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Chapter Text

The Sour. The Bitter. The Sweet.

An Ode to Love in the Afterlife

It did not taste quite right.

The liquid that danced upon her tongue had the requisite sour notes. The sweetness was there, the amount of sugar perfect. Not overpowering. The issue was that the bitter made her purse her lips at the taste.

And yet, she takes another sip. Her face has a smile plastered on, even though a part of her thinks that this was not quite right. This lemonade was unsafe.

He gave it to her, you see. The man with curls, the color of chestnuts like the ones she collected with her sisters as a child. Her fingers itch to run through his locks, for they look silky to the touch.  Those eyes of his are almost black as midnight, but she can see that they are blue around the edges. If she did not know him so well, she might consider those eyes frightening, not seductive.

Maybe she should.

He whispers into her ear. The orchestra is loud this evening. She cannot make out the words. Nods and pretends that what she hears are words of appreciation. Love? She is not that naïve.

Tonight, she could pretend to believe. Tonight, she feels beautiful.

A dress of the perfect shade of Bridgerton blue. It matches her eyes, which he once compared to the sea. The fit is pleasing. It drapes around her figure in a way that makes this wallflower feel a newfound confidence. Her shiny copper hair in soft ringlets around her face made her feel bold.  

Tonight, she was a girl with a full dance card. Pleasing looks from eligible lords and dukes. A gift of lemonade from the boy she had always desired.

Lemonade that made her feel dizzy. Her thoughts are not clear.

It becomes hard to breathe. He takes her into his arms. This was once her dream. The story she wrote in her journal.

He helps lower her to the floor, as he looks around. She can see him gaze upon her. He places a kiss on her forehead.

“Sleep well, Lady Whistledown.”

XXXX

From this view, she looks like a painting.

Life is not completely drained from her yet, for her cheeks are still rosy.

Colin smiles down at her. It is joyful and it is terrifying. He then looks up with a face pained as he yells, “Please help! My Penelope!”

It is a lie. He is a liar.

“You look quite beautiful,” There is a voice behind her. Strong, kind, with an attempt at comfort. “Blue is your color.”

She turns slowly.

Benedict Bridgerton.

He smiles sadly, takes her hand.

“Colin gave me that very same smile.”

Her dress. She felt so pretty this night.

They finally, really saw her. She believed they might have liked what they saw finally.

“How are you holding up?” His words almost make her laugh.

How is she? Dead.

Can the dead have an attack of panic? For she wishes to scream. To wake up from this madness.

“I didn’t want this,” she whispers. Who would hear but Benedict Bridgerton?

He rubs her palm. “I know. I didn’t want this either.”

“I felt so special tonight.”

“You sparkled,” he tells her. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

If tonight wasn’t the best turned to the worst of her life, she might have blushed with a flirtatious smile.

There is nothing left in her but a burning hatred and confusion.

Colin.

He was holding her now. Weeping like a man undone. A man whose love was ripped away from him. Hysterical.

A liar.

“He is a horrific actor,” she states. There is a numbness setting in. Is it a symptom of shock? Is it a symptom of death? Is it a symptom of her love being used against her?

“Terrible.” Benedict pulls her into his arms. She lets him. Surprisingly, she can feel anything, being in the state she now finds herself. “He will get worse. He likes to put on a show.”

Of course, he does. The world is Colin’s stage. The citizens are his co-stars that he can remove on whim. Permanently.  

“I hate him!”

She screams this. Into Benedict’s chest.

Rage. Hatred. There is nothing left in Colin’s arms but a bag of bones.

Turning out of Benedict’s arms, she screams again.

Colin.

He was her friend. He was her passion. He was her destruction.

“I hate you!”

The volume. The intensity shook her body.

Colin looks up. Eyes widen. He sees her.

“I hate you!”

He shakes his head like he is trying to forget.

Turns back on his waterworks of deception.

“I hate him.” She says this more quietly as Benedict’s soft lips brush her forehead.

“I know, Penelope. For I do as well.”

This life. It is gone.

The need to destroy him burns her. It lights the fire.

He saw her once. She will do it again.

She will break him bit by bit.

Revenge so sweet.

Chapter Text

“Are we stuck here? Forever? The Cowper’s ballroom?”

A smirk from his handsome lips. “Goodness, no. This room just might be one of the seven circles of Hell, but not one for us to have to linger in.”

She watches as Cressida Cowper looks down at her body, still being held tightly by Colin. The woman covered in peacock plumage proceeds to faint gracefully into the arms of Lord Fife.

“Not even in my death could Cressida let me have the spotlight. Being stuck watching her as an apparition must be a punishment for my wicked past.”

Benedict lets out an indelicate snort.

She spins around and regards him with a frown. “Do you find this amusing, Mr. Bridgerton? Is my murder a little amusement for you while life continues merrily? As you stand by and watch a free performance?”

A sigh from him. She realizes his face is quite handsome. His face looked like it was sculpted by a master artisan. Had she forgotten, or did her narrow focus on Colin blind her to his older brother’s beauty?   

“Of course, not. I would have never wished this for you. Never. It has been a long time since I’ve been a part of a stimulating conversation, Nel. Usually, others like us just wail and curse God. I am quite happy when they wander off.”

“We aren’t the only ones, then?” She glances at him before returning her attention to her mother, who finally realizes her youngest’s body lies lifeless.

Portia’s screams fill the room. Benedict’s mother, her face streaked with silent tears, holds Portia tightly while murmuring words of solace into the woman’s ears.

“No. There are more Wanderers. That’s what I started calling them. You never know where they came from and where they are heading.” His face is stricken as he watches his mother’s tears run down her cheeks. “Perhaps Colin could have held himself back from taking another one of Mother’s children. She has had enough pain.”

