from his brave little nightmare. Raise her strong. “Yes, you heard correctly— a magic trick.” Gascoigne mockingly mused, his tone threading mischief. He eased back, staying squatted behind him when rolling up both cuffs above each wrist. Silver sights landed on Annabelle — his little believer — beaming brightly, boisterous in bragging bravado: “I know a great deal about it.” Their father turned to his little know-it-all, his stature more serious, cocky, Mr. matter-of-facts. “The best magic, of course, comes in threes.” Then to Annabelle: “This is called a seance.” Eyes set upon the carnage they created. There is always order through chaos. “For this to work, however, I need you to both follow along after me:” Gascoigne cleared his throat, suspiciously eyeing out into the corridor that had caught Isabeth's attention before mentioning magic. He didn't see what she saw, nor would he, had the gory head gotten tossed into the room like a rock skipping over the river crest, splashing crimson in thudding, wet knocks to stare up at him between the knees in gouged-out fish eyes. Although that didn't go to show he felt the fear in the air, the chill of disturbance— but if he imagined back to the earliest days of remembrance, the mad mage might remember he, too, seen dimensions divide. It is they who provide, after all. “With life from a painful pinprick—” Gascoigne started off the seance, reaching down to unpin a ruby and gold rose ornament worn in constant memory of their mother; something to keep close at heart while in a moment's mourn. He took out the needle, positioned it into the palm of his hand, and squeezed, whipping his wrist around to let the punctured flesh leak into the standing substance. “Glue some soul of sweetened spit—” He said, revealing little pain when gazing into the eyes of his first choice. Blood beaded onto the floor in distracting drips. A soft nudge to help her along, watching in wait to see her cutely spit at the floor. “And hair to stitch its innocence—” Gascoigne kept from gleefully goddamn giggling, turning to give Isabeth's earned loving smile to his sweet little Annabelle. He reached toward her face, trailing three strands of her fair, velvet hair. Knuckles caressed her cheek, a doctor's distraction, then swiftly yanked them from her scalp. She was too sweet for her own good. A treat to the terrors he swore to protect. The man squirmed, knees bending together as sadism stirred, tossing the hair into the air to feather lightly down in three separate strands before finally shouting: “Bring forth our pet of pestilence!” Poof—! Nothing happened. Not at first anyway. Gascoigne seemed to have confidence that it worked while neatly cleaning the adornment, replacing it where it belonged. But by the time he went to stand, something strange began to happen. Something rather ordinary that can only be best described at that moment as morbid, black magic. Cappuccino bubbled, brackish in the blood that rendered it a crude, thick oil. Time almost seemed to play backward, the spider webs of sweet sticky sap slithering back to congeal into a strange shape. Porcelain pieces melted, and melded together in a skeletal structure, absorbing the sable substance. By magical hands, threads of hair splintered, stitching the groveling glob of gore. Swarthy sinews tied, braiding with the white laces to form the shape of a single Siamese dumbo rat with four beady red eyes, two pink ears, and two heads. Down the center, they were stitched, each with a tail that resembled more of unearthed roots that sprawled out the length of each side. At the center of its spine revealed a small opening, unveiling the singular rapid-beating heart as the two beings meeped and cheeped. “Let's try not to tear them in two— but if you do—maybe don't stitch them back together.” He teased, tying up his hand. They needed a healthy distraction. “Rather than going on about these little nightmares—perhaps your minds will focus on a proper name for the both of them.” A strange and drunken look glossed his gleaming globes. “Now shoo— the two of you— to my quarters. I expect you girls to keep me comfy and w a r m.”

