Suddenly, his hands were caught and squeezed, and Jonathan’s attention shifted from fire building, to listening intently to his Partner in Crime. From Linda’s stance and accented French tones, he could tell these were words coming from the very pit of her heart, and this made his gaze intense and piercing; you could tell he was concentrating. Her wringing hands brought a slight frown to his expression and he closed both of his around them to stop her from doing that. Yes, she had her insecurities and he was doing nothing to alleviate them. Asides from her albinism, which gave her the dual insecurity of her appearance, as well as it being a weakness for her, she also appeared to have a deeply rooted fear of being ignored. Linda became terribly vexed when she thought the light could get her, treating even the thinnest sliver of sunlight as a jet of flame which could catch her alight at any moment. But this … this was worse than that. The fear of the sunlight was something physical that he could easily box up and put at rest with low wattage light bulbs and thick velvet drapes covering the windows. Avoiding setting off this other insecurity she held was somewhat different, particularly when he was deep in contemplation. But then again, he could understand why she was upset; he’d done just what her parents had, he’d turned his back on her and pretended she wasn’t there. “I’m no better than your parents, am I?” he asked once she’d finished, his tone doleful, his thumbs smoothing over the snowflake scars on the backs of her cold hands. While his scars on his face became apparent when he blushed, even though her handiwork had rendered them all but invisible, when Linda’s hands were cold the scars were faintly visible, as they took on a purplish hue. Jon’s hands were warm regardless of the weather, so because of this he held hers, hoping to warm them up.

True, they were here following the events of Hallowe’en; laying low from the reach of the law and biding their time until people would forget what happened. There was so much crime in that city, so many masks trying to make a statement that in a matter of a few weeks people would forget; it was simply a matter of waiting it out. But why choose this mansion out in the sticks, when Linda would be perfectly content with a bed and breakfast, or hotel in New York? In truth, Jonathan had brought her here, not because he wanted to show what he had off, but because he had thought she would enjoy being somewhere so different, especially out in the country. He’d come here for her sakes. Sure they could have gone to a bed and breakfast or stopped of at New York, but was this was an experience unlike anything else, and the last thing he’d meant was for her to feel insecure. Usually he fed off people’s insecurities like a greedy parasite, amplifying them to further enhance his delight. Not Linda. Linda was one soul whom he wanted to save from being anxious, why else had he tailored a toxin that had given her no fear? Dabbled in genetics when it was not his area of expertise. When he’d realise the toxin had potential health benefits for his, what had been, best friend, he’d worked damn hard to make it work. He didn’t want to hurt Linda, he never had; all he held for this woman, was a strong desire to protect and keep her save – along with more complicated feelings which had naturally followed.

Still, despite him still holding guilt for what happened, Jonathan nodded quietly, seating himself at the kitchen table and taking off his shoes. Linda was right; it was warm in this house. The advantage was that the oven was on there all the time, and effectively acted like a constant low level heating system. While the far reaches of the house would never truly warm, even in the height of summer, the main portion of the house would heat up nicely in the time they stayed there. It just took a while to get going. So while outside may have been foul, the rain hammering against the windows and leaking through the rotting frames with their peeling paint, inside the kitchen felt cosy and safe. Then again, listening to the weather outside, Jonathan felt that the rain would make everything better, especially since he was a water sign, you might have said he was in tune with the shifting weather. If it would not break it was almost as though his emotions would bottle themselves up; and akin to a fever waiting to break he would sit there and stew. In Gotham, it always rained; he could be open with her. Here the weather tended to come in sporadic bursts. But for now at least he could feel he might be able to settle, at least – and with Linda’s words being put out there, between them, he knew he would have to. Maybe having had to remain so guarded in this house in the past was keeping him from her, but she was doing her best to help him move on, and he was doing nothing to help himself. He felt a fool, to some extent, and for her sake sat at the kitchen table well behaved, but this time his eyes were on her, gently contemplating.

It was while he quietly mulled over his thoughts, that Jonathan watched her cook. Cheeks flushed from the cold, dimpled slightly, her damp hair dried into cotton fluff wisps that framed her face. She was not a simple woman by any account, he could attest to Linda being as much of a genius as he. But she did have a love of simple things; knitting, baking – you could call it craft. In addition to this he knew full well she carried a knife on her person, and in Gotham it was something he didn’t begrudge her. He himself carried a small handgun, but he knew in Georgia, with them going to the market, there was no need for it. There was a certain level of trust you had to have for people to be amiable with you; if you carried a weapon you subconsciously gave out a certain level of fear yourself, this was something Jonathan understood very well indeed. Therefore, it was almost safer to go without. Besides, the worst that happened was the run in with Bill, and even that was nothing compared to what went on in Gotham City, especially when it was the Scarecrow causing the stir.

In time, things would move back to how they were in the lab. This downturn in mood and the slump in enthusiasm was the aftermath of Hallowe’en, he was sure of it. Things moved in cycles, and together they’d put so much energy into the haunting holiday that when it came to November they were both drained, and his response was to regress slightly. It was a poor response to be fair, and for that reason he wondered if perhaps the two of them needed a new direction. He realised that Linda was offering it with doing the house up, and mentally slapped himself. What was he doing? Well not listening to her, for a start. Too caught up with the past here and too self-absorbed to realise that all along there’d been his Partner in Crime wandering the palisades to his mind, wondering where the gate was to get in. His expression appeared not quite so blank, and if anything a shade more open than it had been as this realisation hit him, and when she handed him the hot cider it was all he could do to thank her, picking up his wet shoes and placing them near the Aga to dry. His socked feet left damp prints on the terracotta tiled floor behind him, he could feel the cool tiles beneath his soles, but sitting near the Aga was warming, and he didn’t feel so freezing once he’d begun to drink.

