don’t do it . . . I’ll kill it. You know that my Ability is stronger than yours. If you don’t do what I did, I’ll make sure the kitten hits every one of these four walls before I throw it out of the window.”
Ernest’s eyes filled with tears. “Why, Mort? Why do you want me to do it?”
Mortimer shrugged.
“Because it’s funny. And Mother thinks you need to learn to be tougher.”
“Mother knows?”
“Of course. I told her that I think you aren’t strong enough for the work we have to do, and she agreed. Now. Are you going to do it or not?”
Ernest hesitated.
“Ernest. You are my twin brother, and we both have the same purpose in life. I want only what’s best for you. You know that.”
Ernest thought for a moment; then, with a look of defeat, he lifted the kitten from his lap and placed it on the floor next to him. Mortimer smiled. Ernest stood up; then, looking down, he let his eyes glaze over. The kitten began to move slowly.
“Faster, Ernest.”
Ernest furrowed his brow in concentration, and the kitten picked up pace.
Mortimer began to laugh.
“Yeah, Ernest! Go, kitten, go!”
The kitten sped past the desks and bookshelves andwas almost at the wall when it stopped suddenly, just next to the doorway.
Mortimer looked over at Ernest, who was already running toward the door. He watched as his brother scooped up the kitten in his arms and ran out, without turning back.
“Coward!” shouted Mortimer.
Ernest ran back along the corridor, down the steps two at a time, out the front door, and across the manicured lawns into the forest, while his brother watched him from the playroom window. Ernest didn’t look back.
• • •
That evening, a few miles down the road from Darkwhisper Manor, a young family played delightedly with the new kitten that had appeared on their doorstep earlier in the day. Ernest watched them in his mind, a new trick he had only recently learned, and the relief of seeing the kitten happily chasing a piece of wool distracted him from the evil looks his brother was shooting him across the dinner table.
“Ernest!” His mother’s sharp voice brought him back suddenly into the dining room.
“Sorry, Mother,” said Ernest.
“I said I want you both to clear up the plates, then go upstairs and get ready for bed. I’ll be up for your bedtime story in half an hour.”
“Yes, Mother,” said Ernest obediently, standing up.
Plates washed and teeth brushed, Ernest changed into his pajamas and got into bed. He turned to Mortimer, who was already under the covers of the bed beside him.
“I’m sorry, Mort. I just didn’t want to hurt the kitten,” said Ernest, the anger of earlier forgotten.
“Well, don’t do it again, Ernest. We have to work together.”
“I know,” said Ernest.
“Maybe you’re not as much of a wimp as I thought,” said Mortimer.
Ernest smiled to himself, knowing that this was as close to an apology as his brother would ever offer him. He rolled onto his back, pulled the sheets up to his neck, and waited for the familiar sound of his mother’s heels approaching.
The boys turned to see the silhouette of their mother standing in the doorway. She walked slowly to the antique cream-leather armchair between their beds and carefully arranged the skirt of her dress before sitting down.
“I heard there was some resistance to our work today,” said Dulcia, her voice soft yet empty of any emotion.
Ernest looked across at his brother, horrified. Mortimer looked back and shrugged smugly.
“Ernest,” said Dulcia, looking straight ahead, “I am concerned.”
There was a pause, which Ernest chose not to break, certain that whatever he said would only serve to make the situation worse.
“Seven years ago, I chose the two of you to bring home from the orphanage, and since that time, have you ever wanted for anything?”
“No, Mother,” answered the boys in unison.
“Have I not treated you both as my own flesh and
Ernest’s eyes filled with tears. “Why, Mort? Why do you want me to do it?”
Mortimer shrugged.
“Because it’s funny. And Mother thinks you need to learn to be tougher.”
“Mother knows?”
“Of course. I told her that I think you aren’t strong enough for the work we have to do, and she agreed. Now. Are you going to do it or not?”
Ernest hesitated.
“Ernest. You are my twin brother, and we both have the same purpose in life. I want only what’s best for you. You know that.”
Ernest thought for a moment; then, with a look of defeat, he lifted the kitten from his lap and placed it on the floor next to him. Mortimer smiled. Ernest stood up; then, looking down, he let his eyes glaze over. The kitten began to move slowly.
“Faster, Ernest.”
Ernest furrowed his brow in concentration, and the kitten picked up pace.
Mortimer began to laugh.
“Yeah, Ernest! Go, kitten, go!”
The kitten sped past the desks and bookshelves andwas almost at the wall when it stopped suddenly, just next to the doorway.
Mortimer looked over at Ernest, who was already running toward the door. He watched as his brother scooped up the kitten in his arms and ran out, without turning back.
“Coward!” shouted Mortimer.
Ernest ran back along the corridor, down the steps two at a time, out the front door, and across the manicured lawns into the forest, while his brother watched him from the playroom window. Ernest didn’t look back.
• • •
That evening, a few miles down the road from Darkwhisper Manor, a young family played delightedly with the new kitten that had appeared on their doorstep earlier in the day. Ernest watched them in his mind, a new trick he had only recently learned, and the relief of seeing the kitten happily chasing a piece of wool distracted him from the evil looks his brother was shooting him across the dinner table.
“Ernest!” His mother’s sharp voice brought him back suddenly into the dining room.
“Sorry, Mother,” said Ernest.
“I said I want you both to clear up the plates, then go upstairs and get ready for bed. I’ll be up for your bedtime story in half an hour.”
“Yes, Mother,” said Ernest obediently, standing up.
Plates washed and teeth brushed, Ernest changed into his pajamas and got into bed. He turned to Mortimer, who was already under the covers of the bed beside him.
“I’m sorry, Mort. I just didn’t want to hurt the kitten,” said Ernest, the anger of earlier forgotten.
“Well, don’t do it again, Ernest. We have to work together.”
“I know,” said Ernest.
“Maybe you’re not as much of a wimp as I thought,” said Mortimer.
Ernest smiled to himself, knowing that this was as close to an apology as his brother would ever offer him. He rolled onto his back, pulled the sheets up to his neck, and waited for the familiar sound of his mother’s heels approaching.
The boys turned to see the silhouette of their mother standing in the doorway. She walked slowly to the antique cream-leather armchair between their beds and carefully arranged the skirt of her dress before sitting down.
“I heard there was some resistance to our work today,” said Dulcia, her voice soft yet empty of any emotion.
Ernest looked across at his brother, horrified. Mortimer looked back and shrugged smugly.
“Ernest,” said Dulcia, looking straight ahead, “I am concerned.”
There was a pause, which Ernest chose not to break, certain that whatever he said would only serve to make the situation worse.
“Seven years ago, I chose the two of you to bring home from the orphanage, and since that time, have you ever wanted for anything?”
“No, Mother,” answered the boys in unison.
“Have I not treated you both as my own flesh and
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