Joy tickled the twins like a pair of ballerinas attending their first dance recital—a happiness that surfaced with each rare occasion that their father might feel particularly tolerable that day. Only they had never attended a recital, much less one with him in tow. Annabelle, being the most affectionate of the two and, quite frankly, the one who ofttimes curbed Gascoigne’s wrath, was a bundle almost too sweet to stomach. Calmed and still, she looked like a deflated birthday balloon—the weight of her lashes comparable to the gravity threatening to pull her knees to the floor. She did little else but trace the embroidery of her father’s garb in soothing strokes. Isabeth, however, fought the sleep, her swollen, weary eyes moored to dark silhouettes shifting back and forth in the lightless kitchen. From over Gascoigne’s shoulder, past Mabel, she could almost make out the shape of a woman: a tall figure with a tremendous ball gown. She appeared to be weeping, bent over like a toppled Γ whilst cradling her face in her palms. Only there was no face to hold. Her head had been lopped off at the throat. The macabre presentation didn’t disrupt Isabeth’s concentration. She’d witnessed worse things. Like the time her pet rabbit, Mopsy, wriggled loose from her cage and got her leg snared between a stone crevice constituting one of the manor’s many hearths. The poor creature squealed and screamed, flopping and kicking. In Isabeth’s frantic, near-petrified state, all she knew to do was pull. Pull and pull, trying to free her floundering Mopsy from the mouth of a roaring fire, until white fur bled red and skin and tissue shredded from bone in thin, fibrous filaments. With a quarter of the hapless bunny torn from its attachments, Beth hurled back onto the floor, a gush of blood and intestines slopping like leeches across her nightdress. That had nearly been three years ago. Still, the memory of warm wetness seeping onto her belly stuck with her like time hadn’t aged it. Nor did time interfere with Isabeth’s readily accepted role as troublemaker. No, not troublemaker. But rather, fearless valiant—an adventurer of sorts. It had been her idea to elude Professor Crow tonight, and even now, at the risk of her father’s fury, she’d do it all over again. “A magic trick?” Annabelle inquired earnestly, her mitts wadded into tight fists, rubbing her eyes. The shrill sound of her sister’s voice pulled Isabeth from her dark reverie. Both maidservants had gone. It was now just the three of them and the ghosts looming in the hollow hallways. “Magic trick?” Beth repeated. “What magic trick?!”

Such two gentle embraces to calm the chaos. Gascoigne wasn't sure what word described him more. At times, he was a monster, tarred and feathered and outcasted from society's standards yet moments such as these return him from the madness, back to a man— their father. Though he desired nothing more than to snap— to saw them in half down their cute centers and sew them to their other better halves for one single night of sleep stoked his mental hellfire, couldn't at that menacing moment. Their words tied the monster inside to the whipping post, little arms burning their blister upon him in ways that made him both cringe and melt. They smelt of Amelia. They loved like Amelia. His bated breath inhaled them deeply, red rutilant eyes closing to remember when their mother was last in his arms. He spiritually wept, drawing them closer in his cruel, cold confines in a hug better suited for a funeral. “Girls—” Gascoigne sighed softly, his voice low in bravado. The monster had died, confined above them in a state of bardo waiting for the next chance to return a demon inevitably to repossess him. They inquired to sleep in his chambers, too choked, all the cruel count could do was give a gentle nod. Gascoigne broke away. Tears brimmed behind black lashes, shimmering now in more familiar silver sights. He didn't let them fall from his face, carrying his countenance as a bleak, black cloud passing by that wouldn't break and bless today with fresh rain. Rather, he sniffled, dissolving through the pain. “It won't be necessary.” He put a hand up to dismiss the new maid, both his girls in the comfort of their father's wings. “We all need our rest.” His eyes trailed to the creaking coming from the ceiling.“The house request it.” Eyes locked to his servants. “I want everyone in their chambers.” The warlock waited for the staff to dismiss themselves while rolling up the paisley-printed scarlet silk robe running the length of both lithe arms. His hands prayed between the twins, rubbing them together to warm both palms, eyes tentative to the porcelain pieces soaked in a thick pool of fragrant cappuccino as if the blood stains cascading out from a busted babydoll. “Before bed—”A grin shaped his lips, feeling the flutter beneath his fingers. Sorcery was something most held in strong secret. So much so, that not even the mage's magic was shown to his girls — until now. “How about a magic trick?”