Like a stork watching fish move underwater, his pale eyes studied Linda as she moved between tending her cooking on the stove, and eating her share of the pound cake with hot cider. He had a large appetite, but it had been her smart idea to make him feel less funny about having to eat so much, by taking a small portion at the same time as he did. That way, he didn’t feel so singled out, because it was obvious when you looked at him, that this was a man who needed more than just three meals a day – perhaps his metabolism was out of whack, but if he ate like everyone else he wound up being underweight. Linda encouraged him to eat, by making it seem a regular occurrence to eat upwards of six meals, and she would manage to do so by taking small, often minuscule portions. For she was after all, very dainty. It followed that she needed dainty portions, sometimes all she had was a warm drink; cider, tea or coffee, which, if they were on a fridge raid late at night, would help her sleep again. But right now, she didn’t sit, she seemed restless and it wasn’t to do with having food to attend to. Indeed, she almost always had something baking back in Gotham, and managed to juggle lab work and her kitchen. Still Jonathan passed her the hot drink when she came back for it, or her cake as required, at least until the backwards and forwards motions were beginning to play havoc with his head and he found her forearm. “Please sit down, you’ll give yourself stomach ache moving around like that.” He said, and she did, right next to his chair, her head coming to rest against his thigh. While this was not an ideal situation for him because he worried that she would be cold sitting down there, he let her because she seemed comfortable with it. Instead his long fingers smoothed through her hair in a soothing motion, always sweeping the pink-tinged strands behind her ears, listening carefully. He was tingeing along the tips of his ears and the back of his neck too, with her words; her being plain with him, put things into perspective, and quite frankly he felt a fool for the way he’d acted. Indeed, it wasn’t that he fished for compliments because he knew she would give them; talking to him in such a manner only ceased to make him retiring; awkward. Still he managed a highly bashful smile, although he found it hard to meet her eyes as he nodded, dumbed from embarrassment. “You’ve been right all along, I do need something to help me take my mind off what happened here, I was just too stubborn to admit that and I am sorry.” He cleared his throat, taking a more practical tone to try to gloss over the fact he’d coloured, “So we will see what we can do around this place, for us, because if anything, I’m sick of the damp and dark, and I’m sure you are too.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, but when she wanted to stand he let her, returning to drain his cup. He smiled faintly, there was allspice in the drink; he could taste it.

It was at that moment Jonathan heard the large dog flap in the back door go. Immediately he realised that this was what the tapping had been at the window that morning. A rather soggy looking Raven hopped her way into the kitchen, her tail leaving a wet stripe on the ground where she paused. Her head tipped up at Linda cooking. Poe was soon after. It was little wonder that with the weather being so bad outside, Craw had shown Poe the way she knew to get somewhere warm and dry. The barn, for all intents and purposes, was a good place to roost, but it did leak, and in weather like this Jon wondered if she had not become antsy about there being owls wanting to share her roosting spot. Not that she would tolerate it of course, but given the choice she would sod the barn and leave it to the owls, preferring to come in here where she knew she would be fed, rather than having to hunt for herself. Indeed, she could see something was cooking, and that had definitely sparked her interest. In a smooth motion she fluttered up onto the countertop to peer over at the Aga, knowing full well it wasn’t safe to hop into it, but all the same eyeing the cooking beef hungrily. Jon felt that this was his cue to begin building the fire, and finishing off his cake with marked speed, stood and checked the pocket watch. There was plenty of time to build a fire and get it burning well before dinner, with any luck the library would have heated up fully before they even thought about moving. Still, the presence of Craw kept him firmly clinging to the further reaches of the kitchen, so instead he simply announced, “I’ll not be long.” Although, Linda probably knew full well if he got distracted with something along the way, he could well be longer. Then again he was hungry, and therefore wouldn’t forget. Even if he wandered off into his own world again, the smell of food being served was always guaranteed to bring him back to earth. Linn could be sure of drawing him back, if she had a fresh baked pie and stew hot on the table.

Jonathan left the room without ceremony, leaving Linda alone with the fuzzies. Craw’s beady brown eyes were watching her shiny stir the beef on the hob intently; she knew the sight of cooking meat, and although her sense of smell was relatively poor as she was a bird, she was still attracted to it and tipped her head inquisitively, a small croak and a click of her beak signalling she was interested.

Away from the warmth and light of the kitchen, the rest of the house seemed to close around him. He was not unnerved you understand; he’d grown used to this rickety old place years ago, and now that Linn had waylaid the initial anxiety over his granny it almost felt as though the old hag had retreated into a back room, grumbling to herself and yet too afraid to venture near either of them. Besides, there’d always been this sense of excitement venturing into the ‘forbidden’ wing of the house that never left him even as a grown man, and the way the hairs stood up on the back of his neck made an almost pleasant shiver run down his spine. He recalled the first night he’d dared to ignore his granny’s rules, and come here to see what it was she kept so strictly hidden. The wealth of books that opened up before your eyes as you entered the magnificent, sweeping library still made his stomach jolt, the smell of leather and paper was a familiar memory; for while the rest of the house smelt slightly damp, this room was bone dry and really quite pleasant. There was always a basket here full of wood, and because the room had not succumbed to the damp that seemed to wage war on the rest of the house, it burnt well. Pensively, Jonathan began piling the wood into a tidy wigwam configuration in the grate, pausing to brush away old ash from the millstone hearth sporadically. The whole fireplace was made with stone, inset with a cast iron inlay. It was blackened from soot through years of use, but you could still see set into the iron, three stills depicting the story of the three Billy goats gruff. Jonathan imagined such an image had been lost to granny’s poor eyesight, because once a fire was lit, the dancing goats and the leering eyes of the troll under the bridge, surrounded by licking tongues of flame had the tendency to look rather satanic. Jonathan liked it none the less, and he was glad it hadn’t been rid of. Anything vaguely connected to nursery rhymes or fairy tales sparked his interest, and regardless of that he could appreciate the work that had gone into creating the backdrop, even if it was difficult to make out the design these days. Idly, he thumbed the outline of one goat, his thumb darkening from the soot, but he shook himself, remembering dinner would not take all that long, and began searching for the firelighters.

Soon, the calming crackle of burning logs and the dancing lights from fire stretched out across the patterned wool rug. The room was expansive, the warmth and light reaching only as far as the high backed, winged chairs that were arranged around it in an amiable circle. Behind this barricade, Jonathan had retreated to study the books. One long finger traced the gilded titles of the leather spines, his other hand resting on the shelf, fingers spread-eagled. When he found a volume that suited his means, a light would go behind his eyes and it would be selected, ever so carefully, and added to the pile on the low coffee table by his favourite armchair. A substantial collection amassed, and if you looked closely enough, you could deduce that while Linda was cooking dinner, Jonathan was gathering the ingredients together to cook up a plan. Tomes of suburban legends, herbs and even a couple of map books joined the list, until he felt his research would suffice, at which point he curled up in the large armchair, tucking his gangling legs underneath him and reading by the light of the fire. Here out in the middle of nowhere, Jonathan didn’t have his toxins, needles or laboratory with which to cause a stir, but as Linda often told him, such things were irrelevant for he had skill without them. If he knew how, Scarecrow could cause fear simply by the power of his own words. Then again, while he might have held the tendency to be an arrogant man, Jonathan knew better than to presume just waltzing up to ol’ One Eye’s front door and having a few words would have much of an effect. No. Fear arose more easily when the atmosphere was just right, and to do this, you needed to create that aura, that certain ambiance, far removed from the cliché stormy night and low, crawling mist, too. However, whatever plans the psychologist may have lain down, eventually the aroma of food drew him from the recesses of the text in his lap, and on cue, his stomach gave a disgruntled growl. With a jerk, he checked the time, afraid that he’d made himself late for dinner with his keenness to plan revenge on Bill. A rush of relief came when he realised he had five minutes to spare.

