Twenty-Seven Deaths for One

Entre

Content Warnings For this Chapter: Descriptions of Murder, Bodily Injury, Child Trafficking and Blood (relevant to Wriothesley's backstory).

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There was a boy whose fingers were stained vermilion.

First, it was with the cherry-red juice of plump strawberries. These, he was given because he was a good boy who behaved well and did as he was told. "Smart," said Father to others, a proud smile spread wide across his face. "Sharp like a whip. Reads quickly and is good with numbers. He will be good at keeping books."

The boy didn't know what that meant, just that Father ran him through numbers, had him pour over spreadsheets, and weigh the accounts. There was never a reason; only a demand for it to be done, and because the boy wanted to please, he did as he was told.

"Good." The ruffle of paperwork as Father rifled through it. "Keep this up and you'll be worth your price."

The price of having a child, the boy had thought. Mother and Father fostered a gaggle of them, their front door revolving through the years. In with one and out with another; the boy would smile and wave goodbye when his siblings left for their new homes. There wasn't a worry even though he would never see them again, there were never any thoughts because a new brother or sister quickly took their place.

That boy cherished them all by ruffling their hair and sneaking them sweets under the dinner table. He taught them their letters by candlelight, and how to count with their fingers and toes. Good children were smart—that was the thought instilled in his mind, and so the boy made sure that he wasn't the only one with a bright future at the end of a dark, dark tunnel.

And those account books—they never made sense until one day they did. That boy balanced those numbers again and again. He cross-referenced names and titles, added and subtracted, and figured out just what it was that Mother and Father were in the business of.

That day, the boy changed, and the cherry-red juice that used to stain his nails was long forgotten for something more viscous.

Second, it was blood—not blood red, just blood, the sort of vermilion that stains the soul not the skin.

The boy was older now, a teenager too heavily weighted by lofty expectations. He learned to bide his time. He'd practiced those numbers and balanced those books, and kept secret notes of who, when, where, and why. Just for the knowledge. The damage was done and there was little he could change of the past, but the future was something that was yet to be written.

He also tinkered. Father was proud of this too. The first time the boy pulled apart an Electro Kettle and put it back together, Father knew his worth had just tripled. And so now it was numbers, accounts, and books on mechanics.

The boy enjoyed this, stripping appliances of their components, and seeing what made them tick. Swapping out the bad bits for new. Refurbishing old and rusted parts.

If a toaster can be fixed, why not him? Or one brother, or another sister? The boy was old enough to see that the children who were shuffled in and out of his home were beaten and battered things. But if that boy could slide in a new battery and give an old, busted lamp new life, could that same logic be applied in a thousand other places?

So the boy tinkered. He tinkered, and tinkered, and tinkered until he was a threat.

The knife slid easily into flesh. The boy marveled at how deep it went, lodging right between Father's ribs. The anatomy books helped. The boy knew exactly where to strike, exactly where the lungs were. He wanted to hurt, to make Father suffer—and suffer he did.

Father fell to the ground with a pained grunt. Mother was beside him, blood spilling from her throat, eyes already dulled by death. But Father suffered with wet and rasping breaths. He cursed the boy; cursed him for his insolence, for all the money and time spent grooming him, now wasted.