“I’m not one of her children,” Penelope says softly.

Her own mother’s hysterics were performative just like Cressida’s faint. Violet Bridgerton looks like pure grief with the strength of a survivor. A woman who has survived this too many times before.

“Of course, you are. You are a daughter in her heart. Mother might not have given birth to you, but you are just as important to her as the rest of us. He took us both. It’s nasty work to destroy Mother like that.”

She takes in his grieving face, the way his fists are tightly clasped. “I was not the only victim. You were as well.”

“The hunting accident? Oh yes. Anthony continues to blame himself for his poor shot and suffers for killing his little brother. Suffers while in a haze of alcohol and sin, slowly trying to kill himself by vice to numb the pain.” Benedict motions to Anthony, who stands frozen nearby their mothers, his face in fresh pain. “Colin destroyed his elder brothers with the precision of a surgeon.”

“Are there more?” she asks this tentatively. “That Colin…”

“A handful.”

“Mr. Bridgerton, I am so…”

Benedict places his hands on her shoulders so he can look into her eyes. “Benedict. Or perhaps Ben, if it pleases you. There is no reason to cling to propriety now. What mamas will tut at us for being familiar in this spectral realm? A chance to be a little free, don’t you think? Now if Anthony were here…”

This was an act of distraction. She appreciates the effort.

“He would tell me to stand up straight. Remind me to keep a stiff upper lip, perhaps?”

A sad chuckle. “Perhaps, Miss Featherington.”

“Penelope, is fine.”

“Pen?”

Her heart starts to shatter anew. Colin’s name for her. A term of affection that was a damnable joke. She closes her eyes to try to block out the pain. To stop herself from looking at Colin holding her. Holding her corpse.

“Never that.” Her voice shakes.

“Nel. You are a Nel,” Benedict says it sweetly. His hand on her cheek. “That is my name for you.”

“I like that.” She opens her ocean eyes slowly to look into his eyes of green. The color reminds her of the fresh leaves of spring.

Everything feels terrifying. She never imagined still feeling the cold dread of the unknown after dying. Even as a child, she would sit in the pews next to her family and think to herself that there would be nothing.

Eyes closed forever. The darkness.

No more Penelope. Just rotting flesh in a shallow grave.

Yet, here she stands truly unseen. Not as a wallflower. Truly invisible.

It would be truly frightening without Benedict beside her.

“Why now?” she asks.

“What do you mean, Nel?”

“There were plenty of times he could have…?”

She remembers whispering with Colin behind potted ferns about Lord Cho’s tendency to wax poetic about a hummingbird outside his window to a bored looking Miss Emma Kenworthy. When they would sit together on a settee, he would discuss his tour of Greece in great detail. Oh, how she smiled and nodded at him while trying to hide her eyes from glazing over, wanting to read her book but craving to make him happy. How he would tuck one of her stray curls behind her ear under a willow tree while she promenaded with his family, while he told her how important she was to him.

Lies of friendship.

The lion and the lamb.

The predator was slowly stalking his prey.

The glare she directs his way as Anthony forcibly takes Colin away from her body. A white table linen is placed gently over her body by a servant. Their face was a picture of sadness. She remembers being kind to the man after Miss Clara Livingston was being quite cruel. At least there would be one that would remember her fondly for a moment.

She whispers, “And then she was nevermore.”

“It was how you sparkled tonight. I always thought you beautiful, but the rest of the ton finally came to their senses.”  He clears his throat after saying this. A slight blush graces the apples of his cheeks. “I believe you became more to them, and the possibility of you not needing him was too much for Colin.”

“I was happy. He wanted to destroy me for it,” she spat.

Colin was blubbering into Anthony’s cravat and repeating her name like a sacred canticle.

“Sleep well, Lady Whistledown,” Colin told her as she was dying.

Lady Whistledown.

Jealousy of her.

Cutting her down to nothing.

Dearest, Gentle Reader…

I will drive Colin Bridgerton mad.

_________________________

AN: Benedict POV next would be lovely. Don't you think?

Chapter Text

BEN

Penelope’s casket is lowered into her grave by the Bridgerton family’s servants.

The funeral of the prettiest girl he had ever gazed upon. The prettiest spirit who glowers next to him.

“It was kind of your mother to give me a final resting place.” Her face was full of sorrow. “Do you think I would disappear if they dropped me into a burn pit. All my bones turned to ash. A pauper’s grave was always a possibility, but appearances must be kept.”

Her words are so bitter. He craves to be able to hold Penelope’s hand.

They had sat in the Bridgerton parlor and listened to their mothers as they bickered about Penelope’s final resting place. The Featherington plots had been sold for extra funds. Her mother wanted to say that Penelope died from the plague. Penelope’s face was the picture of sorrow when her mother suggested that her daughter might need to be burned with victims of the plague that was dispatching those of the lower classes. The fact that there was no place to put her casket was a slap in the face to Benedict’s lovely companion.  

The plot Benedict’s mother offered was always meant for Penelope. She was always meant to be a Bridgerton, Violet Bridgerton would announce to anyone who would listen. Mostly, to her children. It was the worst kept secret of the Ton. It was a mystery that the exquisite Lady Whistledown never discovered this truth.

The irony? Her plot was right in the middle of his grave and Colin’s future plot. It would almost be laughable if it weren’t so disconcerting.

“Mother looks as if she is being forced to listen to a very tedious orchestra piece. She must have a seating chart to plan, a handkerchief to embroider, or how dare the priest give my eulogy and interrupt her important critique of the floral arrangements. Never enough yellow.” She wraps her arms around herself and shivers as if she could feel the cold breeze that makes Hyacinth’s ribbons float through the air as she cries.

