Episode 9: Of Siblings and Shared Tendencies

There are very few places I visit willingly.

Fewer still that I consider equal to home.

My childhood estate is… acceptable.

“Define acceptable,” Beckett murmurs from beside me.

We are in the car. He is, predictably, immaculate—mask secured, gloves pristine, posture carefully composed like he’s bracing against reality itself.

“It does not offend me,” I reply.

“…High praise.”

“Do not let it inflate your expectations.”

The gates open before we fully stop.

Of course they do.

My mother dislikes waiting.

Monica is already outside.

Naturally.

“My darling,” she says, sweeping forward and immediately pulling me into an embrace.

I allow it.

Briefly.

Then she turns.

“Beckett.”

He freezes.

She cups his face.

He freezes more.

“You look pale,” she says.

“I—always—”

“We’ll fix that.”

“I am—fine—”

She kisses his forehead.

Through the mask.

He short-circuits.

“Mother,” I say mildly, “try not to dismantle my husband before lunch.”

“No promises.”

Inside, the house is unchanged.

Still elegant. Still quiet. Still full of people who prefer observation over participation.

Acceptable.

“Diana!”

Annalise.

She arrives like a small, delighted storm—dark lace, bright eyes, already reaching for me.

I catch her easily.

“You’ve gotten taller,” I say.

“You say that every time.”

“Because it continues to be true.”

She grins.

Then immediately pivots to Beckett.

“Brother-in-law.”

He nods.

“…Annalise.”

She narrows her eyes playfully.

“You look like you haven’t slept.”

“I sleep.”

“Define sleep.”

“…Rest with interruptions.”

“Tragic.”

Malcolm arrives more quietly.

Of course he does.

He stands slightly behind Annalise at first—same soft features, same reserved presence.

Then he meets Beckett’s eyes.

There’s a pause.

Recognition.

Kinship.

“…You brought your handheld?” Malcolm asks.

Beckett blinks.

“…Yes.”

“Good.”

They understand each other instantly.

Efficient.

We settle in the sitting room.

Persephone and Hades take their usual positions—silent, observant, faintly judgmental.

Annalise leans toward them.

“Have you been terrorizing your classmates?”

“Yes,” Persephone says.

“Subtly,” Hades adds.

Annalise beams.

“I’m so proud.”

Malcolm and Beckett are already seated side by side.

Devices out.

Quiet.

Peaceful.

“…This boss is poorly designed,” Malcolm says.

“It relies on artificial difficulty,” Beckett replies.

“I noticed.”

They continue like that.

No wasted words.

No unnecessary noise.

Perfect.

Mother watches all of this with open satisfaction.

“See?” she says to me. “Functional relationships.”

“We excel at them,” I reply.

“Unlike others,” she adds.

We both glance—briefly—toward the far end of the room where a distant relative is attempting to engage a servant in unnecessary conversation.

The servant disengages politely.

The relative persists.

A mistake.

“Shall we intervene?” Mother asks.

“No,” I say.

We watch.

Within minutes—

The relative asks something inappropriate.

The servant responds professionally.

The relative pushes further.

Tone worsens.

Assumptions are made.

Incorrect ones.

Mother sighs softly.

“Now it’s boring.”

She stands.

Crosses the room.

Smiles.

“Is there an issue?” she asks.

The relative brightens.

“Oh, I was just saying—”

“Yes,” Mother says. “I heard.”

A pause.

“Unfortunately,” she continues, “you were wrong.”

The room stills.

She asks three questions.

That’s all it takes.

Three precise, surgical questions.

Each one narrowing.

Each one exposing.

By the end—

The relative is apologizing.

To the servant.

To the room.

To themselves, internally.

Mother returns.

“Handled,” she says.

“Efficient,” I reply.

She smiles.

“Learned from the best.”

“Of course you did.”

Later, in the garden—

Annalise walks between me and Beckett, arms looped through ours.

“You should visit more,” she says.

“We are here now,” I reply.

“That’s not the same.”

“No,” I agree. “It isn’t.”

She looks up at me.

Softer now.

“We miss you.”

I pause.

Briefly.

Then I reach over, tapping her lightly on the head with the book I’ve been carrying.

twack

“Ow!”

“Composure,” I say.

She laughs anyway.

I lean down, kissing her forehead.

“You are not easily rid of me,” I add quietly.

Malcolm joins us.

Beckett beside him.

They’ve brought their quiet with them.

It settles naturally into the space.

“You’re staying for dinner?” Malcolm asks.

“Yes.”

“…Good.”

Simple.

Direct.

Enough.

By evening, everything is… aligned.

No noise without purpose.

No conflict without resolution.

No presence without place.

As we prepare to leave, Mother hugs me again.

Longer this time.

“You’ve done well,” she says softly.

“I always do.”

“I know.”

She turns to Beckett.

“Take care of her.”

He nods.

“…Always.”

In the car, on the way home—

“The teacher is off the clock,” I say.

Beckett exhales quietly.

“Welcome back,” he murmurs.

I lean against him.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

“It’s just me,” I add.

In the backseat—

“Mother,” Persephone says.

“Yes?”

“Can we visit again?”

Hades nods. “They are… acceptable.”

I smile faintly.

“Yes,” I say. “We can.”

Outside, the world continues—

loud, careless, self-destructive.

Inside—

we return to quiet.

To control.

To us.

Exactly as it should be.