“I could smell that from the library.” He admitted, minutes later when he returned to the kitchen to see the table not yet laid for dinner. This was what he elected to do while the finishing touches were being made to their meal; fetching the condiments, heatproof mat for the stove pot, and plates along with the cutlery. All the while he kept one eye on the two ravens, lurking on the kitchen counter for scraps Linda might have chosen to throw them. Soon after he’d arrived, Trouble returned – apparently as drawn to the meal as he had been. His ruby eyes bright, his stance was strutting and proud as though he was so proud of himself for returning from his patrol of the house. Leaning on his back legs, the little albino ferret sniffed the air experimentally before licking his lips. Jonathan fetched a small bowl for Trouble to have a little stew for himself before helping her serve up the hot food. After the library, even with the fire he’d become chilled in comparison to the heat in the kitchen, and the dinner Linda had made was making his mouth water, even before he carried two bowls to the table and set out bread and butter. “You know, I’ve been wondering,” He began, gesturing with a slice of bread as he ate, unable to keep the slowly spreading grin from his face as he put this idea to his Partner in Crime “Whether or not you fancy giving ol’ One Eye a little hmm…scare.”

Trouble, greedily tucking into his dinner, looked up at his Daddy, ruby eyes cautious. He’d detected the change in the tone of Jonathan’s voice, but continued to eat, even if his eyes did not leave the lanky man sitting at the table, glancing at his Mummy for reassurance. Craw, squabbling with Poe on the countertop, paused, her beady eyes calculating. Her sights were trained on her Scarecrow’s glasses, waiting for them to come off. You could be sure she wouldn’t hesitate to reclaim her perch atop his shoulder once they did, but disappointingly, they remained firmly on his nose. He needed to see his food, after all, and if they were going to begin planning something, it would be more advantageous to keep a level head. Further to this, Linda might have simply wanted a quiet evening in front of the fire with a good book. In view of this, as he finished his first bowl of stew and made gestures silently asking if it was all right to help himself to a second, Jonathan stood and continued. “I mean, not right now of course. You should at least get to see the library without me dragging you into another scheme … in any account this stew is delicious.” he babbled, ladling stew into his bowl. Trouble’s attention wavered, and eventually shifted back to his food. Craw began fussing at Poe again. The tension in the room relaxed between the three animals, and Jonathan began his second helping.

However, with as hungry as Jonathan might have been, and as much as he ate, eventually Linda managed to fill his hollow legs. Following that, after letting his food settle, he cleared the table and filled the sink with hot water. He proposed they take their pie into the library to eat at leisure, which meant in his case, allowing Linn to take what slice she wanted and leaving him with the pie dish. He would wash the dishes in the morning; for it had been a long day, and more than anything he wished for her to see another area of the house he was personally quite fond of. The birds stayed in the kitchen, left a small meal of their own, but Trouble slunk along behind the two scientists, keeping close to his mummy even though he’d been brave in exploring the house on his own earlier. His daddy had unnerved him slightly, and he held a gut feeling that this would not be the first time the doctor would be out tonight.

It was little surprise to him that Linda would fall in love with the Aga. It was like a regular stove but it was always warm, and performed so many more functions than simply being an appliance with which you could cook food or boil a kettle. In some respects Jonathan thought it a shame that there would come the day when Linda would have to leave it behind here in Georgia, but it wasn’t as though they could take it back with them to Gotham. The ruddy great thing was built into the house, and who ever heard of taking a stove for a train ride anyway? Still, it was in that moment that an idea hit him; and he stowed that particular brain wave in the back of his mind to be retrieved at a later date. He may not have been able to bring the Aga back with them to Gotham, but he could have one installed at their new home in the Narrows. True it would look a little incongruous in the town house, but if he remembered rightly he had chosen their new dwelling partly because it had a sizeable kitchen, and if he was savvy about what model he chose and the such like, it could just work. He knew how important cooking was to his Partner in Crime; even when they first met officially, he recalled she used to bring in wonderful home-cooked meals to the lab every day (although, he would grudgingly have admitted such a thing at the time, his pride a large barrier that had to be overcome before he would eventually abandon his own food to try hers). Yes, it was something that made her happy, and it seemed that more than anything she enjoyed cookery because it was another way in which she could adhere to her motherly nature; a method through which she could take care of people. It was no secret that Linn often gave out food to the needy people in the Narrows that could not feed themselves, and indeed Jonathan often wondered why she considered herself a villain – she was of such sweet nature it was hard to imagine her doing anything vile-spirited. Then again, people either saw one side of her, or the other. Rarely both. Jonathan had, and it was for this reason that one night while flicking through an old book of Nursery Rhymes he had given himself a little laugh; there was one particular rhyme that suited her Partner in Crime so perfectly it could have been written for her.

There was a little girl
And she had a little curl,
Right in the middle of her forehead,
When she was good,
She was very, very good,
And when she was bad she was horrid.

Jonathan’s expression became sharp. The hesitancy in the stream of chatter Linda filled the silence with stood out in sharp relief against the backdrop of amiable calm she created, and with a calculating look to him, the man knew full well that his Partner in Crime realised she was entering sensitive territory, and that it hadn’t been her intention to upset him; far from it. Reluctantly, his storm-cloud eyes tore from the dusty cookbooks that sat on the kitchen shelves and when he met her gaze, it was with an even look without anger. His large, spidery hand found her shoulder in passing, when he moved across the room to reach the books. It was hardly Linda’s fault if some of the books here would dredge up bad memories, and to that end it was his job to point out the ones that he would rather she didn’t read, or rather, decide it might have been a wonderful idea to try the recipes contained within. “You’re entitled to anything you see in this house that you like the look of.” He told her fairly, his long forefinger running down the spines of the titles she had left be on the shelf. He found the one he was looking for. Pulling this volume down, his palm brushed the dust and cobwebs from it before he glanced at her in warning, trepidation in his eyes. “Except this book. I keep it for posterity, and while I won’t begrudge you reading its contents, I would prefer you didn’t decide to try to recreate any of the recipes that are described.”