Anthony holds the weeping Hyacinth on one side and the stoic Eloise on the other. Benedict expected the free-flowing tears from his sisters and his mother. Gregory loves Penelope in the way boys experience the first awakening of desire do. All-consuming and heart-wrenching when they fall in love with the unattainable dream. It breaks his heart to watch young Gregory try to stifle his tears. There is a piece of yellow fabric clutched in his hand. A piece of one of Penelope’s old dresses. Then he notices Eloise holding a scrap of yellow as well.

It is Anthony who surprises him. Tears stream silently down his face. The yellow fabric peeks out of his pocket. He looks back and forth between Penelope’s grave and Benedict’s. As if he were the reason for both their deaths. When the whimpering Colin next to him was truly the one at fault.

Benedict closes his eyes. Memories of that day. His last day. You would think, as a specter, that these recollections would become dimmer, but instead they are more vivid. Like the intensity of the raw pigments that are combined to make his oil paints.

He didn’t want to go on the hunt.

He never did, but certainly not this day.

Colin’s gaze followed him through the forest. Keeping close. Too close.

A discussion. Benedict knew he had to gather the strength to have one with his younger brother in the hopes that he could be proven wrong. What he observed was a misunderstanding.

What began as a night of drunken debauchery with his artist friends, with too much whiskey and too many caresses by buxom harlots, became an actual nightmare.

That Colin’s knife did not slice the pretty, young woman with the flaxen hair selling apples. Perhaps she had a ribbon caught in her basket that he was helping free from being stuck?

That was pure wishful thinking.

Did Colin see him? He had glanced in Benedict’s general direction. Plus, the coldness in his brother’s eyes in their recent interactions chilled Benedict to the bone.

He rubbed his eyes and put his rifle by his feet. Benedict Bridgerton was an artist. A lover of beauty. A Renaissance man. Never a killer.

Anthony yelled at something in the distance. It was a shock that his eldest brother didn’t scare away all the woodland creatures.

Colin walked up to Benedict, gun raised.

“What are you doing, Brother?” he asked Colin. “That doesn’t seem to be proper firearm conduct.”

There was a smirk on his lips. Colin whispered, “I know you saw.”

“Colin, we can talk about this,” Benedict told him. “Please! This is not you!”

“I am more myself than I ever knew possible.” Colin’s finger on the trigger. “The pressure, Ben. It’s suffocating. You have your art. I didn’t have anything for myself! Anthony won’t let me travel. Pen suggested…”

“Penelope?” Benedict could imagine her lovely face as he asked this. Stars in her eyes, asking nothing in return as she tried to support his brother.

“Yes! Pen said I need to find joy. I did! The release is invigorating. She truly knows me far better than anyone else.”

He highly doubted Penelope truly knew this side of his brother. That beautiful young woman would be horrified to know that she inspired this behavior in Colin.

“I think Nel meant a gentler hobby. One that doesn’t hurt others. Perhaps writing? Letting your frustrations be bled out on the page with ink and not blood.” Benedict glanced down at his rifle, which leaned against his leg. He wondered if her could reach it in time. He doubted he could harm his little brother, for even in a situation such as this, he still loved him with all his heart.

Colin frowned. “Nel? You don’t get to call her anything. You hear me? I found your drawings of her. They’re beautiful, and you should not have dared to look at her that way.”

“I sketch everyone, Brother! I draw pictures of our sisters all the time! She’s family.” Benedict raised both hands in the air as if his palms could protect him from a bullet speeding out of the barrel of a rifle.  

“Those sketches are intimate! They make one feel things, Ben. You took liberties,” Colin hissed. “Penelope Featherington is mine…I mean…I had considered…I have considered many things about what to do about the situation we find ourselves in. There is only one solution.”

“Let’s sit down and talk about this, Colin. We don’t need to involve Anthony. The two of us can figure out a way forward,” Benedict pleaded to his brother. He could help him. Heal him. “Penelope will meet someone someday. She is a beautiful girl. If you won’t marry her, someone else will. We can work on how you can learn to share your friend…”

That is when Benedict knew he had made a fatal mistake. The combination of mentioning that other men might be besotted by her and that Benedict found Penelope Featherington beautiful had sealed Benedict’s doom.

Colin’s gaze was cold as a frozen lake in January. A thick piece of ice that covers turbulent waters underneath.

“Anthony, I think I spy a buck near the meadow opening!” Colin called out with a wicked smile on his face. The gun never wavered from Benedict’s chest.

“Colin, please no!”

There was a shot. At the same time as another.

As Benedict watched the bullet head straight to his heart, he wondered how Colin timed it so perfectly. Was it the shock of the situation that made this his last thought? A way for his mind to attempt to protect his sanity? There was no way to know.

He felt pain in his chest. Pain as he hit the ground. The smile on his brother’s face as blood colored his coat.

That smile faded before his tears began to fall. Tears without sadness. Just water falling down Colin’s face like a spring rain.

“Anthony! You shot him! Benedict is hurt! Quickly, Brother!”

Benedict’s eyes slowly closed as Colin continued screaming, as fabricated moisture streaked his cheeks.

The end of the artist in his prime.

Penelope watches as Colin cries into one of those yellow pieces of fabric. Benedict watches her.

The truth is that Benedict had signed a warrant for her death. He accidentally admitted Penelope was beautiful. It was certainly the truth. For months before his death, all he could see was her, all he sketched was her. He would never act. Oh no. She was Eloise’s dearest friend, so he buried any desires deep and pretended she was just another sister.

