Pearl: the youngest. The Carrington of folly and flights of fancy, off to chase American women’s dreams.

He had been quietly coveting it ever since he heard of it …  minus the whole getting kidnapped by reputation-defiling men part, of course.

Was it so wrong that he would rather be left at the alter than cut something (living or dead) open? Probably. He assumed, like he did with everything else that was disappointing about him, that he would eventually warm to the path he was set on with time.

There was a gentle knock at Pearl’s door. He had a book under arm: it was on sale and it had a woman’s name, so he figured it close enough to his sister’s interests.

Her maid opened the door and was pleasantly surprised to see one of the triplets standing there... Not because she was fond of the boys much, they were a wild bunch... but because he could possibly help. "Oh, thank goodness Sir," she gushed as if quite relieved, "The mistress has taken gravely ill and I need help getting her back into bed. She's been lying on the settee and I know that has to be uncomfortable. Poor girl." She waved him in and, assuming he did come in, he would see his sister wrapped up in layers of quilts... Blankets their mother would curl her lip at. There were afghans too, splashes of color in every available seat or folded neatly in a stack on a trunk with the top one unfolded and draping off to one side. Her house was tidy with little bits of organized chaos and strategically placed things; books not all in the case, rag rugs covering the floor at different angles, et cetera. Pearl had made the place her own in the few weeks she had lived in the new house.

When the girl opened her eyes, they were bloodshot from the amount of coughing she had been doing... luckily for her, the medicine did what it was supposed to and suppressed the coughs for now. She said weakly, "A visit from our dear sister first, and now my favorite triplet, Roderick." Of course, he would know that she told all three brothers that they were her favorite triplet.

“Gravely ill” and “need help” were the last things an aspiring doctor wanted to hear – right? But here he was, and he supposed it was better than Ophelia’s wailing.

Roderick felt his lip curling involuntarily at all the quilts and colors: god above, their mother would catch the death of her before seeing the way she lived now.

Nonetheless, he squared up his most congenial face (Mother’s favorite) and smiled when he saw Pearl.

“Roger,” he said out of habit, just to keep her on her toes – or, well, quilts. “How is my favorite sister?”

The compliment was slightly more selective – but only slightly.

She turned her head away from him and coughed up a lung, then groaned. Goodness, but her body hurt, her head hurt, her chest hurt... she hurt. Pearl then looked at her brother and murmured, "I'm just fine," she fibbed and gave a wheezing chuckle.

“I brought a book for you,” he said, frantically looking over his shoulder for the servants.

Servants. Servant? It was awfully quiet and sparse here.

"How thoughtful of you, brother," she murmured. Tilly was the only servant present, and she was giving Roderick a look of impatience, clearly protective of the young miss who needed help to her own bed.

"Sir, she needs to be in her bed but came down here when Mistress Olivia came to see her." Her tone was flat, disapproving of the woman who hadn't helped, but rather, hindered. She muttered under her breath, "Self-absorbed wretch, that one."

Roderick the Aspiring Surgeon set the book down on the nearest table-like surface, watching his dear sister as though her illness might manifest into an actual lion and shred him then and there.

He flinched at the servant’s words. Sure, he thought the same thing, but still – she was their sister!

Though an admonishment was on the tip of his tongue, he bit it back. No doubt Pearl would not be eager to replace her first servant with one of Mother’s handpicked ones.

“Ophelia came to see you, I heard,” Roderick said instead, pretending not to hear the servant. “Are things … different, now that you have your own-” retreat? hiding place? hovel? “-...space?”

"She did," muttered Pearl, who was starting to sweat profusely as if the house was on fire, yet her teeth were also chattering like she was cold. She pulled her quilt closer around her like it would ward off whatever fresh hell she was feeling at the moment. "All she wanted to speak about was her. D-d-does that sound like things... have... changed?" she gave a great sneeze and another round of hacking. "I must not be allowed to have privacy." Gracious, but she was starting to feel resentful of that particular fact.

Tilly clicked her tongue and was off to the kitchen to make tea. "Poor thing can't even get help to her bed." She said this loud enough to be heard. It was clearly done purposefully, but the maid was gone before she could be chastised for trying to help.