alt!Richmond's meeting with original!Sophie.
I'm just trying to understand how this scene went down. It happens off-screen and is a huge catalyst for, well, both stories. But the more I change alt!Richmond the less I understand how this happened...
He wanted to be subtle, to arrive quietly, but he immediately put too much weight on his bad leg and had to lean back: a floorboard creaked. Through the bookshelf he saw the girl's head jerk up, her ponytail flipping over her shoulder as she looked his way.
"Who is it?"
He considered using his new ability to get out, to escape, but then he remembered he had nowhere to go.
"It's okay," she said, though she sounded as unsure as he was. She was on her feet now.
He steeled himself and took the few remaining steps around the side of the bookshelf, each of his footfalls deafening despite the carpet. He tried to square his shoulders as he faced her, but he couldn't quite bring himself to meet her gaze. He removed George's hat and hugged it to his chest, forgetting for a moment what had been done to his hair.
"Richmond?"
He looked up in surprise, though of course she would know who he was--who he was supposed to be. There was pity in her eyes.
"Richmond-- oh, you can't be-- I mean, you're from the other reality, right? From her reality? You can't be my brother's Richmond."
He shook his head and she exhaled in relief.
"But what happened to you? You poor thing." She took a step forward, but then something changed in her expression and she stopped. "Is it you? I mean-- it's you?"
He didn't understand. "I can't stay," he said quietly, unsure of his voice.
"So why are you here?" That was suspicion. He'd dealt with plenty of suspicion over the years.
"I shouldn't say."
"To kill me?"
He looked up again in surprise. Her expression was calm somehow. It was just a question. Not a challenge.
She narrowed her eyes. "You are here to kill me!" And then she laughed. It was a disbelieving laugh, but it was a laugh nonetheless. She laughed at the idea of being murdered. "You! I can't-- you! A whole world out there full of people who need the money and all of time and it's you!"
"Why would I?"
"Why--? I don't know. But you're here and it's the right time. So are you going to do it or not?"
"What do you--?"
She took another step forward, her eyes on his clothes. "You've got some sort of weapon, haven't you? I'm sure you have."
He did. He had the scalpel--that same scalpel. He had it because he hated it. Because he hated what he had done with it. He had it because the dried blood on its blade would never let him forget what he had done.
But if he hadn't done it he would never have been freed. Freed to-- to nothing. To be alone.
"She wanted to know why you died. I thought if I could find out-- but it's stupid. I'm sorry." He stepped away and returned the top hat to his head, ready to pull himself to another place, but she stopped him.
"Richmond!"
He raised his gaze a little, but still not far enough to meet hers. She was holding a piece of paper out for him. It was old parchment, folded up and sealed with a shiny yellow sticker.
"Can you make sure she gets this? On the morning of her masquerade. She said it was in with her other mail. Letters from her friend and her mother."
He reached for it, but the moment his fingers closed over the parchment her other hand dove into his pocket and withdrew the familiar black case. She raised her eyebrows.
"I know what this is. You are here to kill me!"
"I wouldn't--"
But she had already opened the case and there it was. The blood had dried brown and was flaking off in patches that revealed the glittering silver beneath. She gasped. "Who else did you kill?"
He stuffed the parchment into his pocket and then grabbed for the case. She tried to pull it away, but he was quicker. He snapped it shut and hugged it to his chest.
"Richmond? Whose blood is that?"
"It was an accident," he mumbled, though he wasn't sure it was true. "Self defence."
"So you've killed someone before."
He didn't answer.
"Richmond. Richmond, if I don't die today it will destroy everything. Neither of our realities could exist, do you understand that? I've known this was coming for years now. I've made my peace with it."
"I'm not going to kill you," he insisted, his voice shaking.
He was still clinging to the black case; she covered his hands with hers, interlocking their fingers as best she could. The gentle touch surprised him. "If you don't do it, you won't exist."
"Good."
"She won't exist. It'll just be me."
Startled, he wrenched his gaze from their hands and his eyes met hers. "Joséphine-Marie?"
"Please, Richmond. It has to be you." She had worked the case out of his hands and undone the latch. The scalpel winked sharply in the yellow light of the library as she pushed its handle against his palm. "Don't be afraid."
His fist tightened around the cool metal. "They're going to hate me. Don't you know that? They're going to hate me! And they're going to convince her to do the same. She thinks-- they told her--"
"If you don't do this, there is no her to think anything."
He backed away, the scalpel still in his hand, and he vanished from the room.
x
Sophie's shoulders slumped and she returned to her spot on the floor, plopping down in front of the book she had left open. Rococo fashion. If she had had more time she would have bullied George into finding her an old sewing machine so she could try to create panniers properly. The coathangers and tablecloth had been a bit of a disaster. She closed the book and got to her feet. If it wasn't going to be done by that tragic version of Richmond, how much time did she have?
She returned the book to its shelf and took down the one right next to it, a massive collection of fashionplates. She was almost hungry now, but she didn't dare leave the library. She hugged the book to her chest. If that was Richmond in the baroness's reality, what had become of her brother?
Poor Julian. The baroness had said he seemed to be okay. She had described him as--well, unmistakably as himself: an energetic, chipper, loving man. Her brother. She had even mentioned his grin.
Sophie hugged the book a little tighter and she turned around, colliding with someone who had been standing just behind her.
"You're right," he said, his voice unmistakable. "I'm so sorry."
For a moment, she didn't feel anything but cold. She opened her eyes and he was looking down at her. He was holding her in his arms. He was saying something else, his expression urgent, but she couldn't focus on his face. Couldn't focus on anything.