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      A crow cawed loudly outside Edward’s office, shattering the silence of the cold Samhain night in Dublin. Startling at the sudden disruption, he glanced at the grandfather clock across the room. 1:27 it read. “Damn it,” Edward cursed, cleaning up the paperwork littering his massive desk. He’d meant to leave the office three hours ago at Arthur’s suggestion (and rather convincing dark-eyed pout). The long nights at the brewery were wearing on him, his eyes beginning to appear bruised and sallow. Arthur, for all his arrogant, hedonistic tendencies, still cared deeply for his family, especially his hardworking baby brother. Massaging the stiffness out of the aching muscles of his palm, he noted how raw the tips of his fingers felt from gripping the pen for so long.

      Trudging toward the door, the shiny metallic box of cigars he’d ordered earlier gleamed in the pale moonlight. A gift for Arthur’s birthday, which he supposed was actually today given the late hour. Smiling softly to himself, he tucked the small box and birthday letter into the breast pocket of his jacket and began his walk home. The pleasant scent of wood fire drifted through the air, making Edward wish he were already tucked into a plush chair by the fire, a glass of whiskey in hand. He walked briskly, the frigid November breeze biting at his exposed nose and ears. His evening walk, however, was abruptly cut short as he rounded the corner of a deserted street. A weight was thrown against him, pressing him sharply against the uneven stones of a dockyard rowhome. Raising his arms against the small, blond man, he recognized too late that the Fenian he suspected was part of Cochrane’s crew was holding a pistol. Fear shot up Edward’s spine, his dark eyes widening and nausea tearing his stomach to scraps.

      “Ireland will be free,” the young man proclaimed with a seriousness and stability in his tone Edward could’ve never mustered even in his most critical business meetings. Throat dry, he drew breath, ready to protest his own assassination when the Fenian raised the pistol so the barrel was nearly touching Edward’s chest. The pop from the gun was shockingly loud, and a small murder of crows took flight, soaring over the houses and into the night. Just as quickly as the ominous birds, the armed man dashed around the corner Edward had just come from, clearly not wanting to stick around in case the Dublin Garda were out this late. Shocked, Edward whined in pain, slumping to the ground and clutching his chest. The scent of burned fabric and tobacco stung his nose, and he grimaced in disgust and agony. He’d never felt so much pain in his life, not even the time he burned his hand on the furnace or fell off his horse as a child. He reached under his coat, gloved fingers coming away sticky with blood. Breathing through clenched teeth, Edward coughed, testing his lungs. He couldn’t taste blood, so at least the bullet hadn’t reached too deeply. 

      What do I do?

      The youngest Guinness sibling clutched the railing of a nearby staircase, clawing his way to a standing position. Feeling faint, he quickly glanced around to see if anybody nearby could help, but alas, Dublin was silent as the grave. Edward tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear, hanging his head, still gripping the rail of the stairs like a lifeline. He was a solid fifteen minute walk from home and was unlikely to make it before succumbing to the pain radiating from the bullet hole in his chest.

      I can’t bleed out here, Arthur wouldn’t know what to do without me. He needs me. But what if…

      The thought was sudden and absurd, as they frequently were when it came to her. Without hesitation, he began to shuffle down the block, pausing frequently to cling to the icy lamp posts. Squeezing tears from his eyes, Edward allowed himself a few pitiful sobs. Finally, after quite the battle of will between his mind and body, he had reached his destination. Her window was lit despite the hour.

      Thank the Almighty. 

      “Ellen,” he called as loudly as he dared, or rather could, with such a fierce and consistent throbbing of electricity shooting from the wound, “Ellen!” He saw a flash of movement from inside, waiting patiently as she lifted the window open.

      “Edward, go back home. It is far too late, and you’re absurd if you think I’ll let you in at this hour,” she called softly down to him.

      “Ellen, please,” his voice shook as he begged, stepping forward into the lamplight and pulling his coat to the side, revealing a growing crimson stain on his white shirt and mossy green waistcoat. He could feel his tear-dampened eyelashes freezing, and he knew she could see the way his hair clung to his forehead with sweat. Gasping, Ellen rushed from the window. Seconds later, she flung open the door to the building, rushing into the street toward him. He reached for her, stumbling forward. She caught him, holding him tightly before ushering him inside. Quietly shutting the door, she pressed him to the wall. Ellen bent, unlacing his shoes and helping him step out of them. 