The book, like so many others in this house, was heavy, its jacket one of dark leather. There was no title to speak of, but Jonathan knew what it contained, and recognised it by the messy splatters and streaks across the cover and spine. Had the book been any lighter in shade, the ravages of time would not have disguised the fact that these marks were infact, blood. However, they simply looked like someone careless had spilt their drink or else some of what they were cooking up, and that it was not sinister in the slightest. Jonathan knew different, and for this reason dumped the book on the cleared kitchen table. Considering he held a fierce love for all things bibliographical, it was strange behaviour indeed. He was a man who treated all books with care and respect, this particular volume could have been a dead bird by the way he threw it open and carelessly flicked to a page marked with black ribbon. “All the books here contain my families’ recipes.” He elaborated, turning the book around so that Linda could have a chance to read what was written on the damp spotted, yellowing paper. The writing bore a striking resemblance to Jonathan’s, but his great-grandmother tended to embellish hers with looping tails on the letters whereas Jonathan’s was more slapdash. “Including the hormone derived concoctions granny used in her sadistic little machinations.” He spat, his tone vicious, bitter. He gave the book a spiteful little shove away from himself, leaving it in Linda’s charge. Looking at it made him feel sick, and instead he turned to fetch the other books down for her so that she didn’t have to stand on a chair or climb the counters later.

When he felt more in control of the situation, after having arranged the cookery books in a meticulously neat pile, he leant against the counter. “I know how much joy your cooking brings you, and I wouldn’t deprive you of any of the recipes you like the look of. I’m sure I was never fed any of them, but if anyone can make them work, it’s you. So to that end you’re welcome to these volumes,” he gestured to the stack near his elbow, “Just so long as you promise me you will endeavour not to brew any of those” he nodded towards the book in front of her, “even if you think they would be fun to test on someone else.” He held his hands up, knowing that he sounded like a hypocrite. After all, wasn’t he the man responsible for concocting vile toxins and giving them to people to see the effects? It seemed duplicitous to prevent Linda from brewing up his granny’s old potions. But there were some of his worst memories connected to the words in that book, and Jonathan felt unable to handle the fact that Linda, his Linn, would start doing the same things as his granny. Quite simply, he didn’t want her to. “I’m asking you, please don’t.”

There was nothing more said on the matter on his behalf, or indeed, at all, until they were in the library. It wasn’t so much that Jonathan lapsed into tense silence, for he’d said his piece on how he felt about Linda using the cookery books, and knew she would understand why. There was no issues with respecting the other’s opinion, so he trusted she would honour his request, just as he made conscious effort not to block her out when she was in this house which still was somewhat unfamiliar to her. Hence why he took her hand as they traversed the long, empty halls and watched her study the stern portraits hanging on the walls. Jonathan knew each and every one of the faces lining the walls even if he’d never met most of them in person. Granny-Keeny revelled in regaling the history of the house and the people that dwelled within it; he often wondered if that was because his lineage was particularly tragic and gory, and the old hag enjoyed things of that nature. Even in this knowledge, he kept his mouth shut about the portraits, even when her eyes held recognition when she spied a face that bore resemblance to his. In his opinion there were far more interesting things in this house than the portraits of his family, and he imagined the only person who’d ever found the history of this place fascinating was indeed his great-grandmother. Certainly she had bored him to tears with the stories as a young boy.

Still, all thoughts of his family were dispelled when he introduced Linda to his favourite part of the house; the library. She appeared enchanted with the place, perhaps equally as much as she had the kitchen. The firelight made her rose eyes appear luminous and as though they were full of starlight, and he could not help but smile quietly to himself as he allowed her to explore the room under her own steam. While she got the measure of the place, he took the quilt from her and placed it on the rug that lay in front of the fire. It could go around them, and this way, they could sit together. The armchair had a tendency to be quite cold, and too far away from the fire to feel any real benefit, and in any case, the pile of the rug was deep which made it quite comfortable to stretch out upon. The fire had settled nicely, the bellies of the logs glowed from where the fire had eaten into their cores. Flames and embers rose up the chimney silently; it was warm. Comfortably so. Indeed it was the kind of atmosphere that granted sleep, and might have done just that had his mind not been rife with ideas for revenge against Old One Eye.

“I’m glad you like it. This is the only room in the house I’ve found peace with aside my bedroom.” He smiled faintly, neglecting to add that this was one area of the house Granny forbade him from going to. Contained within the towering shelves were books holding knowledge that would have been far too dangerous in the hands of a young boy, and indeed, it just went to show that the old coot was right. For when he finally plucked up the courage to step into the library for the first time, he learnt what she was doing to control the crows. That spelt the end of the old woman. Since then, the room had been a sanctuary in the otherwise foreboding house, and it was in here that Jonathan gained much of his prior knowledge of chemistry before going to University in Gotham. But it was not just factual books on plants and their properties, or agricultural books here. There was an extensive collection of literary classics, some of which Jonathan had relocated to the bookshelf in his room. His eyes lit a little when he caught the sudden warmth in her smile, wondering what had crossed her mind but not pressing the question. Instead he took her hand and led her over to the rug, opening out the patchwork quilt to drape around her shoulders like a cape. It was a pretty thing, made in colours that they were both fond of, and crafted from soft cotton patches. Once she was sat, he grabbed the pile of books and, handing her one, placed the rest in front of them. Then he joined her, the quilt large enough to go around two pairs of shoulders.