When he mentioned Penelope could be courted by other men, something ugly took root in Colin. It was one thing when Benedict was attracted to her, but others? That night that he took her life, she was a vision of beauty, an Aphrodite whose glow blinded the mere mortals that gazed on her.

That night, Benedict wished he were still among the living to stake his claim. Court her properly.

That night, Colin made sure that no one else, Dukes, Lords, Viscounts, would get the opportunity to offer her their hands in marriage. She would be forever his, sleeping soundly in her casket.

They watch as Colin secretly sniffs the sunny yellow fabric. To get whatever is left of the sweet smell of her skin.

“She never knew her loveliness!” Colin cries. “Mother, I had wished to marry her!”

He collapses in Violet’s arms.

Penelope believes her death was due to Whistledown.

Benedict knows it was Colin’s twisted need for possession.

Every night, as the dark had settled after Penelope was struck down by his brother’s jealousy. Benedict watched Colin sit in front of a roaring fire. In one hand, he clutched an issue of Lady Whistledown and one of Benedict’s drawings of Penelope’s sweet face as she smiles so brightly, looking like an angel.  With his other hand, Colin has reached inside his breeches, stroking himself to her image.

He could only imagine Colin’s rage if he knew that not only is she placed next to Benedict in her final resting place, but that they are together in death, the afterlife.

“He needs to be quiet. It’s embarrassing. To me,” Penelope glares at Colin’s hysterics.

Benedict just sighs. He strokes her arm gently before he kneels by his father’s tombstone.

He traces his father’s name with his fingers. Edmund Bridgerton.

What would his father say about this? What advice would he give to heal Colin’s fractured and violent psyche? Was there anything any of them could do? Highly unlikely. They were all just spirits, including his father, watching as spectators as life continued to move on around them.

“I wonder,” he whispers. He retraces the ‘E’.

“Ben, it was a tragedy where a tiny bee was the villain. You know this.” She places a hand upon his shoulder. They should feel like mist. But her pretty, dainty hand fills him with warmth. “Colin has plenty of other victims that he’ll be dragged down to the pits because of.”

 He looks up at her with a morose expression. “I know. I just wonder if Father could have stopped this. If he could figure out why Colin became this way.”

The hows and the whys.

Colin was still a sweet boy after his father’s passing. Kind and helpful. Sad. They all were. They still are, to be honest.

Penelope pulls him up gently. She puts her hand on his cheek. Her big sea blue eyes grow large as she realizes what she’s done. His hand moves to keep hers in place. Benedict leans into it and shuts his eyes.

This could be the closest thing to heaven, and he would happily remain here if he continues to have her with him.

“Ben, sometimes there are no answers. I wish there were. I wish so many things, but…” Her words taper off. Benedict looks up to watch Penelope as she stares at Colin. Who is staring in their direction, his face is furious.

“Can we try something? An experiment.” She looks at him. There was a glimmer of excitement in her eyes. A moment of joy on her face made Benedict melt. He would do anything to make this easier, happier for her.

Penelope pulls Benedict into her arms. His heart is beating rapidly. How is this happening? His heart had ceased drumming, so why does it thump in his chest once again?

Her mouth on his forehead. A kiss.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Her hand caresses his cheek.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Colin shrieks in anger. Almost as if someone stabs him.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“He looks like he’s going mad, Ben.”

He adores the way she says his name.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“He does, Nel. The asylums are quite awful, I’ve heard.”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

His finger strokes her bottom lip.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Another primal scream. Violet takes Colin onto her arms once again, “Sweet boy, she is with the angels now!”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“He sees us, Ben! Do you know what this means?”

Benedict takes her hand. Peels off her glove. Stares at Colin as he places a lingering kiss on the inside of her wrist.

The screams fill the graveyard. Real emotion, unlike the cries.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Chapter Text

Time as a spirit has been an awakening of sorts, Penelope realizes on this day.

Is it a Tuesday? A Saturday? It is easy to lose track.

Her education in this new life is well, that wouldn’t be quite correct...life is over. She continues hovering on the edges of time as it changes around her. Her education in death makes her increasingly drained.

It is frustrating how Benedict is easing her into this experience, teaching her what he has discovered in his time in the afterlife. His goal is that he wants to make it a more positive transition than he had after his death. It is kind of him, but unnecessary.

The same Benedict now lounges on the settee in Colin’s bedroom. His legs spread out, arms resting on the back of it. Relaxing and unbothered. His natural state as a living man.

His jacket was nowhere to be found. Sleeves are rolled up, showing his shapely arms. She swallows. Looks at the ceiling. Glances back at him. She can’t stop herself from appreciating his form like a wanton harlot. What is becoming of her?

This situation was getting curiouser and curiouser.

“How are you doing that?” She questions. Her eyes narrow.

He looks at her with mischief. “Ready for your next lesson, young Miss Featherington?”

Penelope crosses her arms in front of her chest. She huffs, “Are you to be a strict headmaster, Mister Bridgerton? Thwack my knuckles with a ruler if I don’t behave like a proper student?”

“Not where I was thinking I would thwack,” he mutters saucily, as he glances at her. Benedict covers his mouth with his hand in embarrassment. Then he straightens up and stares at her.

Penelope stiffens slightly. As Lady Whistledown, she heard many things that the young debutantes of the Ton would be sheltered from. The activities she could not quite comprehend, she would gather more knowledge from Genevieve Delacroix. The modiste reveled in teaching her young friend the ways of the world. Penelope never was able to experience any of these “delights” as Genevive called them, but she truly wished she was able to.

The look from Benedict Bridgerton, his words…Genevive would have warned her about them or, more likely, urged her to experience his charms.