      With an apologetic look on her face, she whispered, “I’m still not allowed to bring men inside, no matter how badly they need it.” He breathed harshly through his nose, allowing the corner of his mouth to rise into a smirk before wincing as she dragged his hand toward the railing of the staircase. It took some minutes for Ellen to help Edward lug himself up to her room, both of their hearts pounding with worry that the landlady would catch them.

      Once up the stairs, Ellen stripped him of his coat, throwing it onto a chair cluttered with papers, some of them fluttering to the grimy wooden floor. Edward sighed, pulling off his gloves and shuffling to warm himself in front of the fire in the furnace. Ellen had other plans, however. She stood behind him, hands clutching under his arms, pulling him backward to sit on the bed. He fell heavily, the bed creaking beneath his weight, a sound not unfamiliar to him. She knelt in front of him, unbuttoning the bloody waistcoat and shirt and gasped at the oozing wound on the right side of his chest. His skin was damp with sweat, and he shivered roughly as the cool air of the room caused the hair of his arms to rise. 

      “Who did this to you?” Ellen whispered, breathless. Edward looked up from the clotting wound to her face, the concern and anger barely contained behind her pale blue eyes. 

      “Fenian. One of your brother’s men I think. Seemed quite angry that I hadn’t spoken for Irish independence,” he muttered, hissing sharply as she pushed him back to lie on the mound of pillows she’d placed behind him. 

      “Fucking idiot!” she exclaimed in response, continuing to swear under her breath as she paced toward the cabinet by the window.

      He closed his eyes, exhaustion finally able to cloud his mind, sharpened only by the tender skin, burning as sweat ran toward the wound. The reprieve didn’t last long, however, as Ellen returned to the bedside with a pungent smelling rag. She daubed it over the small hole, sending a raging sting of pain throughout his body. He gripped the mattress, head thrown back, and tried his best to stay quiet (though not very successfully). As she rinsed the wound out with the alcohol and rag, she brushed the sweaty hair away from his eyes, kissing his temples. “I know Eddy, I know, I’m sorry,” she cooed, heart breaking more with each of his restrained cries. Tears once again streamed down his temples, dripping onto the pillow. Ellen was no physician, but she also wasn’t a stranger to grievous injury. As she cleaned the wound, she could see the metallic shine of the bullet, despite the seemingly unending flow of blood. 

      “Edward, dear, I’m going to take the bullet out. Can you bear it?” she gripped his arm, and he grabbed her in return, nodding and gulping. 

      Exhaling gently, she began to delicately extract the crumpled coin-sized metal circle. Edward sobbed, entire body tense, and bit into his wrist, desperately trying to stay quiet lest the landlady remove him in this vulnerable state. After what seemed like hours to Edward, Ellen had successfully extricated the bullet. He fell limp, nausea threatening his already damaged throat from the excruciating bawling. Edward felt gentle, cool hands place thick cloths over the wound and coax him to a sitting position. He rested his head against her shoulder, breathing raggedly as she wrapped an old pair of tights across his chest, binding the scraps in place. Allowing him to lie back down, she stroked the back of her wrist against his forehead, trying not to dirty him with his own blood. He heard the gentle splashing of water as she rinsed her hands in the basin by the door. He felt frayed, burned out. The pain was still there, just more of a dull throb than an electric shock. He felt sleep tugging him into oblivion, when suddenly, Ellen gasped, giggling softly to herself. Eyes opening blearily, he found her standing by his ruined coat, clutching a small metal box.

      “I thought you didn’t smoke these, Edward,” she chuckled, waving the tin in front of her face. He swallowed thickly, smirking. 

      “I don’t. That was a birthday gift for my brother,” he glanced toward the lightening sky, “which I suppose I’ll end up missing. I hope he won’t mind.” She crossed the floor, placing a quilt she had gathered from the floor across his bare chest. 

