The man's words hung in the air of the quiet apothecary shop, laced with a threat as sharp and cold as a scalpel. I believe you may have something that belongs to me.
Alistair's blood turned to ice in his veins. Every instinct screamed at him to retreat, to bolt the basement door, to hide Elara away. But flight was impossible. It would be a confession. He was trapped in his own home.
He saw Mrs. Dobbs draw herself up to her full, formidable height. The kindly housekeeper vanished, replaced by a stern, protective guardian. "I assure you, sir, we have nothing here that does not belong to the Doctor or his sister. You are mistaken."
The man's thin smile widened, a predator savoring the chase. "Am I?" He took a step closer, his eyes scanning the doorway behind her, as if he could sense the secrets it held. "My name is Silas Vane. My dear stepsister, Elara, recently passed from a tragic illness. A terrible loss."
He paused, letting the lie sit in the air between them. Mrs. Dobbs did not flinch.
"My condolences," she said, her voice flat and utterly devoid of sympathy.
"Thank you," Silas replied, the picture of grieving propriety. "However, a rather disturbing report has reached me. A report of a disturbance at the cemetery. At her plot. And then, curiously, I hear a rumor. A rumor that the reclusive Dr. Finch, known for his unconventional methods, was seen asking questions about consumption late last night. A strange coincidence, would you not agree?"
Alistair's mind raced. He had been careless. In his desperation for supplies, he had spoken to a late night chemist, his questions too specific, too urgent.
"The Doctor is a man of science," Mrs. Dobbs retorted, her hands planted firmly on her hips. "He asks many questions. It is his profession. It does not make him a ghoul."
Silas's smile finally vanished, replaced by a mask of cold impatience. "I am not here to debate his profession. I am here to find what is mine. I will speak with him. Now."
He took another step forward, intending to push past her.
Alistair knew he could hide no longer. To let this man intimidate Mrs. Dobbs on his own doorstep was unthinkable. He took a deep, steadying breath, willed his hands to stop trembling, and pushed the door open.
The bell above the door jangled softly with the movement. Both Silas and Mrs. Dobbs turned to look at him.
"Is there a problem, Mrs. Dobbs?" Alistair asked, his voice deliberately calm, though it felt like gravel in his throat. He stepped into the shop, positioning himself between the housekeeper and their unwanted guest.
Silas Vane looked him up and down, his expression one of utter contempt. He saw a man in a rumpled shirt, shadows under his eyes, the faint, lingering scent of antiseptic clinging to him. He did not see a doctor. He saw a desperate man.
"Dr. Finch, I presume," Silas said, not offering a hand. "I am Silas Vane. We have a matter to discuss."
"So I hear," Alistair replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "You are accusing me of stealing from a grave. A serious allegation. Do you have evidence? Or only rumors and coincidence?"
He was bluffing, putting on a show of righteous indignation, all while his heart hammered against his ribs. The evidence was currently sitting in his basement, wearing his sister's dress.
"I have a missing body," Silas snarled, his composure cracking to reveal the ugliness beneath. "I have a disturbed grave. And I have you, a man known to skulk in the dark with corpses. The evidence seems rather conclusive to me."
"Then take your conclusions to the constables," Alistair shot back, his tone icy. "Let them come and search my premises. Let them see my work. My legitimate medical work." He gestured around the clean, orderly shop, a stark contrast to the horror in the basement. "But know this, Mr. Vane. If they find nothing, and I am certain they will find nothing, I will sue you for defamation of character so thoroughly you will not have a penny left to your name. Do I make myself clear?"
It was a gamble of monumental proportions. A bluff backed by nothing but sheer, desperate nerve. He held Silas's cold gaze, refusing to look away, praying the man would not call it.
For a long moment, they stood in a silent battle of wills. Silas's eyes narrowed, searching Alistair's face for a tell, for a flicker of fear.
He found none. Only the cold, steady anger of a man falsely accused.
Silas's confidence wavered. The idea of a public scandal, of constables poking through his own affairs, clearly did not appeal to him. A man with a secret to hide does not invite the light.
His lip curled. "This is not over, Finch. I will be watching you."