Was this a consequence of being the only woman and man in this replication of the living? An attraction built on proximity, not actual affection? He was quite handsome. The Bridgerton of it all. Penelope hopes that her treacherous heart knew better than to linger on the residues of fondness for Colin. Her mind, however, has inky tendrils of hate that twist around to remind her how easy it was for her dearest friend, first love, to snuff out her light. It was as easy for him to murder her as it was to extinguish the flame of a candle.

“Sit with me, Nel,” he says, patting the seat next to him. The deep navy velvet fabric looks so inviting.

“Maybe, if you tell me how you are doing it first. The idea of my ghostly form disappearing into the cushions is not what I would like you to see. Quite an embarrassing thought.”

He pats the settee again with a laugh. “If you truly want to sit, then sit. That’s how it happened for me. It appears that when one truly desires something intensely, they can manifest it. For instance, as you might have noticed, I have removed my jacket. I placed it over on the chair in the corner. When there’s a will, then there’s a way even in death.”

“So, if I can sit, and you can remove an article of clothing, perhaps I may wish this gown to become a simple day dress? I truly hate the idea of following your brother around in the formal wear I wore to the ball for the rest of his living days. New clothes could be one dream too many, perhaps.” Penelope moves closer to the settee. Timidly.

A deep, unneeded breath. Then she sits. Joy lights up her face, which Benedict’s face mirrors.  “What a lark! This lesson today greatly defied expectations!”

“There’s more! Once, I became so angry that I tied Colin’s shoes together when he was poetically discussing my death and tormenting Anthony. Childish, I know, but…”

It was like what happened at the graveyard. Benedict moved Colin’s laces, and she…Penelope started to believe that she was making it up to bring her some solace. But perhaps…there was a hint of him seeing her on her final night amongst the living at the ball. Maybe Colin did see them. She willed it so.

“Did he fall? Were you able to accomplish the task?” Moving closer to him, she takes his hand in excitement. She is drawn to him. There is no doubt. Like a compass, he has become her true north in this time of uncertainty. “Have you attempted it again?”

Benedict looks at her hand in his. A beautiful, little smile plays upon his lips. His face is the picture of kindness, a face that she once thought belonged to his younger brother, but oh, how wrong she was.

“I moved some papers around on his desk. It’s getting easier to do. Hid a letter opener when Gregory came to see him for advice about a trip he would like to take. I couldn’t trust Colin with Gregory. If he could do such a thing to me, can I trust him with someone more impulsive? I do not doubt for a second that all my siblings are in danger. Even sweet Francesca could create an inharmonious note on her pianoforte to cause Colin enough ire for violence.” Benedict rubs her knuckle absentmindedly.

“At least Colin moved into this home and away from your family. It is much safer for them,” she says to comfort him.

He stands up and paces. “In this place, there are no eyes to catch him in his violent acts. Colin has no restraints on his comportment. I don’t even want to imagine the horrors that he can implement here. The staff is small and loyal. You’ve seen that motley crew! Some ne'er-do-wells he dragged in from the underbelly of London!”

“He hasn’t done it yet, Ben.”

Penelope stands. His movements are making her dizzy, or it might be that sitting so still is a task she must slowly work her way into.

“He has not thought of it yet, Nel.”

She joins him in his pacing.

“I am sure if we put our very intelligent brains together, we can…” she begins.

Benedict places her arm in his, as if they were promenading by the river and not in Colin’s bedroom. “You are the intelligent one, pretty Nel.”

Penelope looks down at their feet. His compliments are given freely. They make her feel like something special. She wishes, she dreams, that they had met first. That it was Benedict who was her sun, moon, and stars for so many years and not Colin. Maybe they would still be alive.

She giggles softly. “Fine. I shall be the intelligent one in this endeavor, and I will lean into your vast creativity. I believe we shall be quite the team.”

Benedict stops their movements to turn her body to face his. His expression is soft. “Nel, I…”

“Utter and complete bollocks!” Colin storms into the room. He is trembling with fury. Penelope pulls away from Benedict at the interruption. It is not if Colin can see them, at least not at this moment.

 “Clara Livingston! Is she mad? Mother has lost all her marbles!” He clutches a small card in his hand. Squints at it in disgust.

Penelope drifts closer to Colin to see the image. It is a drawing of the beautiful debutante, her smile serene and for once not with thinly disguised malice. An artist can truly make their subject appear in their best light. They would be perfect together. Colin and Clara with their ‘c’ names. Both beautiful. Both vicious. Clara with her tongue. Colin with his hands.

Colin holds the image and rips it in half. Throws the pieces onto the floor. “Marriage? Anthony won’t have the strumpet, so I must endure this torture? It is unfair! I shall never marry.”

Benedict runs his fingers through his dark hair wearily with a sigh. “Has he always been this tedious? Just muttering to himself. Is that hair upon his upper lip? I did not even notice. He looks like a fool. It’s barely coming in.”

“Perhaps he wants to pretend to be an evil Duke from one of his travels? Twirl his mustache, if it ever truly fills in, and push the damsel off a cliff,” she says darkly with a chuckle. The laughter quickly fades. “He’s going to kill her, Ben.”

“It would be an idiotic move for him, Nel. Too many people in his trajectory are dying. For God’s sake, Colin was just professing his undying love for you over our graves like that mawkish poet, Byron! I must agree with Colin this one time, what is mother thinking?”

Penelope gently touches the ripped pieces of Clara’s face with her toe. Clara was unkind in a quiet way. The young lady was not so outwardly hostile as Cressida Cowper. To be honest, Penelope respects Cressida more for not hiding her true self from society. She owns the cruelty. Penelope wishes she had never needed to hide behind Whistledown. Clara’s sneaky deportment just made Penelope angry, because the part of herself she didn’t like did the same thing.