“Now see, if I am right, our latest project lives here” He explained, a map laid out in front of him. His finger pointed to what appeared to be an untidy clutter of buildings just off a main road. “Those are all barns, likely fallen into disrepair since he inherited that land from his parents.” He gave Linda a look which suggested that he thought very little of this man, more so since he learnt what he had grown to be. As a boy, Bill used to live on a working farm, but the looks that Linda had noticed the butcher, and the other people at the market, give Old One Eye suggested that she was right, and that nobody thought much to him either. The reasons for this were not so hard to imagine, particularly within a close-knit, farming community. Bringing shame to a family was the usual reason, it was why Jonathan often heard people speak ill of his mother but sing his granny’s praises. When he attended church on a Sunday, he was forced to stand around while the old hag’s friends waffled away to her, most of them unafraid to speak their minds in front of him. How much could a child understand after all? Bill had probably inherited the farm from his parents, who used to own a vegetable stall, but that they found him helping on the meat counter suggested that he had been taken on to save face, for the fact that he no longer had any vegetables to sell because the land went to pot, was quite evident. “You saw yourself how non-judgemental the folk were at that market. They don’t hate people without good reason; unless hard evidence is shoved under their nose they treat everyone with equal politeness. So that tells us that he is at the very least disliked – but I think you’re right Linda; I think they see him as an embarrassment, least of all to his family. They used to run a vegetable stall, but we found him working the meat counter.” He pointed out, pushing his glasses higher up his nose with his index finger. “So we know where he lives, and that we have the perfect place from which to ambush him. What we need to figure out, is what he fears.” He ran a hand through his hair, “I know from experience our friend is a think-skinned fellow.” He chuckled, glancing at her as he flipped through a book on poisonous plants, “But I think you gathered that from his demeanour. But here see… we could quite easily poison him and cause havoc with his mind while he is incapacitated.” He flipped the book around to show Linda an illustration of a flowering plant with heavily lobed leaves and purple flowers. “Larkspur grows around the edges of the fields in all of that dead grass. We won’t see the flowers but the stalks are quite obvious, and we could do all kinds of things with the roots if the plant is young enough; paralysis is always an interesting way to frighten someone.” He handed the book to her, “once he is incapacitated, but fully aware of what’s going on, there’s nothing stopping us from dropping him off the roof or pulling toenails, drowning him in the bath…” He trailed off, before giving her a rather wicked grin. Trouble, who had been curled in his mummy’s lap for fear of how his daddy was behaving, shot further into the recesses of Linn’s arms. In the light of the fire, his daddy’s glasses reflected orange, and needless to say he looked … well. Scary.

That there were two sides to Linn’s partner in crime was somewhat problematic. It was not quite what you might term a split personality, but more his method of coping with things he otherwise couldn’t. His other mindset was more aggressive, and once he was riled it took him a while to come down from that agitated state, even around her. Many people only ceased to wind him up further, Linn knew better and treated him like a force that was unmoving, yet could be bartered with. Scarecrow was the more dangerous side of her doctor, the one more prone to sadistic and irrational thought patterns, and that she welcomed that side of him with as much dignity as she welcomed the doctor, was likely why she was one of the few people the Scarecrow listened to.

But while she was scared of becoming more than a villain, Jonathan knew that night he killed Sherry Squires, that, although it had been a revenge that got driven too far, he enjoyed it and there was no denying that fact. Linda was lucky to see a side of him that was not sadistic or so obsessed with controlling people through what they found frightening, truly; she might have held no fear, might have been stronger than he and quicker to boot, but that wasn’t to say he couldn’t have still driven her away had he wanted to. The fact of the matter was that she had enticed certain behaviours out of him all on her own merit, for certainly Jonathan didn’t like people knowing that he could be a nice person. It ruined his image.

Yes, he’d had it bad as a child, but it was all relative. He’d never been one to dwell on his own woes, and although he suffered terrible nightmares from the things done to him as a child, it was something he forcefully kept in the past, or at least that was his aim. This house had brought back many of those awful memories for him, but for now with her help he put them to rest. His past was something that he really couldn’t change; it was what made him a villain because as a boy he knew nothing else but loneliness and cruelty; he’d come to expect that to get anywhere in life you needed to be cold hearted and ruthless. But that Linda showed him that people really could be unfailingly nice, or at least, that she could be, was another reason why he allowed her past his barriers. Yes, it terrified him that if anyone could stick the knife where it hurt the most, it would be her. Then again, you could never truly love someone if you didn’t trust them, and he trusted her, perhaps more than she realised.

Her blush made him falter, and out of habit he double-checked his words just in case he’d said something without realising. In the end he realised that she was likely just so pleased that he trusted her that much with his house, although all things considered if there was anyone to show the place the respect he did, it would be Linda. Still, it was with an awkward rub of his neck that he left her to it, watching her as she read the horrid cookbook. However, when he saw the shade of grey she turned did bring a twinge of guilt from him. Yes, the woman couldn’t feel fear but it certainly looked as though she could feel horror. To that end he knew the fact his Granny used mice in the recipe was something which would upset Linda, but he had a feeling that unless she knew the full extent of what was done, she might not have believed the things he told her. It was almost unbelievable that one person could be so wicked, yes, and for many years he always felt the one at fault; it was all too easy to believe Granny’s words about how he was such a sinful little boy and that he deserved to be punished and cleansed of such sin. Thankfully, such Christian rubbish was far behind him now a days; Jonathan had no time for people who went from door to door spreading ‘the word’. Indeed, you would never hear him take His name in vain, because he had so many other words at his disposal, and furthermore refused to acknowledge there even was a God. He didn’t think ‘testing’ a child was a very kind thing to do, especially when you considered the way he’d turned out. The book hitting the door made him flinch despite himself, but one look of her expression told him all he needed to know. He gathered her close when she came to him for comfort, kissing her hair quietly.

“I am sorry Linda.” He said quietly, feeling awful for having upset her so. It was one of those things that he knew she would understand and take in her stride, but at the time likely felt painful as salt in a wound. “You never have to look at it again, I won’t keep it in the kitchen. I knew once you saw it you wound understand, believe me – even I felt bad for the mice when I found out how she was doing it.” Which was a marked statement; Jonathan had always been either hating of animals, or obviously indifferent to them. It likely explained why in his absence, he left food out for them, as though to make his peace, and would not congratulate his bird when she caught one of the mice that evidently lived in the house. They were different from the ones that lived in the field; they looked more like pet mice. The field ones were smaller and always brown flecked with cream with a rough coat. There were black, white and chocolate mice living behind the Aga, all had smooth coats. He often half wondered if Granny hadn’t bought a load from the petshop, and had had an incident with them escaping. He hoped so, he hoped they spited her by hiding behind the aga. He hoped they drove her up the wall.

Thus he was gladdened when her face lit up in the library. Yes, it was more extensive than the one they frequented while at university, but then again the University library was more up to date. There were old medical texts somewhere here which he reminded himself to direct her towards, for while she certainly wouldn’t have learnt anything knew (the woman had likely memorised Gray’s Anatomy by the time she came to university), she certainly could have had a giggle at what people used to think about the human body. Mainly there were literary classics here, along with a lot of chemistry books and agricultural technique. It was what sparked Jonathan’s passion for experimental chemistry. Lots of books here, but that hadn’t meant to say he was bored while at university. Linda might have not learned much in her degree and breezed through it, but Jonathan was not quite so obviously blasé about the work he put in. He learned an awful lot doing his degree and helping his chemistry professor in the lab. He wasn’t the one to correct the lecturer, he listened with due care and attention. Suffice it to say he’d never been bored at Gotham Uni, because he pushed himself, because he wanted to excel – it had been an opportunity for him, and at the time he’d been so desperate to break away from the sad little confining shell of a world his childhood had been.