"Watch all you like," Alistair said, his voice low and dangerous. "But do not darken my door again without a constable present. Now get out."
Silas Vane stared at him for one last, hate filled moment. Then he turned on his heel, wrenched the shop door open, and strode out into the morning street without another word.
The bell jangled violently in his wake.
The silence he left behind was thick and heavy. Alistair did not move. He kept his eyes fixed on the door, his body rigid, until he heard the sound of a carriage pulling away.
Only then did he allow himself to slump against the counter, his breath escaping in a ragged shudder.
Mrs. Dobbs let out a tremulous sigh, her hand fluttering to her chest. "Oh, Doctor. What a vile, accusatory man. To come here and say such terrible things."
Alistair could only nod, his mind racing, scrambling to build a dam against the flood of questions he knew was coming.
"But did you hear his name?" she continued, her voice dropping to a horrified whisper. "Vane. He said his name was Silas Vane." Her eyes widened as the connection snapped into place. "But that is, that is her name. Your Elara. That man was her…" She trailed off, her face a mask of dawning confusion. "Doctor, what is the meaning of this?"
This was the moment. The crack in the foundation. He had to patch it now, or the whole structure would collapse.
He looked at her, letting a well practiced mask of weary anguish fall over his features. He ran a hand through his hair, the picture of a man burdened by a painful secret.
"Her brother," he said, the lie coming out in a low, strained confession. He put a world of meaning into those two words. "He is the reason, Mrs. Dobbs. The reason she fled her home. The reason she came to me in the dead of night with nothing. He is a cruel man. A controlling man who would see her locked away or married off against her will for his own gain." He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if sharing a grave confidence. "She was half mad with fear when she arrived. I could not turn her away. And we could not risk him finding her. That is why it had to be a secret. Do you understand now?"
He watched her face, praying she would accept this new, darker layer to their story. He had given her a villain, a motive, a damsel in distress. It was a tale any decent person would want to believe.
Mrs. Dobbs's expression cycled through shock, then dawning horror, then finally, a fierce, protective fury. Her confusion melted away, replaced by the clarity of a righteous cause.
"That creature," she breathed, her voice trembling with indignation. "His own sister. To drive her to such a state. No wonder she was so fragile. No wonder she hides." She clasped her hands together, her face hardening. "Pursuing the poor girl even now, with such foul accusations. What a monstrous soul."
The relief that washed through Alistair was so potent it left him dizzy. She believed. She had not just accepted the lie, she had embraced it, making it her own truth.
"He is a monster," Alistair agreed, the words tasting like ash. It was the truest thing he had said all morning, yet it felt like the deepest sin.
"He will not get to her," Mrs. Dobbs said, her voice firm with a new, maternal steel. "She is safe here. With us." She looked at Alistair, her eyes filled with a shared purpose. "We will keep her safe."
The weight of her unconditional belief was heavier than any threat from Silas Vane. Alistair simply nodded, his throat too tight to speak. He had won the confrontation at the door, but he was now more trapped than ever in the beautiful, compassionate prison of a lie he had just made infinitely more detailed. The web was spinning tighter, and he was at the very center of it.
He moved toward the basement door, his need to see Clara, to see Elara, suddenly overwhelming. He had to know they were safe. He had to know his bluff had not cost them everything.
He descended the stairs quickly. The scene that greeted him was so peaceful it felt like a dream.
A single lamp burned low, casting a soft golden glow. Clara slept on, her breathing still that miraculous, steady rhythm.
And in the chair he had vacated, Elara was asleep. She had pulled the stool close to the table and folded her arms upon it, resting her head on them. Her face was turned toward Clara, her features soft and relaxed in slumber. One hand lay near Clara's on the table, their fingers almost touching.
She had kept her vigil. She had watched over his sister through the night.
All the fear, the tension, the calculated anger from the confrontation upstairs, melted away. He stood there for a long time, watching them. The sister he had almost lost, and the stranger who had helped him save her, now bound together in the quiet intimacy of the sickroom.
The world outside was cruel and full of threats. Silas Vane was still out there. The law was still a possibility. Clara was still frail, and Elara was still ill.
But in that moment, in the lamplit basement, there was only a fragile, hard won peace. He would defend it. Whatever the cost.