Lily unlocked the back door of the thrift store using a key that didn’t belong to her. Double checking to make sure she wasn’t being followed, that there were no cameras, she pushed opened the door with a leather gloved hand and stepped inside, shutting the door behind her.
She had won the key in an underground poker game. Thrift stores didn’t exactly scream big score, not even emptying the till, but if the guy she won it from was to be believed, the owner was running dubiously obtained antiquities out of the back. Now that was the kind of score Lily liked.
Lilly tied her onyx-colored hair into a tidy bun as she looked around. The layout of the store was simple: Several rows of nick knacks and books, racks of clothes in the middle, electronics and DVDs in the rear, checkout at the front. Behind the checkout was hall that Lily would bet lead to the storeroom.
She would also bet that it would lead to the loot.
#
Lily crept down the hall, keeping a close eye on her surroundings. There were three doors, one an office, she could see inside the small window, and a large set of doors at the very end of the hallway, and then a third one, almost interconnected to the larger set. According to her source, the key in her hand should also open one of those two doors.
Lily walked up to the third door, sliding the key into the lock. Turning it, it clicked open. Perfect fit. Lily thought, pushing it open. Her mouth opened immediately at what she saw.
#
Atop a giant red oriental rug was a self of glossy oak shelves, neatly decorated with row after row of boxes. Walking up to one box she opened it, revealing a windup pig with a rider, the kind of toy that was popular back in 1920s Europe, only those were made of tin. This one was made of gold, inlayed with ivory and brown jasper and red enamel.
“What the–?” Lily exclaimed, before stuffing the toy in the bag at her side, pulling another box on the self.
She ran through the aisles with abandon, pulling out ornate daggers, craved ivory magnifying glasses, piece of jewelry she wasn’t even sure what they were.
In an enthralled state of almost mania, Lily tore the lid off yet another box, finding a smooth, round chuck of what looked like jet maybe, a woman’s mournful face carved into it, her hair in an old-fashioned updo. She held it in her hands, running a finger over its surface. Suddenly her hand felt hot, her body drained of energy.
She was so entranced, she didn’t notice anyone behind her, until she felt a thick, oddly dry hands grabbed her, clasping a hand over her mouth.
Panicked, Lilly dropped the broach and immediately began to struggle, kicking and clawing at her attacker. Looking down long enough to see her fingers covered in light brown clay, she froze in shock.
“Golems.” A man’s clam voice behind her explained, “Creatures of Jewish lore, usually made from mud or clay. Boys, would restrain the intruder please? Also, one of you hand me her bag.”
Lilly tried to let out of a scream of protest as the golems thrusted her hands behind her back, beginning to wrap them in some kind of thick cord. She did her best to puff herself out, tense her muscles, straiten her wrists, anything to make it easier to slip out.
“Thank you.” The voice said again. “Now, follow me, please.”
As the golems turned her around Lilly got a first look at him: An elderly man, his skin carved with wrinkles, his hair paper white, dressed in a crisp dark suit. Even thought he was clearly old, he stood erect, with perfect posture, there was something almost regal about him, and maybe it was how bizarre everything was, but there was something eerie about him too. Yeah, definitely something eerie.
“Hey!” Lily protested as the golems pushed her along, “You can’t do this! What country do your think you’re in?”
“A country where thief is illegal, last time I checked.” The old man quipped. “Apologizes for the rough treatment, my dear, but you brought this on yourself.” The man turned his head to look at her. “You were intending to steal from me, isn’t that correct?
That deduction really didn’t faze Lily; she had broken into the secret room of his thrift shop; it wasn’t exactly a great feat to figure that out.
They marched her down to a normal-looking office, pushing her into a rolling chair in front of a sturdy desk of polished wood. “Let’s see what you got here.” He said, beginning to rummage through the bag.
“Hey, you can’t do that! That’s mine!” Lily protested, “You can’t just—” Her protest was cut off by a piece of cloth being wrapped around her face by a frustrated golem.
“I’ll again reiterate that the bag is filled with things you were trying to steal from me.” Her captor pointed out continuing to rummage through the bag, “I suppose it’s tempting; seeing all those big wigs throwing away money on the roulette tables like it’s water; of course, you want in on it yourself.” That was when he pulled out the broach she had been looking at when she was caught “That was why you started thieving in the first place, yes?”
Lily ceased her attempts to slip free at that and froze. How could you know that? How could possibility know that?! How the Hell are you?!
“You know, the story behind this broach is much like yours in a way.” He mused, “Envy, hurt, anger. Revenge. It certainly has all the same flavors. Consider the state you’re in, Lilly dear, you can’t really object to a story, can you? Gives you time to try to slip the cord, at least.”
#
It was the height of the Victorian era. Her name was Philomena, and his name was Phillip. Both had land, she had a title, a Countess actually, and his family had money. And, to put a big cherry on top, they were in love, which didn’t happen always happen with marriages at the time.
There was just little problem.
For good or ill, it was still socially acceptable to marry your cusion at the time, and Philomena ’s cusion Erik wanted her over all a humanity. A need that went beyond healthy love. In fact, it wasn’t love, it was lust, obsession, a need to own her.