      Sitting with her back to the wall, she led him to rest his head on her thighs and began gently scratching his scalp, whispering, “Don’t you worry about what Arthur thinks at this moment. I’m sure he’ll understand that his tin saving your life was the best birthday gift he could’ve asked for.” Edward hummed softly, mumbling something about “that blasted cigar addiction” before his breaths, though still shallow, fell into a steady rhythm. Ellen continued her attention to his golden-brown hair, now messy and completely unlike his usual perfect styling. She would worry about the bloody sheets and her reckless brother’s men tomorrow. For now, she would be content to sit with the heir to the Guinness name drooling a bit onto her skirts.

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      “Edward,” Ellen whispered, softly brushing her fingers over his sleep-warmed cheeks.

      “Mm?” he groaned in response, hand searching for her. She reached out, clasping his blood stained palm between both of hers. She would have cleaned him up during the night, only he seemed so exhausted she didn’t want to risk waking him. The air was thick with the heat of the fire and the acrid smell of alcohol and blood.

      “One moment,” she whispered, crossing to the water basin. A small snort answered, muffled by the pillow Edward seemed to be drowning in. Taking a cloth from the edge of the bowl, she submerged it in the tepid, pink-stained water. The faint scent of iron clung in her nose as she squeezed the excess water from the rag. Ellen had gotten up in the early morning long after Edward had fallen asleep, hastily penning a letter to the Guinness estate in Dublin, hoping Arthur or his housekeepers would take the note seriously. She had asked that they prepare a carriage to take Edward home at midday, as she couldn’t risk having him in her room for so long. Not only was the landlady an absolute menace of a woman and would certainly give her hell for breaking the rules, she was concerned that a Guinness unaccounted for for more than half a day would certainly raise alarms. How could a Fenian explain to the Garda how the wounded son of the most influential man in Dublin wound up bleeding in her bed without the ordeal ending in her imprisonment. No, that would not do at all, so best to go straight to his siblings with complete transparency. Whether they would believe her… that was another concern.

      Hurrying back to the lithe figure tucked to his chin in quilts, Ellen gently scrubbed away the rusty stain of blood from his hands. He shivered as the cool water dried on his skin. Sorry Eddy, she thought, pulling back the quilts to reveal the burgundy trail running down his chest to the waist of his trousers, I’ll try to be quick. Her heart squeezed as she mused about the amount of blood he’d lost. The bullet hadn’t penetrated his lungs, but that certainly didn’t mean it hadn’t endangered his life. She spared a glance for the once white shirt now nearly half red, recalling how pallid he had looked as she peered out of her window the previous night. Edward was not tan by even the most liberal definition of the word, but his lips appearing the same ghostly grey-white as the soot-stained petticoats hanging in her room scared her more than she would have liked to admit. Soaking and brushing the dried blood away with more purpose now, she could see his face contort in discomfort, irritated from the cool air and rough fabric. It wasn’t perfect, and he would certainly need a more thorough bathing upon arrival at the Guinness’ home, but she got the worst of it off. Only a few stubborn spots remained under his nails and sticking to the hair of his wrists and torso, as well as a half-moon of puncture wounds where he had bitten into the skin the night before.

      She sighed, regretting having to wake him, but the clock quickly confirmed that it was nearly noon, and she would have to have him dressed in case Arthur Guinness decided it was worth it to investigate her claim on his birthday. Though she wasn’t too worried; of the myriad of times Edward had come to Ellen after a long day of running the brewery, seldom a day went by where he hadn’t mentioned his dear brother Arthur. Often spoken of in frustration, she could see through his heightened displays of irritation to the true, deep love he had for his brother. The family was tightly knit, and she would be shocked if Arthur didn’t at least send a servant to call on Ellen, let alone come to scoop his baby brother into his arms himself. Chuckling a little at the thought of the small older Guinness attempting to lift his beanstalk of a brother, she returned to the soiled clothing she had stripped from him and haphazardly thrown on the floor last night. There wasn’t much point in trying to clean them. The blood stains were expansive and had already spent hours drying. Besides, she was sure he could afford a new waistcoat and shirt. Hell, his workers would probably all pitch in to get him new ones as thanks for the new pension plan he’d implemented.