This does not mean she wants Clara to suffer her fate. No one deserves how she and Benedict were destroyed with barely a care.

“We should take a stroll in the garden!” Benedict grasps her elbow forcibly. Not hard. Not to pain her. Though she wonders if she can even still feel physical pain. “The beauty of nature shall clear our heads. The roses in bloom are quite lovely.”

Penelope turns her attention to Colin as he takes another card out of his desk. The smile on his face is light, it reminds her of what her friend used to be. The boy she loved. He sits on the settee. Those long limbs of his relax.

“Nel, please trust me! Let us go! You do not wish to see…” He tries to lead her away, but she digs in her heels.

“Pen, only you,” Colin coos at the card. He unbuttons his breeches.

Penelope freezes. Her hand grasps Benedict’s waistcoat. “What is he doing?”

“Nothing for your sweet-tempered eyes to see, Darling,” he looks at Colin in loathing. “Please, Nel…”

The illustration is of her. It is beautiful. She looks like a fairy, wrapped in a gauzy material. Her curls are wild and free as drawing Penelope lounges by a stream.  

“Did you draw it, Ben?”

“Yes. You have been quite the muse to me.”

Penelope gasps as Colin pulls his cock out of his pants. Genevive described it to her, but seeing it makes her confused. She wonders if her revulsion is all men or just him. As she peeks at Benedict’s gentle gaze on her face. Benedict’s caring beauty. His gentle nature. She realizes all her distaste is about Colin.

“I will marry you in heaven, Pen. You will…come to me…” He moves his hand over his cock in a frenzied motion. He grunts in between his words. “Pen…Lady Whistle…mine…Pen…”

Benedict pulls her into her chest. For comfort. To shield her eyes from his brother’s debauched behavior. She lets her body remain in his embrace. Penelope finds that it is her favorite place to be. However, her attention remains on Colin. It makes her ill. It makes her plot.

“Darling…I…I…my heart…” Colin gasps. Penelope scowls at him. Colin Bridgerton has no heart. Instead, his chest is a cavern filled to the brim with malice and immorality. The wickedness of a spoiled boy who was allowed to run amok. “Lady Whistledown!”

He screams this as his seed spurts into his hand, all over his lap. Colin kisses her picture. His whispers in reverence, “Pen.”

“Penelope, I should have forced you out of this room!” Benedict lifts her chin gently. Runs his finger over her cheek. “Are you well, Darling? I am so sorry that…”

“Ben? Would you like to draw again? At least try. Like when you moved the letter opener?” Her hand moves to hold his on her face.

He looks at her in confusion. “Of course, I would love to…why are you asking this now?”

Colin still holds the original image that Benedict drew of her. An image he created when she was a quiet girl, hovering on the edges, mocked by her mother. As the artist, Benedict found her splendor beneath the mask.

“Can you draw me in this dress?” she asks cautiously. Penelope hopes Benedict still considers her his muse.

He kisses the top of her head. He does this without thought. It thrills her. “The ability to capture your loveliness again? It would bring me untold joy. But I must say, you have that charming glow you get when you are plotting.”

“Colin needs a reminder of us, don’t you think? The artist and his muse?”  She asks innocently, causing him to chuckle.

“For you, the world, Nel.”

At his words, her lips brush against his cheek. Close to his lips. She lingers there. Soaking him in. She sighs, “Benedict.”

There is a shriek. Colin jumps up, looking around the room in fright.

Penelope beams.

Let the games begin.

Chapter Text

She loves watching Benedict sweep his charcoal across the parchment. He is mesmerizing.

The tip of his tongue slips out and licks his lips. Pink. Soft.

It makes Penelope wonder why she finds it so…stimulating.

Normally, she would be embarrassed by the way she stares at him. Normally, she would be a blushing mess of a rosy glow covering her skin. Normally, she would stare at the floor wishing it would suck her into to the oak boards to make her disappear.

Penelope is the subject of his strokes. She clears her throat quietly at the thought. The strokes of his stick. Charcoal stick. She feels a heat come over her. She needs to fan herself. But instead, she needs to remain still. Steady.

Today, she was the subject of his art. The first step to revenge.

She wasn’t sure what was making her more excited. The idea of Colin’s suffering or watching the muscles of Benedict’s arms tighten as he sketches.

It would be a dream if she could convince him always to keep his shirt sleeves rolled up.

“You are easy to commit to the page. I can only imagine what I could do on canvas with a full set of oil paints. The mixture of oranges, reds, golds, a hint of brown, and a touch of blue, depending on the light, to create the sunrise of your hair, Nel.”

“You make it sound beautiful,” she tells him with a little cynicism.

“You are beautiful.”

He looks into her eyes. Charcoal stills. She can almost believe he means it. Wishes that he did.

She smiles slightly. It’s just a glimmer of her once bright smile. The tightness of her lips, she can feel it. In her melancholy, her face is becoming stone. “If the drawing continues to go well, maybe we can reintroduce paints to your repertoire.”

“A little harder to hide a canvas, my darling girl.” He chuckles and goes back to drawing. “Can’t slide oil paints under a couch like a piece of parchment and charcoal.”

She plays with a curl that escapes from her updo. Twirls it round and round her finger.

Benedict continues quietly. He puts down his supplies. “Nel, you need something you enjoy. Now that we know we can manipulate objects, there are now opportunities that we don’t need to focus all our attention on Colin.”