Old one eye was one of the few things that remained of his childhood that he hadn’t already erased. If Linn wanted to know who the people were on the walls of the house then he would have gladly told her, along with telling them that the majority had succumbed to violent accidents from their ever increasing dementia. It seemed it was the way he was going too, and unfortunately this was a trend in old family lines; so obsessed with who they married and keeping the bloodline pure it was small wonder the lot of them hadn’t been born deformed. Thankfully, only half of him was from this rotten family, which likely explained why he was prone to periods of mania whereas other times he could temper himself and control it. To be sure his family history was not a nice one, like anything in the past for him. But she was welcome to know, because he would have told her anything, in time. All she needed to do was to ask him. Their task at hand was to get rid of ol’ one eye, or at least, this was something he was compelled to do after he’d been so rude at the market. He might have grudgingly let the insults on his person slide, to be revenged another day, but that the Neanderthal had spoilt the day for Linn, meant that the matter could not be ignored. Nobody made her unhappy and got away with it. Just like she was fiercely protective of him, it brought his temper and his more aggressive mindset when he saw her angry or upset. Perhaps it was because, like Linn, he knew what she’d suffered. And like it had been said previously, things were relative – it was not a question that he’d suffered worse than she, even then there had been no need for her to be outcast and made spectacle of as a little girl, and then denied affection just because her parents could not be bothered with her. No. She was still such a wonderful person despite all that she’d been through, and Jonathan intended to encourage her to stay that way, because heavens knew she still had a side to her that was lovely, and while she had a vindictive side to her just like he did, he could cover the bad. He just liked seeing her happy.

Her worry about wanting to socialise truly did bring a laugh from him, along with a broad smile. “Oh you don’t have to worry about anything like that, people don’t think there’s anyone living at this old place, but they can’t find the deeds and think it’s haunted so they leave it alone. Truth be told I think they’ve forgotten it even exists. This is why it makes such a perfect hide out, don’t you see?” He brushed her hair behind her ear affectionately, her worry about wanting to socialise all too adorable, “You’d sooner find me in a church than in my own grave.” He assured her, “if questions are asked, I can cover for you. I didn’t suffer every Sunday and not take something away from that awful place.” He attested.

“But yes, you are right.” He said with a rather abashed smile, the compliment making his ears turn a pink that was thankfully disguised from the heat from the fire, “And it’s exactly what I intend to do. I agree, he is a Neanderthal, so we should take our scare tactics back to something more basic… more … primal.” He glanced at her, “Fire, loud noises… sudden shocks. If we could somehow utilise the fire two fold, we could set his house alight … make it look like he’d had just a little too much to drink. I recall he absolutely reeked, of alcohol.” He said with a nasty sneer. “I don’t doubt he really will be inebriated, thus whatever we choose in the end, will have its effects magnified.” He gave a cruel laugh at the thought of it, glancing towards his Partner in Crime wickedly as she handed him his pie. He took it with thanks, beginning to eat. It was delicious, but what baked good that she created wasn’t. Indeed it wasn’t long before he’d finished his portion, which had been a good half of the thing, and collected her plate too when she was finished, placing them on the low coffee table behind them, and standing to help her to her feet. “A walk it is.” He announced, folding the duvet carefully and adding more wood to the fire, so that it would still be burning upon their return.

Linda might not have meant to take the walk immediately that night, but it was what the Scarecrow had decided upon doing. The rain had long since ceased, and the sky had cleared dramatically. Absence of cloud cover meant that the night air was clean and dry, but sharp. Thankfully the both of them had warm garments enough to ensure that they were not cold; Jonathan had his scarf and gloves along with his coat, and in any case he had one of her hands pulled safely into the comfortingly warm confines of his pocket, to hold. The air was still again, having exhausted itself with the earlier storm, the trees were silent and the dead corn stalks in the field did not move an inch. He took Linn along the edge of the field, before turning off along a winding dirt track that lead away from the house and through a woodland. Winter had turned the trees almost bare now, the moonlight shone through their branches brightly and the sky was filled with stars. He was eternally grateful for the fact that most birds were diurnal. The only thing he worried about were the owls, but few were stupid enough to live here anymore – having all been scared off by Craw when she got large enough to wreak her revenge. Besides, he was more excited about the plan they were pulling together, and the thought of finally giving One Eye the comeuppance he certainly deserved. After the woodland there came a large open expanse of tall grass; old neglected hay left over from the summer and it was along this that they walked to look for the flowers they required.

“You check over that way, I’ll look down this. I recall there’s clumps all along this footpath so it shouldn’t take us very long.” He explained, knowing that it was easy to keep each other in line of sight so Linn had no reason to fear being alone – he would be only a few paces away at most. However, once her back was turned and her attention diverted to looking for the flowers, a sly, rather devious look came over Jonathan’s face, and, in a spur of the moment gesture, he slunk silently up behind her. Then, he pounced.

Jonathan was quietly uncomfortable at the house being haunted. In his mind, it would be haunted of the ghosts of people he didn’t like, or indeed, that didn’t like him. He was not afraid of ghosts per se; he had speculated on their existence and personally believed that it was possible, but the mental image of granny wandering around the house trying to get him wasn’t a nice thing to think over. There were likely some people who’d frown on him too. Granny had always gleaned particular delight in reminding him what a disappointment he was, and that his great uncle Sampson or whoever would have been turning in his grave to see what the end of the Keeny line had bred. Linda would make a splendid ghost, with her looks and also her clothes, long hair that could be attributed to a drowned woman… yes it would work. Her hair shimmered and glowed in the moonlight made her appear all the more ethereal; like some kind of moonlight creature. Her hood made it feel as though a light went out. He let go of her hand to let her look at the hay; hay grass was different to the grass that went to make straw. Straw was the left over stems of cereal crop; wheat, barley, corn. It was only useful for insulation, or indeed for making a good costume. It was course, rough, and thick stemmed. Hay by contrast was dried meadow grass. It was sweet and green to smell, studded with clover flowers and fine, soft stems that had feathered tips. It was supposed to be for eating – sheep and cattle were fed hay in the wintertime. If you weren’t herbivorous, it also happened to make a very good place to lie down; far more comfortable than straw. This field had been neglected; the grass had gone to seed and the flowers had died and dried all of their own accord. In the winter, the hay field had been perfectly preserved – dried out by the summer sun and left there. Watching her so entranced by something so simple as an old hayfield brought a slight smile to his face, but he let her play – it was a novelty for her and indeed there was nothing wrong with being fond of hay. If they had been younger he might have dragged her into a game of hide-and-seek within it.