Hesitancy lapped the first few droplets of courage building within the girls’ bellies, but Annabelle’s tentative approach was the first to leap for her father’s embrace. “Mind your step,” the keeper called after her, and without another moment’s delay, Isabeth followed suit, the two draping Gascoigne’s shoulders in separate pairs of silken sleeves. Clinging to the ill-tempered warlock like they hadn’t seen him since early spring. Such a sight was a fresh breath of air, even for a hardy old hag. The creases in the old woman’s forehead softened with her eyes, and her expression settled for something a little less dry. For much of her life, Eleanor Grimshaw had only known servitude. Her father was a poor man, and her mother perished with the scourge that plagued the entire northern half of France just eight years after she’d been born. At age sixteen, she met Yusuf Carcassonne and his wife, Cornelia Carcassonne—the first two to have the chateau built back in 1700. Where Gascoigne considered himself old, Ms. Grimshaw was ancient. For a long time, she’d watched children, and their children’s children, grow to renew their family’s namesake. Feeding, clothing, and caring for each familial generation until they could dictate lives of their own. Well before her current master even became a thought in his mother’s mind. “Can we sleep in your bed tonight?” Annabelle had her face buried in the crook of Gascoine’s neck, her breath a gentle gale against skin as pallid as hers. Isabeth, on the other hand, kept her chin perched atop his opposite shoulder, both still clutching him tightly. “We’ll promise to behave…” The two appeared utterly fatigued, their father’s presence and lullabied vow having soothed them into submission. In the midst of all this, a new pair of heels came clapping down the hallway from which direction Eleanor was facing, and with them, firelight glinting from a handheld lamp. “Mabel, clean all of this up for me, will you, please?” The newly-arrived redhead idled there for a moment, her brows stitched with worry, not a single rumple appearing on her youthful canvas. Having heard the recent commotion, she glanced worriedly at the girls, then at the muddled mess on the floor. "Quickly, now,” the eldest keeper urged. “Y-Yes, of course, Fräulein! Right away.”

Enter Ms. Grimshaw— cobblepot to some, crackpot to others. She earned her voice through centuries of combatting Gascoigne's constant cruelty. The old crow was an unspoken grandmother of sorts, one that brought clarity and comfort in her womanly wisdom. And like the corroding chateau that they inhabited, carried his closest secrets. “Ms. Grimshaw” He straightened, never having the right words to bleed his gratitude. “Haunting, are you— at this hour?” Gascoigne got eye level with his girls, hovering over the carnage cluttered in their startling wake. His face calmed, snarl shifting to a faint smirk as their melody replayed: Please, papa? He's going to unstitch us— and stitch us back together. The brooding bastard hated to admit that they were a wonderful, welcomed weakness. They were the duality of their mourned mother. Isabeth with her fearless pursuit of danger was more akin to what any man might ask of a son. Annabelle— softer than powdered sugar, sweeter than caramel, shined so brightly at times she could very well be the crystal glitter dusted over iridescent icing. Both of which wore Amelia's innate imagination and intoxicating interactions. If only he could concurrently stitch the siblings would he ever again rediscover the magnificence that was their mother. How he missed her… Though, that wouldn't go with a dark, dreary dungeon. Odd how things you swear an oath to protect wind up so sweetly smothering at times. He played with the devil's fire with each long gaze that trailed them from head to toe. A sickness stained the blood coursing through his veins, one the mad mage gambled like a monster ready to be let loose on them at a moment's notice. They're our children, Gascoigne. “Girls—” He repeated, his evil exhausted from his breath. A motion of his wrist began beckoning: “Nobody— neither here on Earth, nor in the Heavens, nor those that dwell beneath our heels will ever take either of you away from me.”

The intrusive sound of ceramic fragments pealing across the floor sent a small cloud of dust billowing through the air. The noise rang loud and far, amplified by, what had been for decades, desolate passageways and deserted chambers. Both twins flinched as scalding hot liquid dappled their exposed ankles, spurring them to stagger back two steps before they exchanged a knowing glimpse. The disquiet on their sun-starved faces meant they knew they were in trouble, and just when the silence became a sliver too much to bear, they pleaded beneath their father’s snarled sneer. “Don’t let Scrapbeak take us.” “Please, papa?” “He’s going to unstitch us.” “And stitch us back together,” they finished simultaneously. “Nonsense,” a voice cut in from behind the girls, old eyes snatching a peek at Gascoigne’s galled guise. It was Ms. Grimshaw—one of the eldest keepers in the manor and something of a surrogate to the offspring. There’s no telling how long it took her to get here. She’d come hobbling from the stables occupying the distant tip of the chateau’s west wing with nothing but moonlight pouring in from floor-to-ceiling windows to guide her…only to wind up amid a standoff between father and daughters. “You two should behave for Professor Crow. He travels a long way to provide his services.” Each Annabelle and Isabeth clung to the old crone’s linens, their hands gripping for purchase against her worn, tarnished garb. Ms. Grimshaw stilled, seemingly adapted to the desperation in their cadaverous countenances, before her disappointed gaze settled back on Gascoigne. If there was one person in this entire death trap who could challenge her Master’s misdeeds towards his children, it was her. “Now, all this babel I’m hearing—are you up again, sending your father into another fit? Look at the mess!”

