Quincy Tiebold spent most of his time in his study, these days. It was no surprise really-- he had little reason to go outside other than to eat and, when the mood struck him, visit the local ladies house. But even his interest in that particular activity was waning. He was getting old, and he knew it. His face was stretched and thin, with creases at the corners of his eyes. His brown hair was already turning white (although it wasn't falling out yet, thankfully), and he suspected that he might soon need to wear spectacles to see far away. Quin's vision was shot to hell, but he could still read. And that was really all that mattered, at this point.

Because Lydia slept in a different room than he did. Lydia, his wife, slept in a different room than he did. Right now she was busy redecorating the house, he was sure. Her constant need to spend money irked him at times, when he thought about it. He sometimes half wondered if he should tell her to stop, but those thoughts were cast aside as soon as they entered his head. Tell Lydia to stop spending his money? Preposterous.

Of course, she really hadn't been sleeping in his bed for longer than he could count. This wasn't a recent development...it was just the natural completion of things. The final destination to their mutual discomfort. At some point, a point he couldn't exactly pinpoint in his memory, they had stopped sleeping together. Oh, of course, they shared the same bed. She lay next to him, and he next to her, and they both faced opposite directions, staring at the blue wall until one or the other drifted off into the land of dreams. When they had still shared a bed, Quincy used to listen to her slow breathing with a feeling that was something like relief. In his opinion, the moments when his wife was truly beautiful, was when she was asleep.

But even that had been taken from him. So now, he only left his study when it occurred to him that he hadn't eaten in several hours, or that it was three in the morning and What Was He Doing Up? That and the various dinner parties that his wife insisted on holding. If there was one thing that was important to her, it was keeping up appearances. He acted the part very well. Chuckles his way through all the veiled insults that Lydia's friends make at his character, nods politely to all the ladies, and remains quietly intent on the conversations at hand, although they couldn't interest him less.

"Finally out of your little cave, eh Quin?"

"Really what can those humans be thinking?"

"This salad is absolutely delicious, Lydia dear, you must tell your cook to give my cook the recipe!"

Quin turned another page of Innocent's MInds: Absolute Power Corrupts Absolutely and tapped his fountain pen thoughtfully on his dark rosewood desk. He began the next paragraph, paused for a moment, and got up to get another book. Innocent's Minds fell to the floor with a thump. As he bent to pick it up, a small remnant of paper fluttered down onto the floor, much like a paper butterfly might have. This too, he lifted.

The image on it made his breath catch. Hadn't he thrown this out, long ago?

It was a small girl, sitting on a stool in the very study he was in now. She was glaring into the camera. He remembered that day. Of course he remembered that day. How could he not? With slightly trembling fingers he put the image down on the desk and took a breath. He surprised himself when tears suddenly sprung to his eyes. One of them fell down his cheek and onto the desk.

How long had it been since he'd thought of little Wendy?

Sometimes, the girls he was given were as young as she would have been today. On these days he felt so disgusted he'd give the girl money and leave without doing anything. The owners had soon realized this, and now they tended to give him women that were older. When he bothered to go, that is. He seldom felt the need.

His fingers grazed the picture again. Oh Wendy. How could Alioe be so cruel-- to give them a child after so many tries, and then to take it away. To a fate worse than death.

Lydia had been broken, after that. Maybe it was those times when they had stopped enjoying each other's company. Quincy had receded farther into his books, while his wife lay curled up in their room, crying. He had never really known what to do, when she did that. Crying made him uncomfortable.

But she had picked herself up. Was it then? Was it when she started buying new chairs and tables-- when she got one dress after the other? Or perhaps it was later. The first time Quincy cheated on her. She had known, of course. When he came back. And what did he say? Nothing. He had gone because he couldn't stand it any longer. Her constant chatter about who had visited her, and whose child was getting ahead in school, and the worst one of all-- do you think maybe we should try to have another?

That one had caused him such anger. He had yelled. It was the first time he had ever raised his voice at Lydia, who was usually the dominating one in conversation, who controlled him and those around her with ease, whose authority only little Wendy could usurp.

And now, he was sleeping in a different room than her. 14 years they had kept the facade up. They hadn't fought once, after that last argument, but there had been a cold space of separation between them.

Quincy dared himself to look at the photograph again and then recoiled, almost as if it had struck a physical blow to his face. He picked it up carefully and let his fingers approach the candle flame. To burn away the image of the child who had ruined everything for him. Of the child who had been everything to him. The flames barely caught onto the edge of the paper before he was putting them out, desperately pounding at the fire with his fists. When it was out he stood, panting over the image.

His fingertips ran along the edge of her faded face. Had he forgotten that face? He was surprised to find he had. He didn't often think of her, but if he had been told to recreate her all he would have been able to do was give a vague description. Black hair...Roundish face...

What was she like now? A scrap of a servant, probably. In that, he felt he had been in the right. Sending her to Brunhold had been the right decision-- although his wife had protested. Had wanted to keep her with them, as a servant in the house. That would have simply been to cruel. To both involved parties.

Quiet as anything, Quincy put the photograph back into Innocent's Minds, and shut it. His research could wait. He was going outside to walk. If he was lucky, he might see parents with their children and for brief melancholic moments he might imagine himself in their place. With Wendy on his right, and Lydia on his left.

Perhaps they might even go out to the opera later-- after all, the day was still fresh and full of opportunities for the three of them. For all three of them.