The moment had been so perfect; the Scarecrow in him simply could not resist pouncing her. He felt too mischievous and Linn had just been there; the prospect of their plan spurring him to begin frightening people right that moment. It was merely unfortunate that she found herself at the mercy of his scare tactics because she happened to be the only soul nearby. Then again, Linn did not seem to mind, in fact, he might have gone so far as to say she enjoyed it. What Jonathan hadn’t banked on was the lapels of his coat being seized in her delicate hands in retaliation; before he knew it he’d lost his balance as she yanked him down into the hay with her. With his long arms and legs, and her hair, the two of them soon wound up a tangle. A brief, playful scuffle ensued, the sweet hay grass being disturbed and flattened in their wake to create a damp trail behind them. Startled moths fluttered upwards, bright from the moonlight, Linn’s squeak of surprise echoing in the empty, clear night air. Eventually Jonathan gained the upper hand and pinned the slight albino woman, leering over her with a manic, excited expression on his face. For a moment their eyes locked hard as he caught his breath. They were so close to one another Jonathan could feel her little heart frantically beating against her ribs. He paused, revelling in the adrenaline and the brief moment of surprise before he let out a little puff of air, watching as her eyes slid off his to take in the view of the sky above them. Lying in it, the fresh scent was stirred up that would be familiar to Linn; even in Gotham the scent of hay never really left her Scarecrow, similar to the way in which the soft lavender and poppy always lingered in her hair. The latter was how he identified her when he couldn’t see her; she would always have trouble surprising him because the aroma followed her around like a rose-madder flag. No matter how quiet she grew to be, he could tell when she entered the room simply because of her soft perfume. Indeed, his eyesight might not have been the best without the aid of his glasses, but it was almost to compensate that his other senses had become sharp. In their line of work, it was a necessity.

“I know I did.” he confessed simply, his breath slowing as he leant down close enough to brush nose-to-nose, his voice lowering and almost growling in the back of his throat. “That’s why I do it; you’re beautiful when you jump like that.”

Jonathan never wanted to scare her in the same way he did his test subjects. The two things were distinct. People that were subjected to his fear toxin were those who had actively wronged him, people he believed deserved to be frightened and taught not to mess with him. He did not stand to be pushed around, at least not anymore. More to the point such people were nothing more than guinea pigs to test the effects of his compound; he enjoyed their fear in a purely sadistic and vengeful manner. By contrast, he made Linn jump in a somewhat playful manner. She could not feel fright, this much was true, but it didn’t mean her body did not go through the same processes as everyone else. It simply meant that sudden surprises sent her giggling. Pouncing her unexpectedly was one of the ways he had to bring a smile to her face. Which was all the more incentive to do it.

He pulled back to sit back on his haunches, Linn trapped between his knees. The night sky, the only one Linn had ever been allowed to see because of her condition, took on a completely different aspect out here. Far away from the sodium lamps and smog of the city, on a clear night you could see stars you might never have dreamt existed. A rich sable-velvet canvas dusted with pinprick diamonds. It was almost extravagant; for this image was only compounded in its magnificence by the way in which the stars glittered. Again, the night sky out here was something that Jonathan took for granted and thus watching her reaction was intriguing. Even though he knew full well she took pleasure in the small, simple things, it was still curious to see the way in which her eyes illuminated in wonder at the sight of so many stars. He was distracted when her next comment came, and needless to say it took him by surprise. Jonathan quirked an eyebrow, the cold moonlight gracefully smoothing over the fact that he had indeed coloured at her words. He felt Linn’s eyes on him, but did not avert his; he noticed that her hair that she’d so meticulously tied back escaped the clip in part and now framed her face in snowy, lightly curled wisps. He could still feel her heartbeat and how she still trembled slightly from the adrenaline coursing through her veins. Her abilities came from her being in a constant state of fear; thus it was almost as though she could not feel it. He’d often wondered if that was why he found her so delectable. Then again, there was a reason the two of them were drawn together; soul mates were a perfect fit like Yin and Yang. Who else could be more perfect for a man so obsessed with fear than a woman who experienced constant fear and yet was not afraid and incapable of being frightened? She was the only one who could truly claim to be immune to the frightening aspect of her husband. Slowly, he leaned to steal a kiss. “We have a plant to fund, as much as I could just as easily stay here.”

An offered hand and small trek out of the hay later, he’d fallen to scouting the grass verge by moonlight. The hayfield behind them was tall; it grew up to just above his waist. Thus the track they’d left behind was clearly visible, along with the makeshift nest they had carved. “You shouldn’t worry yourself over the house being reclaimed, I believe I am the only person who knows where the deed is. At least, I have a feeling mother-dearest would have staked her claim in the place long before now if she knew.” He announced, bending to check one particular plant to check the leaves. “Although, I very much doubt anyone but you and I even know this house exists, since the last time I checked the land maps it wasn’t marked.” Jonathan glanced over his shoulder and gave Linn a sly smile. Something about his expression told that he might have had a hand in ensuring that the house had been erased from all records. It wasn’t hard to imagine; he was notoriously difficult to find if he wished to disappear; after having skipped from state to state and never having left much more than straw in his wake, it appeared he knew an awful lot about hiding things. Indeed, avoiding the law was a game to him, akin to an elaborate and rather dangerous game of hide and go seek. Although, he was the kid that always found hiding places so difficult he sometimes grew bored and went seeking the people trying to find him. He was still under the firm belief that without him lending the Bat Man a hand, the man would have never found him. It sorely tested the theory that whoever stood behind that cape and cowl was a genius; Jonathan heard this particular rumour but scoffed at it. If Bat Man was the genius others claimed, he would have been able to find him. Speaking of which, he muttered a small ‘ah ha’ as he discovered what he was looking for, kneeling to grab it by the roots to unearth it. “Here we are. Roots intact too, which is what we want.” He showed her, brushing the soil from it so that it wouldn’t leave a mess in the house.

Suddenly, he felt the scarf slide from his neck like an errant serpent, and whipping around, Jonathan’s pale eyes raked the hay to try to see where his little Fright had gotten to. Around them, the night was alive, fuelling his excitable mood like oxygen would a flame. It was tranquil out here, the weather died down long ago to leave a gentle November breeze dusting the deadened heads of the hay and giving wing to the moths in flight. But the air held that magical quality to it which only ceased to wind him up; it had been too long since he’d frequented a field such as this, and indeed the first time some small, delectable creature shared it with him. To that end, Linda should have known better than to coerce Jonathan into a game when he was not exactly in a regular frame of mind. It was not so much because things ended badly per se; it was more the case that things tended to escalate. Perhaps this was her intention; there really was only one end to the story when the Scarecrow got wound up past the point of frustration. But tonight they couldn’t afford to become too distracted; there was organised mischief afoot. Ol’ One Eye needed to be taught a lesson. All the same, there was very little chance the Scarecrow would pass up a game of hide-and-go-seek, and once dragged into the game, a wide, manic grin spread over his thin face.