Colin. He does not deserve her attention. Penelope knows her rage toward him is a bonfire. She wants to consume him in flames and watch the devil torture him. Poke him with hot sickles. Slowly rip off his skin with a sharp blade. Use his eyeballs as…

“Penelope!” Benedict sits with her now. His hands turn her face to his. Without thinking, he kisses her forehead. Gentle. His lips are so very soft.  “I lost you for a bit. Hello there, lovely. How about you pick a novel? You love to read! I remember you sitting with El in the library with your noses buried in Jane Austin novels. We should find something jolly to enjoy.”

Those green eyes of his are so kind. She knows that Benedict wants to be helpful, but there is no joy in stories found bound in leather bindings. The prince will not rescue the princess. The young maiden will not escape the villain who wishes to ruin her. The wallflower would not be saved from murder by her first love by the dashing artist.

That wasn’t from a book. That was her former life.

“Nel, sweetheart…”

“We are living in a book of horror. Are we not? Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein or Polidori’s Vampyre. Their monsters are similar to the state we find ourselves in. We are the monsters!”

He pulls her into his arms. “We only become monsters if we allow ourselves to. My brother, however, is the actual monster.”

She pulls away slightly, but he immediately pulls her tighter to his chest. Benedict smells like home. Penelope mutters into his vest. “Ben, we are planning to slowly torture him. Does that not make a monster?”

“I think we are Colin’s better angels. Our creative influences will help him make better decisions. However, sometimes we need to take some more extreme measures,” he says this cheekily as he releases her and stands. Holds out his hand to her. “Come on, Nel. I think you have a plan with my drawing that you wish to put into motion, don’t you? Let the haunting of Colin Bridgerton begin. And Nel?”

“Yes…”

He spins her in a circle like they are dancing.

“Off to the library we go, Mademoiselle. You can read your Austin to me with my head on your lap. It shall feel like a tiny moment of heaven.”

XXXX

“We should be heading to Mother’s.” Benedict looks around in confusion. “What mischief is my brother getting himself into?”

They are at the docks. Large ships are being emptied of their shipments as more objects are being loaded. A seagull squawks overheard. It is a noisy place where the sailors yell directions and obscenities to each other with gusto. Women wander around them, hard at work themselves. Some sell bread and cheeses out of their baskets to the men hungry for sustenance. Other women wander in various stages of undress as well, offering themselves to men hungry for vice. The smell of rotted fish and the sweaty dock workers hang in the air, causing the few noblemen who are to be found to cover their noses with their silk handkerchiefs to attempt to stifle the stench.

“I never made it out this far,” Penelope whispers, even though she didn’t know why she speaks so softly. It wasn’t like anyone could hear her out here other than Benedict. “Just the printer and back home in the hack. This place is fascinating. The things I could have learned by visiting here.”

A woman with her breasts spilling out of her dress propositions a dock worker. Benedict’s hands clasp over her eyes. Penelope pulls his hands away and snaps, “I am not Hyacinth, Ben. Let me see what’s happening!”

“You are a noble born lady, Nel!” he admonishes.  

“A noble born deceased lady, Ben!” she counters. “I need not coddling by the likes of you like I was a wee babe. I did see some things in my time as Whistledown. Things about you, for instance. That handsome face of yours got into much mischief.”

Benedict tries to stifle a grin at her words before he motions to the actions of the people surrounding them on the docks. “You can’t fault me for trying to protect you. It is second nature.”

“You treat me like a sister.”

“I certainly do not feel like you are my sister in the slightest, darling.”

There is a tension in the air surrounding them. There is an electricity that pulsates between them.

“Oy, beauty, watch ye self. ‘Tis slippery with whale guts,” a gaunt old sailor who misses several teeth hisses at her, but gives her an appreciative look, nonetheless. He glares at Benedict before pushing past him. “Ye wife should not be here, Sir. ‘Tis no place for fine ladies. Nobility is fuckin’ fools. Need some ale…”

Penelope watches as he stumbles off with wide eyes. “That man sees us, Ben!”

“That man is like us. He just doesn’t realize it yet.” Benedict points to the back of the man there are several holes in his jacket. Blood seeps out of the wounds. “He was shot to death like I was.”

Her mouth drops without thinking, and her hands grasp the top of his biceps. “I see no wound like his on you.”

A smirk. “I figured out sooner that you can think away that part. Hide it away, I presume. I am still figuring it out as I go along. Some like that man are oblivious for a while. Others let their misery take them over. Wander wailing about what was lost, until they lose themselves completely. Just malevolent specters in their grief. I refuse to let either one of us submit to that fate. I like us the way we are.”

Benedict is always protecting her. Caring for her. Loving her? Confusion fills her fully. They have been playing courtship with their proximity. The touches between them would not have been allowed in their unmarried state when they were living. Her friendship with Colin had always toed the line of propriety. Her relationship with Benedict is completely over that line.

“I see Colin heading down that alley, Nel,” Benedict announces, as he takes her hand and pulls her through the crowd. Sometimes literally through flesh and bone, as her body feels lightless when she walks through a lady selling rolls. The woman shivers violently at the sensation.  

The alley is rather dark. The sunlight is not filtering fully between the buildings. Not a place to be found after dark, but not much better during the day. Rats are scurrying all over the ground in little packs of brown fur. Vermin. Harbingers of plagues. One scurries through her foot, and she lets out a scream. Penelope throws her arms around Benedict. His fingers gently rub her back.  Her eyes wide, she looks up at him. “I’m sorry. I don’t like them.”

“You’re safe. The mean little mouse can’t get you. I’ll protect you.” He strokes her cheek with the back of his palm. There is teasing in his expression. A sweet connection that continues to blossom between them. “I think you scare him more than he would ever scare you. I mean, we are spirits.”