      “Edward, I’m going to need you to sit up now,” she said, delicately coaxing him to swing his legs over the side of the bed and knocking the bloody quilt to the floor in the process. His eyes were pressed shut, and there was substantial protest in the form of groans and hums of pain. Grabbing a fresh rag from her cabinets, she quickly changed the dressings, noting the pale fluid leaking from the red, swollen skin around the entry wound. I’ll have to mention that to Arthur… He breathed heavily as she tentatively lifted his right arm into the sleeve of his shirt. The stretching and slight use of the pectoral muscle was enough to bring tears to his eyes again. With great difficulty and the quiet mewlings of a boy in pain, Ellen was able to get him into his clothes, even draping his coat across his shoulders. Reaching for her with his fully mobile left arm, he grabbed her wrist as she began to walk away. Standing between his knees, and spinning to face him once more, she could see the gratefulness in his eyes. While she had been dressing him, he remained as silent as he could, only coughing occasionally as if he were about to retch from the pain. The look in his deep brown eyes was pitiful, honestly. Unbecoming of a man of such political power. She adored it. Leaning down, she kissed his forehead before pacing back to her dismally small pantry.

      “Are you feeling well enough to drink something for the pain? I have wine, whiskey, and… let’s see… Guinness!” she grabbed a bottle, presenting it in her hands to him as if she had just performed a magic trick, mouth open in mock surprise. He smirked, nodding and whispering in a raw voice, “whiskey, please.” It was immensely satisfying to have amused him even in this state. Pouring a small glass, she came to sit before him, picking up one of his shoes when she heard the sharp rapping at the door. 

      “Ellen! Come out here now!” came the shrill voice of the landlady. She met Edward’s eyes, widening with concern. She stood sharply, pulling the curtain in front of the bed to hide as much of the carnage as she could.

      “Ellen, I just needed to let you know I’ll be out for a moment to buy a shovel, and Ms. Murphy needs help with her laundry what with her bad shoulder and all. Some fool has left a disgusting trail of blood down the street and I mean to remove the filthy snow before-” she halted mid-lecture, eyes falling on the corner of a blood-soaked quilt. “Ellen, what on Earth is going on in here?”

      “Oh! Er… just an embarrassing accident, you see, I didn’t anticipate my monthly visitor quite so soon and I haven’t had the chance to do the laundry. I suppose I will meet Ms. Murphy shortly, havealovelydayma’am!” she rushed, shutting the door in the old woman’s indignant face. A low rumble came from behind the curtain and she flung it back with mock annoyance.

      “The ‘monthly visitor,’ hm? I’d say I come more often than once a month,” he teased, sipping the last drops from the whiskey glass raising his eyebrows suggestively at her over the rim.

      “Oh, hush, you know exactly what I mean, bonehead,” she replied, swatting at him like an ornery cat. A quarter hour passed in companionable silence, his head resting on her lap, and she petting him tenderly, when finally, she could hear the clop of two horses paired with the juddering of a carriage.

      “Edward, quickly, let’s get you downstairs!” she yelped. Rushing to tie his laces and supporting his weight as they trundled down the stairs, she couldn’t help but feel fear. What if they assume that she shot him? She was sure Edward would testify for her, but she could also see Arthur assuming his judgment was clouded by his feelings for her and put her away. He would explain to Edward that she likely was in part to blame, guilty by association with her brother and his violent group of Fenians. She believed in the cause of Irish independence as much as he did, she just couldn’t justify violence as the means to the end. Ireland would be free of the British one day, but if she could use espionage, reason, and politics to achieve that goal rather than arson and murder, she would every time. It pained her to know Edward and his family of aristocrats were Unionists, but she would never attempt to kill them over it. Opening the door, she was met with the stern, downturned eyes of Arthur Guinness.