According to reports gather later, Erick slammed his door when he heard of the engagement, letting out a primal howl. He continued to let out that howl and he threw a table over, tore up his bedding, sending feathers and fibers flying everywhere. Once he finished, still crouched on the floor like a while animal, he looked up and saw a frail teenage girl , her face framed with black curls, staring at him, with horror.
“Desdemona,” He hushed standing up and the girl only for her to pull away, frightened, “It’s alright, you know I could never hurt you.”
Desdemona relaxed, letting Erick pull her into an embrace. Or so it’s been said.
If there was one person in the world Erick truly loved, it was Desdemona. Her father, his stepfather, had died when she was just a toddler and the boy had basically filled that role. He protected her, provided for her, adored her.
When questioned after the whole affair later, Erick would tell my predecessor this was when she appeared in the doorway.
It is said that Virginia didn’t look her age. In fact, it said that she looked like she could be their older sister rather than then mother. It was also said she was a perfect amalgamation of both her children, Erick’s sharp, angular features, Desdemona’s blue eyes and dark hair.
“Mother,” Erick sobbed, slowly approaching the woman.
“My son,” Virginia said, her hands extending, “If you so strongly desire your cusion, please, allow me to help you.”
You see, people had a habit of meeting—early and mysterious ends around Virginia. Erik’s father, her brutish first husband. Her first husband’s suspicious mother. Desdemona’s father, who from all accounts did not deserve such an end, not that anybody does really. You see where this is going, no doubt, dear Lily.
#
According to physician’s reports at the time, it started with stomach pain.
Within a few days Phillip had taken to his bed with vomiting. Of course, Philomena insisted on nursing him. But she wasn’t alone.
Virginia made every excuse to be by her niece’s side—and her sister’s kitchen-while Philomena nursed her intended. Offering moral support, volunteering to help waylaid servants, unprecedented for that particular class at that particular time. In hindsight, it’s a wonder that in and of itself didn’t raise suspicion.
I’m sure you also see where this is going, my dear. Within a month, Phillip was dead.
#
Now, Victorians were very particular about how they mourned. The grieving party was expected to wear black for a year, then slowly transfer to gray. Part of that was mourning jewelry. It used to be a way to remind everyone death was inevitable, so better make peace with Christ. After Queen Victorian went into lifelong mourning for her husband Prince Albert, it became a fashionable way to commemorate the dead.
Part of poor Philomena’s grieving ensemble was a jet cameo, craved with a woman’s face. The very one you were drawn to.
Not that you needed it to tell Philomena was mourning, according to witnesses. She sobbed for days until she was too bereaved to even cry, despondent, uncommunicative, barely ever left her room.
#
There’s some debate over exactly how it happened, but apparently Philomena did leave the room at one point, and overheard an argument between her mother and aunt. You see, although she couldn’t prove anything, Philomena’s mother, Elizabeth, had figured out what her sister was up to years before. When Philip died, she added one and one.
“I simply don’t know what you’re talking about, Bessie…”
“Don’t ‘Bessie’ me Virginia. Did you think I wouldn’t noticed that Phillip died the exact same way Paul and Quincy did? He even had the same marks on his skin!”
“You know you can’t prove anything…” Virginia began threateningly.
“And what if I could?” Elizabeth demanded, “You’d kill me, too?” After a beat, she continued, “No matter, you’re right, I can’t prove it. I just want to know why? Why did you do it, Ginny? Why would you murder a sweet innocent boy who had done you no harm and destroy my daughter, your own niece…” Then it hit her, “Erick put you up to this, didn’t he?”
The silence said that followed said everything. Finally processing what was going on Philomena, gasped.
“Did you hear that?” Virginia asked, hearing it.
“Wait here.” Elizabeth ordered, stepping out and freezing when she saw her daughter. “Philomena, my love. How much of that did you hear?”
Instead of answering, Philomena turned and ran.
#
What happened after that is even more unclear, as the only two people who know what happened were Elizabeth and Philomena and—well, you’ll see. But Elizabeth did admit to having a heart to heart with her daughter that went a little bit like this:
“I wish I have proof. Something we could take to a constable. But Virginia’s smart. She’s not going to get justice in this life.” I imagine Elizabeth was quite bitter as she said this.
“I won’t marry Erick.” Philomena declared, shaking her head, still in tears, “Disown, toss me into the streets, I don’t care. I’ll—I’ll die before I wed the man who had my Phillip murdered ….”
“Oh, Philomena, my Philomena, I would never even dream of asking you to do such a thing.” Elizabeth assured her, stroking the struggling girl.
Philomena broke down, sobbing into her mother’s chest.
#
They say that was the day it started. The day rage began to mingle with grief, creating a desire for revenge. Soon Philomena began just as obsessed with making Erik pay, as obsessed as he had been with having Philomena for his own.
What happened next isn’t known for certain, but it was believed it started with a fly. On one of the rare occasions, she went out, it had landed on Philomena’s broach and died instantly. Or so the story goes.
Somehow she must have made the connection as according to what my predecessor could piece together she began to experiment, gathering flies and placing them on the broach. Then larger animals. Those took longer to die. But die they did. Soon a plan began to form in her mind.
