Unravelling bonds- prologue

November 1871, Eudora

"Is that all she said? That's it?!" My father's angry words echoed through the room, still stained with my brother's blood— remnants of what the officers had taken last night.

"She needs rest. Proper rest," the nurse tried to calm him.

I was there. I was there when he was killed, but I don't remember it—not a single fragment. I witnessed the most horrific thing, and yet, I can't recall it. All I feel is cold, as though death itself had kissed me, stealing my memory in exchange.

The floorboards creaked under my father's heavy steps as he entered the room.

"Useless. Absolutely useless. My son is dead, and you—" His voice boomed in my head: useless, absolutely useless.

"Sir, please, look at her—" the nurse continued, still trying to defend me.

"Sister, I don't think your assistance is needed anymore. The detective will be here soon." She gave me one last, sympathetic glance before leaving.

I waited. And waited. For something to happen. Useless. Absolutely useless.

My father was one of the wealthiest men in London. After his success in the oil industry, he owned stakes in numerous important factories. I was surrounded by riches: exquisite food, fine dresses, plush carpets, and high society. Yet, none of it mattered. I couldn't enjoy any of it. Useless.

Today, he wore a dark suit, his sack coat buttoned all the way up. He was unusually quiet, which was rare. Then again, this was the first murder in the family. His thick moustache was less neatly groomed than usual, and he had forgotten his glasses. His tie wasn't as tightly knotted, and his grey, neatly combed hair looked almost... white. He dressed simply, but the rage in his eyes was enough to intimidate anyone who dared cross him.

The sound of light footsteps echoed from the hall.

"Is he here yet? I barely managed to pull myself away from our sweet daughter... Oh." Her voice trailed off as she entered the room and kissed my father on the cheek.

"Detective Davies isn't here yet," she said, popping the cork of a bottle of rum and filling a teacup to the brim. Some traditions never die.

"And she...?"

"She... doesn't remember anything. A. N. Y. T. H. I. N. G. Do you believe that?"

"Honestly, how useless could she be?" my father snapped. "Well, don't you have anything to say? Sit up straight—you're not a rag. Though you might look like one."

I straightened up, smoothing my green dress as I tried to look presentable. I probably fidgeted with it more than I should have, but at least it distracted me from my stepmother's presence.

"Darling, please, slow down. What will the detective think?"

That had always been her main concern. She was everything expected of a woman: married, a mother, and ran the household with the precision of a queen ruling her country. She was the definition of beauty—deep green eyes and golden, honey-colored hair. A pity, then, that she was the biggest bitch you'd ever meet.

"Are you deaf now, too? I asked you a question." Her melodic voice snapped me from my thoughts.

"Sorry, I didn't hear you..."

"I asked if you have a cup of tea beside you. We don't want the detective to think we can't afford to fill the cups."

Right, the detective... investigating my brother's murder.

"No, I—uh, my cup is empty."

As the maid poured my tea, I heard a strange voice down the hall. Joy. The detective had arrived to berate me for my weak memory.

A tall figure soon appeared in the doorway. He looked nothing like I expected. His features were sharp, dark hair falling neatly over his brow. He looked... fit. And young.

Well... this might not be so bad.

"I am Detective Davies. Andrew Davies, that is. Now, what happened on the 2nd of November, 1871?"