Leading to the small scullery was the kitchenette that served mostly as the break room for the remaining servants and staff. This chateau used to host an odd array of outcasts, their talents trained by no other than their master. The twins weren't the only ones playing hide and seek as a towering figure stood with his back turned between them and their secret hiding spot, groaning like a ghoul recently bloomed from the earth. A fabulous fragrance filled the air, and with it came the peculiar noise of percolation. Milk froth, aromatic mist carrying the notes of crushed coffee beans, tinges of cocoa and cinnamon. The tall black shadow seemed to be hard at work concocting some chemical creation. There was a whistle from the steam, arms activating levers in sequence while pressure valves seethed their vapor, powering grinders atop the workstation grounding the coffee into tiny grinds. He turned on his heel, revealing the half-dead state of their father staring sleepily into his mitts. Cupped between both hands and held dear to his heart was a dainty little teacup smoldering like a cauldron bubbling the beautiful bouquet. Like a fine wine, he brought it up to bask in the fabulous fragrance. The gold brim had nearly touched those long, thin lips before his somniferous silver coins caught a glimpse of his ghostly little girls, causing a startle that slithered through a crooked spine. The china clattered onto the floor, hurling shards in every direction and riding in the braise of a newly crafted brew Gascoigne knew as cappuccino. Something had to fight back the terror of these two twins meddling around into the wee hours of the night. How could some things so small have so much life? Constantly scurrying around like little mice. He stared at the mess, imagining his mind scattered across the floor in chunky shards. “Girls—” Gascoigne growled. Days have become a blur of countless restless nights, coping through their string of night freights. Despite the demon-like spirits running amuck inside his mind telling him to remain calm and patient, the harder his last nerve became latent. Time stilled, slithering out a sadistic sneer came those elongated fangs. The night was seemingly becoming more bleak, a redness twinkling its carnage through the chasm of silver. What on earth could it be this time? Scrapbeak? The goblin beneath their bed bartering the tiny toes on their feet? He summoned the court within the confines of his cranium, only for a mysterious maiden to mourn through his mind: They're only children, Gascoigne.

The antique doorknob rattled and popped free from its mortise, only for a mess of locks and two identical heads to peer out from the slim opening. Four eyes scanned the corridor outside their bedroom while two sets of ears tuned to the creaks and groans of the chateau’s gurgling bowels. None of the halls were lit during this time of night, but that didn’t discourage the curiosities of two audacious adolescents with an interest in the dead. From the time they were pulled from their mother’s belly to the time now, most had considered them a peculiar pair. Consequently, being peculiar attracted attention—far more than they had hoped—but none seemed quite as intrigued, nor as fascinated, as the family practitioner. Professor Crow was what the townsfolk called him, but the twins had unique monikers they stood by. Sawbones and Rotwurst were of a few, but Scrapbeak seemed the most prevalent given the Doctor’s hoard of shiny metals. When asked where he accumulated his collection, the girls would shiver. The dead offer many gifts, my children, he’d say. It was enough to explain the noises they’d hear in the early mornings before the sun rose—the scratching and digging in the courtyard tombs all a sign of Professor Crow’s endeavors in search of new trinkets and treasures. Father always told them not to meddle, and, to their indifference, they obeyed. So long as they weren’t strapped to a medical bed and fed serum through a needle or sliced open at the front to have their innards poked and prodded. They’d very nearly come close to that two nights prior when the doctor had last visited, and tonight, he appeared again, provoking yet another game of hide-and-seek. “Not that way,” Annabelle whimpered before gripping her other half by the arm. Isabeth backpedaled, and the two veered to the right, heading straight for the scullery. Scrapbeak wouldn’t think to look there! But that hope withered as a shadow darker than the rest swelled around the end of the hallway.

𝐥 𝐢 𝐭 𝐭 𝐥 𝐞 𝐍 𝐈 𝐆 𝐇 𝐓 𝐌 𝐀 𝐑 𝐄 𝐒