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      He stared, cigar pinched between his fingers, surveying her with a disapproving gaze. Everything from her messy curls to her rumpled skirts seemed to offend him personally. She coughed as he blew smoke into the frigid November air, the plumes wisping around his mustache and occluding his slightly freckled cheeks. Turning to face Edward, he groaned theatrically, whining, “Now why is it that you always have to steal my spotlight!” Pulling him into a tight hug, Edward yelped in pain, from which Arthur immediately recoiled. It was only a brief moment, but Ellen watched as the self-assured, cocky act that he always had on dropped, replaced only by deep concern for his baby brother. His eyes softened, lips parted, looking as if he had just 

      “Right lad, you’re serious? Your Fenian lady friend here said you’d been shot but that it wasn’t fatal. Had to come see for myself,” Arthur explained, throwing Ellen another suspicious glance.

      “Arthur, leave her be, she saved my life. I wouldn’t have made it home if it weren’t for her,” Edward grumped back with as much conviction as he could muster. He pushed past Arthur, clamboring into the carriage with the assistance of the driver. Ellen stood awkwardly, unsure what the appropriate next step was until Arthur sighed heavily, gesturing with the cigar toward the carriage. “Well young lady, I don’t normally invite such reckless, mannerless rebels into my home, but I have questions for you. Besides, I suppose you know the condition of my brother better than any soul, and I would very much like him to remain with us for years to come. Hup! There you go, into the carriage, quickly now!” he batted his hand toward the street and marched her inside like she was being arrested. 

      Seating herself across from the brothers, it was a great effort not to tend to Edward. He looked worse than he had only moments ago, clearly spent from the minimal effort of walking alone from the front door to the carriage. She could see sweat beading on his upper lip, his eyes beginning to droop as he leaned his head against Arthur’s shoulder. The trip to the Guinness estate, though not far, was a painfully quiet one, broken only by the clop of hooves on cobblestone and Edward’s soft breaths. The young man had fallen asleep within minutes of their departure. Arthur’s distrustful glare was made substantially less intimidating with his brother’s face squished against the dark fabric of his coat. Growing tired of the staring match, Ellen decided it was best to clear her name as best she could. She explained everything that had transpired the night before, even mentioning the near-killer’s likely Cochrane employer.

      “Oh, and I figured you’d like to know that it was you that saved your brother’s life,” she punctuated the speech, fishing for the ruined cigar case she had stashed in the pockets of her skirts. Handing it to Arthur, she continued, “This was your birthday gift. Edward had been carrying it in the breastpocket of his coat when he was shot. The steel must have slowed the bullet enough to prevent it from puncturing his lung. You’re a lucky man that your brother has a kind soul, Mr. Guinness.” He didn’t meet her eyes for some while, staring unwaveringly at the case. He wouldn’t admit it, and she wouldn’t mention it, but she could see as his eyes welled up, a single tear escaping only to be quickly brushed away by the back of his hand.

      “Well,” Arthur sniffed, “Ms. Cochrane, I suppose I should apologize for my curtness earlier. I’m deeply grateful for your assistance in taking care of my sweet Eddy, and I’m sure he would never speak to me again if I didn’t reward you properly. Please stay with our family for the week as he recovers and work with me to bring his would-be killer to justice. I trust my brother, and he clearly trusts you, so I suppose that will have to be good enough for now.” Ellen stared dumbfounded at his sudden seriousness. All the newspapers had portrayed Arthur as a deeply selfish, hedonistic, flamboyant man, and here he was, sacrificing his pride to beg a Fenian to live with him and his family for a week.

      “Oh, do close your mouth, you look like a right troglodyte. It’s unbecoming of such a handsome woman,” Arthur jabbed, “and how much booze did you give this boy? I can smell it on him as if he’s bathed in it!” There you are again, Ellen thought, once again shocked by the rapid metronomic shift between Arthur Guinness, bullheaded aristocrat, and Arthur Guinness, doting brother and sensitive soul. Narrowing her eyes at him, she pondered what would lead a man with such clear emotional depth to be so hostile. Perhaps a great shame has caused him to adopt this defensive, secondary personality. How was he in the privacy of his own home with no strangers about? I suppose I’ll never know.

