It has been said that a camera can steal a piece of a person’s soul.  Where Nikki Casterline is concerned the papers are still undecided, thank God, even if the lawyers aren’t.  Some headlines scream that Serena sold Nikki’s soul to the Devil himself, but of course that is utter nonsense.  No mother would be capable of such a thing, and a soul should certainly have afforded the Casterlines a more posh and comely existence than the one they had.  But in those days men were rather eager to sell, so perhaps some sort of divine inflation was to blame.  Nevertheless, the publicity was undoubtedly good for the family.  It was possible for a man of no mean distinction to argue for either side in the debate halls of England’s most ancient and esteemed colleges without the slightest mark against his honor.  Such lively debate would certainly make it hard for any absolute condemnation of young Miss Casterline, even if it could be proved that, when Mr. de Gaultier pressed the shutter release at the orphanage’s annual summer picnic, nothing happened.

Like most children, Nikki Casterline had been instructed not to play with her father’s matches.  Like most children, she did it anyways.  She positively giggled when the white phosphorus ignited.  She had thought that the fire would be red, like blood, but it wasn’t.  Instead it was yellow, almost white.  Like her mother’s wedding dress.  She held them close to see if they matched.  They did.  It also matched the old lace her great-grandmother had woven.  And the skin of her favorite dollie, the dollie that looked like Alice, the dollie that had her mother’s hair.  The fire matched that, too.  She knew there would be no need for an undertaker.
Nikki was fond of cats, if that explains anything.  All cats.  All of them except for lions.  Her mother used to tell her that Nikki meant cat, but Nikki knows better.  It means victory.

The oldest memory that John has is of being in darkness.  It’s so old that it almost might be the darkness of the womb, except that it’s cold and the floor is hard and John knows he’s been locked in the basement.  In those days it was not proper for a man to have a mistress, though most men did.  It was not proper for a maidservant to bear her master’s son, though most women would.  The child would be beaten, yes, abused, yes, and disowned for the remainder of his father’s life.  But with uncanny frequency the child would inherit all his father’s worldly possessions, as his other sons would die, with uncanny frequency, before they could even toddle across the parlor.  All that John had to do was to endure.  His mother would take care of the rest.  His left hand was hopelessly crippled from when his father had dug his heel into the back of it, just to hear him scream.  He still had a scar on his back that looked like Peter Cottontail.
The papers never decided on exactly who shot Mr. Witten.  Some blamed his bank partner.  Others blamed a crook.  Not one of them mentioned the illegitimate son who inherited a family mansion, its contents, a full partnership in a respectable bank, and almost fifty thousand pounds sterling from his illegitimate father.  It would have been indecent, they said.

It was raining, and Nikki hated rain.  She hated it because it reminded her of her mother, who hated sunlight, and Serena hated sunlight because it made blood boil, especially John’s.  When the skies were bright, Nikki could escape.  Serena couldn’t.  Serena always thought this terribly unfair, but it would not be proper for an Englishwoman to be seen galloping down Fleet Street.  Of course, it was raining now, so there was no need to worry about that.  
Today Serena occupied herself with her needlework.  Nikki sat in the corner, playing with her favorite doll.  Serena had made it, to look like her sister, Alice.  Alice also had one.  Hers looked like Nikki.  Cleaner?—maybe.  Perhaps a little gentler of face.  But nothing was changed in any extravagant manner.  Just enough so that Serena could delude herself into thinking that she had two beautiful daughters instead of…  
She used to have one, she told herself firmly, and then told herself it would be proper to think about other things.
“That will never do!” Nikki admonished the doll, straightening it’s dress.  Serena often said the same thing to Nikki before brushing her hair or bandaging her knees or neatly folding an unsalvageable pair of stockings.  Or when her father beat her, almost always when it rained.  Serena remembers listening to her daughters, one day, before such a storm.  Alice and Nikki had found a cloud that looked like Peter Cottontail.  Then John came home and put Peter Cottontail on Nikki.
Serena looked up, and her eyes and Nikki’s locked.  Nikki smiled sweetly, innocently, her eyes empty of emotion, but not of thought.  Serena hated those eyes.  She had stared at her father that way, after he put Peter Cottontail on her side.  Then the river took Alice.  And the police took John.  And John took his money with him.
“Why don’t you go upstairs, darling?” Serena asked Nikki.  
“But Mommy!” she squealed girlishly.  “I want to stay with you.  I’m learning to sew and I might need your help.”  She held up the needle and thread she had been using to repair holes that had been made in Alice’s dress.  What she did not hold up was the knife she had used to make those holes, but Serena knew it was there.  Stupid Nikki.
“Oh darling!” Serena took a moment to compose herself, like a proper English  mother, took a deep breath, and glided over to her daughter.
“Nikki, you precious thing!  You will never do!”  Then she embraced Nikki, and Nikki embraced her, smiling coldly.  Serena was an excellent actress.

The last thing that Alice Casterline heard before the river dragged her down was her sister calling out to her.  She didn’t hear the laughter.  The body had never been found.  There’d been no need for an undertaker.