As she slaps his arm with a huff, there is a growl and a shuffling sound that distracts them from their pleasing banter. In unison, they turn their heads to find Colin kicking at a group of rats that are scampering all over his feet and legs.

Benedict lets out a large laugh. “Colin’s friends have found him. He is a rat after all.”

Colin’s head twists around as if he heard his brother. A look of confusion comes across his face, but his face returns to its hardened state.

There is a rustling sound behind a large pile of wooden crates. There was a grunt and a low moan. A woman’s voice, “Oy. Not ‘ere, Ollie! The rats…”

“‘et’s give ‘em a show, luv,” a man’s voice barks. “I pay you enough to shut that pretty mouth and open ‘em legs.”

“Someone will see!” The rustling sounds become increasingly frenzied. “Please! ‘et off!”

There is a man and a woman in an embrace behind the crates, both younger than Penelope herself. Not much older than children. The girl’s hair is flame-colored like her own, maybe a touch blonder, but it is hard to tell in the lack of light. The girl attempts to push the muscular boy’s hands off her waist. He pushes his stringy, dark hair out of his face with a huff as he lets her go. “I only wanted a little taste, Mol. I need to go back to the dock soon. Old Jim ‘ill not pay me if I’m ‘ot quick.”

“I ‘ight be a whore, but I expect…”

Penelope’s hand tightly grasps the sleeve of Benedict’s jacket. She does not wish to see any of this. They are children forced into wicked adult games. At least the youth of the Ton get to experience the joys of childhood. These children grew up too fast, too soon, and are now being stalked by…

“Hello there.” There is a charming lilt to Colin’s voice. The voice he uses at ornate balls. The one that eases his fellow gentlemen into gentle ribbing of the less fortunate. The one that makes the debutantes and their mamas swoon at his attentions. “It appears that the young lady does not wish for your attentions, lad.”

The boy turns from the girl to glare at Colin. “Sir, you ‘an wait your turn. I’ll be done fast.”

There is a knife in Colin’s hand. Its sharp blade flashes. “My boy, I do not think today is your lucky day.”

The girl gasps loudly.

“Quiet, Pen… young lady.” Colin shakes his head. Penelope freezes. He is thinking the girl is her. “I don’t want to hurt you, pretty one.”

He does want to hurt her. Penelope knows this. Benedict knows this as well.

“Nel, go back to the dock!” Benedict rushes to try to grab a rock to throw at his brother. His hand goes through it like mist. “Why is this not working?”

“I’m ‘ot scared of a dandy like you!” the boy crows. All youthful bravado. The boy is quite burly, due to all the hard labor thrust upon him. There are no gentle promenades or lazy evenings at Mondrich’s or White’s for young men like this boy.

 Colin’s smile is feral. He might not have the heft of the younger man, but he has the cunning. “You should be scared.”

He lunges at the boy with his blade. The boy desperately attempts to grab it, but the girl makes a yelping noise that distracts him.

“Stop, Colin!” Penelope yells. Nothing. Not a look in her direction. “Colin Bridgerton!”

The blade goes deep into the boy’s heart. Colin twists the knife with a satisfied sigh. Blood flows out of the wound. There is no light left in the boy’s eyes as he slumps to the ground.

“The girl…” Benedict whispers.

She cowers by the wall. Looks even younger now, if that is possible. “Don’t hurt me. I have some coins. You can take ‘em.”

“Oh, pretty one, you remind me so much of someone I cared for very much,” he coos at her. “My torment and my desire. Locks of fire just like yours.”

Penelope moves to Colin, Benedict close behind. Screams in his ear, “Leave her be, you monster! Stop!”

There is a flinch of his body. It might not be anything, but Penelope hopes it gives Colin some pause in his actions.

“Please, Sir, I just want to go home.”  The girl is weeping now. “I’ll scream.”

The look he gives her is kindly. “They will not hear you. It is too loud with the busy motions of the ships coming in. I am doing this for you. It is a terrible life you are living. I am giving you true freedom.”

“Sir…”

“Colin, brother…” Benedict squeezes his eyes shut. Pain once again at the thought of the loss of his little brother, whom he loved. This monster is not the same boy.

“Stop! Stop!” Penelope is screaming it at Colin in a desperate chant. “Stop!”

“This hair…I miss her hair…” The knife is against the girl’s neck. He whispers as he looks in the girl’s eyes, “You aren’t her. Brown. Muddy eyes you have. My Penelope’s were crystal blue of the Grecian seas. Say hello to her for me, won’t you, sweet?”

Penelope shimmers now, as she roars, “I hate you!”

The blade knicks the girl’s neck slightly before Colin drops it as he stumbles back. It falls onto the dead boy’s leg. Colin looks in Penelope’s direction. He whispers, “Pen.”

“I hate you!” He continues to stare.

The girl rushes away toward the entrance to the alley, screaming, “Help! Help! A murder!”

Colin is still frozen, as Benedict grasps Penelope’s shoulders. Gently, he pulls her rigid frame into his arms. “My Nel.”

A gruff voice yells from where the girl ran toward. “Don’t you move!”

Colin runs.

Penelope had forgotten how fast he is.

There will be no justice for the boy. He is poor. No one will care.

Colin will once again roam free to kill again.

“You saved her, Nel.” Benedict lowers himself to be closer to her face. “Sweetheart, you did.”

But not the boy. Who is now looking down at his body in confusion, as he says, “Is that me?”

She pulls Benedict down a bit lower. She goes up on her toes.

A kiss.

A kiss for comfort. A kiss to thank him for all his support. A kiss to show the first blush of what feels like love.

A kiss to forget about the boy.

Dead at her feet.

A ghost now who screams into the chasm of the dead.