      The carriage stopped just outside of a grand, white stone building looming imposingly over the streets of Dublin as if the structure itself knew the importance of those residing within. She hoped it also felt a little protective once they were able to walk Edward from the carriage into the lavishly furnished entry hall. Ellen tried not to stare, but it really was hard surrounded by furniture that likely cost an entire month’s rent. 

      “Potter!” Arthur called to the greying man who had opened the door for them. He likely had been informed of the contents of Ellen’s letter immediately, as he did not seem adequately shocked at Edward’s pained expression or difficulty ascending the shallow staircase to the second floor. “Prepare a bath for Edward here… and fetch a physician! Keep it quiet though. I don’t want the journalists catching wind of anything suspicious.”

      “Of course, sir,” Potter replied solemnly as he nodded and strode away. Edward smiled appreciatively at his brother, lips paler than they had perhaps been this morning. 

      “Sorry for worrying you today, Arthur. I had meant to leave the brewery earlier like you told me to, but I lost track of time and I was just so engrossed in the work I forgot-”

      “Oh hush, you couldn’t have possibly predicted the consequences of not heeding my advice. Think nothing of it. I’m just happy to have you here today. Come then lad, let’s get you warmed up. If I didn’t know any better I’d say the blood had frozen in your veins,” Arthur rambled, tugging his brother down a hall to the right. “You too, Miss Cochrane. You’ll be needing a place to stay. I would let you stay with Edward since I suspect that’s where you’ll end up anyway, but we have to at least give the appearance of a good Christian family to the servants,” he added, rolling the “R” in “Christian” rather dramatically. Flushing slightly, she trailed the two Guinnesses, only leaving them as Arthur gestured to a room across the hall from the one they had entered. Edward gave her a mournful look over his shoulder as Arthur pulled him inside his room. She smiled encouragingly in return, stepping into her own space for the coming week.

      She took her time, inspecting every space in the expansive room. The bed chamber alone was bigger than her entire flat. Hell, she could probably fit three women’s flats in here! The furniture was of the highest quality, the carpets softer than any fabric she had felt before. So this is what owning the lifeblood of Dublin can buy you… It was quite impressive, but at the end of it all, the basic bits were all the same. A bed, desk, and chair. A source of natural light and a source of warmth. A space to store personal belongings. For all the Guinnesses liked to behave as if they were gods, these details would forever ground them in the reality of their humanity. Whether in a pile of hay or atop the cushiest mattress she’d ever rested upon, the fact was that she still needed to sleep, and so did they. Perhaps the political strife between the aristocrats and the working class would be alleviated, even the slightest, if the wealthy would just remember that. To have lived any life other than their own. The obvious conclusion to this would be to give up the Unionist ideals and reject the imperialist British, but that was a conversation with Edward for another time.

      She paced to the lavish four-poster bed, unlacing her boots and lying on top of the sheets. It felt like she was going to sink straight to the floor, her surroundings were so soft. Drawing the curtains on either side of the bed and allowing just the slightest grey haze to shine in from the autumnal afternoon, Ellen allowed herself a few deep breaths and the relief of closed eyes. I hope Edward’s alright. She felt a certain responsibility for him now that she had been his caretaker, however briefly. Their time together, although only less than 12 hours, felt monumental in building her affection for him. From her few interactions with Arthur and her memories of how Edward spoke of him, she was sure he was in good hands. Despite his brash facade, she could tell he loved his brother deeply. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her own brother, it’s just that it was difficult sometimes. His boneheadedness led him to commit acts of violence she had specifically warned him against, often nonsensical or driven primarily by his animal desire for revenge. There was a reason the planning and strategy was usually left to her. She felt a pang in her chest, remembering the tenderness displayed earlier in the carriage as Edward felt so comfortable around his sibling he could fall asleep literally on top of Arthur. I’m not sure Patrick would do the same. Don’t mistake her, they would die for one another, but the true love and care between the Guinness siblings was perhaps more palpable on a day-to-day basis than between the Cochranes. Barely aware of life outside her thoughts, she heard the quiet click of a closing door and an unintelligible few words before the offended gasp of Edward. A sudden crescendo of giggles rose from the corridor from both young men. Yes, Edward was alright indeed. Satisfied, she allowed herself to win back the sleep she had lost the night before.