#
Virginia stared into the cup suspiciously. Her niece hadn’t spoken to her since she learned the truth, and suddenly she invited her over for tea. Perhaps she shouldn’t have come. This had to be some sort of trap.
She was about to go when Philomena walked into the room. “I’m terribly sorry for making you wait. You haven’t touched your tea. I thought I had Elise tell you to start without me.”
“You did.” Virginia admitted, “However, I felt it—impolite to start without you.”
Knowing the truth, Philomena took her aunt’s cup, taking a sip, before handing it back to her and sitting down. “Of course, that’s not really how poisons work, is it, aunt?” Before Virginia could respond, she continued, “Don’t bother denying it, I already know. I didn’t invite you here to make trouble. I merely have something to ask of you.” Sitting a velvet box on the table, she slid it over to her aunt.
Virginia opened the box, revealing the morning broach.
“If you care for me at all,” Philomena began, “If you have any humanity left in you, you’re wear it. As a reminder of what you’ve done. What it cost someone you claim to love.”
I don’t know if it was moment of remorse, or some calculated effort to save herself, but Virginia took the broach, silently pinning it to her chest.
#
It was as slow as actual arsenic poisoning, eating away at Virginia bit by bit. Philomena stayed at the bedside the whole time, watching, making sure no one took off the pin. Later, after my predecessor started his investigation, people he interviewed would say it quite odd in hindsight. That observation was made at lot in this case.
#
When they buried her, she didn’t look young anymore. In fact, she looked years older than her true age.
Poor Desdemona was practically hysterical at the funeral, Erik holding her and wiping her eyes, trying to give the girl any comfort he could.
As the pallbearers took Virginia’s body away, Philomena came over. “I’ll take care of her.” She volunteered, gently pulling the girl away. “You go see your mother off.”
Erik stepped back. “Oh, Philomena, what did we do to deserve a cusion as good as you?”
“Oh, Erik,” Philomena smiled, hugging Desdemona. “I am exactly the kind of cusion you deserve.” Or you do, at least.
Philomena kept a diary and wrote in great detail about Desdemona’s murder. Much more than the murder of the girl’s mother. Maybe it was guilt. I don’t know what else it could’ve been. The point is, that’s how we know that as she tended to her younger cusion, Philomena hesitated in what she was about to do. Killing murderess was one thing, but—Desdemona? The poor girl wouldn’t hurt a fly. Philomena looked over at Erik, the source of all her grief and pain and yes, rage, as she left. Loosing Desdemona was the only way to ensure he felt the pain she did. And she was doing the girl a favor in her reasoning. Who knew how long she would last in the care of a maniac?
In the end, before Philomena left that day, Desdemona had been gifted the broach.
#
Philomena stared at Desdemona’s bedside, unable to go in. If she went in, she would lose her nerve. The poor girl was coughing blood. None of the others had coughed blood.
This all came from that dairy. Philomena was watching from the doorway. She didn’t know how he made the connection, but he suddenly looked between his cusion and his sister, and whispered, “It can’t be.”
For a minute Philomena didn’t realize what he was getting at until Erik leapt from his seat, pointing a finger at her and demanding, “How?! How are you doing this?!”
A perverse boldness, running through her, Philomena sauntered into the room saying, “Someway no one would believe.”
“But why?” Erik asked, his eyes starting to tear, “She had done nothing to you.”
“Nor had my Phillip done anything to you.” Philomena screamed.
That was when Desdemona let out a pitiful, pained shutter. Her last breath.
“No!” Erick pleaded, first trying desperately to revive his sweet sister, then just sobbing into her lifeless chest.
“Always so dramatic, Erik.” Philomena mocked, coldly taking the broach from the dead girl’s body, and pinning it on her own breast. “I think it’s time for me to be with Phillip again. Thought I fear more likely I’ll be with your mother instead.” She turned around, gilding out of the room. “Goodbye, Erik. You won’t see me again.”
#
“Philomena died a month after that.” The old man finished, sitting the broach down, “The best we could tell, her grief and rage and pain and bitterness was somehow imbued into the broach, turning it into pure poison. Prefect metaphor for revenge, if you think about it. Poison, I mean.” After a beat, he continued, “The curator before me found the broach, documented its history, locked it away where it could do no harm.” He turned around, “That’s what this place is. A place for things too dangerous to be out there in the wide world. I mean, can you imagine if that broach fell into the wrong hands?” He leaned back, “But I’m an old man now. I don’t know how many years I have left at this. I keep putting off looking for an apprentice, but now—perhaps one has fallen into my lap.”
One of the golems removed the gag from Lilly’s mouth. “I’m sorry, are you talking about me?”
“Well, I’m certainly not talking about the golems, am I?” The old man quipped, “I mean, they follow orders but they’re not good for much else. So, Lily dear, what say you?”
Lily thought for a minute. She had to admit, it wasn’t like she had much else going for her at the moment. And it might be her only way out of here. “Only if you untie me.”
“Fair enough.” The old man clapped his hands. “Boys.”
The golems untied her, helping her up.
“Now, come, my dear.” The old man said, “There’s more work to be done.”