In the intervening seconds, everything fell utterly dead. Like his namesake, Jonathan was stood stock-still in the middle of the field; the hay barely reaching to mid-thigh. Like he was hunting for quarry, the only part of him that moved, were his eyes, scanning over the deadened flowers and old grass to spot the telltale wake where Linda would have ran and ducked. Hay was an extremely poor choice of hiding place if you knew what to look for, and for this reason, he cackled quietly to himself. “Come out, come out, wherever you are…” He crooned, moving from his position to creep slowly forward. He could see a patch of grass that was quivering, as though someone was trying there very hardest to stifle giggles; rendering them silent. It was all too bad the hay gave her away so obviously to him. In addition to this, being albino, Linn glowed to a certain extent, thus her idea was about as futile as trying to hide the moon. “Haha!” He announced, springing on her and sending them both into a tumble.

Plants, however, would not find themselves. Soon enough the young couple had pulled themselves from the sweet trappings of the hayfield and were headed back to the house. The plants that spurred this impromptu nighttime walk, dangled via their leaves from Jonathan’s hand. His free arm was slung across Linn’s slender shoulders, and her arm was around his waist. Together, they meandered their way along the narrow dirt track that led back to the old house; Linda was telling him her plans. “Teas need a lot of water.” He told her, “If you’re serious about trying to get something out of this land we might need to look into building a glass house of some description. As you can see, nothing grows here in the winter –“ He cast an eye over the old, deadened corn field at the front of the house as they passed it by. His eyes narrowing slightly at the sight of the old, tattered and headless scarecrow that stood there like a corpse, he added in undertone, “Nothing at all.”

Plants, if he was honest, were more Ivy’s speciality than his. Nevertheless, knowing the chemical properties plants possessed came in handy when you were deriving compounds that you couldn’t necessarily produce artificially. When it came to propagating them, his experience tending that cornfield paid off. It was possibly the most difficult field to tend, and he was expected to produce something from it. Hence, while he truly hated gardening, and was poor at cookery, Jonathan was unusually skilled at making things grow. Much like he knew how to keep someone on that delicate fencepost between death and life, if you handed him a pot of soil and some seeds, he could get them germinating and growing. More to this, he knew quite a lot about the old ways of herb lore, but sad to say he’d picked up a lot of that from his great-grandmother. Perhaps it was simply something that ran in his blood, much the same as his sadistic streak and the strong desire to frighten other people. It was highly plausible; such traits were hallmarks of his family line. Thankfully, a positive outlet for this skill was being put forward, and as difficult as he knew growing anything to be here, for Linda’s sake he would give it a shot. Something he did not have access to when he was younger, was the chemical fertiliser that now, he could quite easily synthesise in the laboratory. They would surely help Linda’s ideas bloom, no pun intended. At the very least, it was worth a shot; if he was honest Jonathan liked the idea of being self-sufficient. If they really could live off the land it would ensure they had a perfect hideaway here should they ever have need of it. “I want, doesn’t get.” He teased her, accompanying his playful banter with a gentle squeeze of her shoulders, “But I think that’s a good idea; personally I don’t want to imagine a time when we would be reduced to hiding out here, but you never know,” Jonathan glanced down at her, “We can’t afford to take chances, what with all that mischief we have planned.”

It felt so strange to return to a house that felt warm; Jonathan realised this was something he could get used to. After helping her with her coat, he lifted the plants to indicate he needed to go and prepare them. “I’ll wager you can find something like that in the attic.” He told her, a wry smirk on his face as he added, “I hope you don’t find it too scary up there; there’s all manner of old clothes, dresses, shoes … in fact I’m almost certain everything that the family didn’t want was shoved up there and forgotten about. I have little doubt there will be a couple of old lacy nightgowns – something really creepy.” Jonathan tossed her an excitable grin. “These need preparing; if you need me I’ll be down in the basement. That would be the funny little door leading off from the kitchen, by the Aga. If you want the attic, just keep on heading up the stairs past the first floor landing, until you come to a tapestry; there should be a door behind it.” He motioned to the bunch of keys Linn still held before taking them from her and sorting through to produce a small, brass key with an ornately tooled handle, “If the door is locked this is the key you need. Meet back in the kitchen? I’m no more than a call away.” He patted his pocket, which contained his phone. In a house this large, it paid to be on the end of some modern technology, but Fright being a brave woman, Jonathan held no allusion that she would be just fine in the house on her own. There were certain things that scared her, and large, creepy Victorian houses were not one of them. All the same, he was not far away if she did happen to get freaked out. Jonathan knew all too well how the old house had a habit of playing tricks on your mind.

A flight of worn, precarious stone stairs led down to the basement. As predicted, the lights didn’t work down here, either. Ordinarily Jonathan would elect to work in the kitchen, but as he predicted he was going to get fed before they headed out. It was hardly the wisest of ideas to prepare a plant that held fear-inducing effects in the vicinity where food was served on a regular basis. Indeed, it was the sole reason why they did not often eat in the lab, or at least, not while he had some important work going on. The basement here served as a makeshift laboratory. The equipment was from the Stone Age, and the room looked more like a medieval witch’s coven then a basement. Jonathan too a handful of candles down here with him, along with a box of matches he snagged from the shelf above the Aga. His eyesight brought him down the stairs, but soon enough he’d positioned all seven candles in their rightful place, and although the room was dimly lit, it was light enough to work by. In contrast to the rest of the house with its tall vaulted ceilings and high doorways, the basement was slung very low. Jonathan was required to duck to pass through the narrow entrance, although thankfully, he did not have to stoop to stand and work. Against the far wall a workbench was located, along with a bookcase. Various drawers were down here too, long since emptied. Once upon a time they contained dried herbs, but he’d been forced to throw the lot away after the house began to get too damp and they decayed past the point of usefulness. The bench was cluttered with things more commonly found in an alchemist’s workshop; a stone pestle and mortar, a small knife, crucible, retort stand and glass alembic amongst other things. The former Jonathan pulled towards him, along with the knife. He also set a tripod with a small clay crucible over a small stub of candle, and after crushing the roots of the plant they found, Jonathan set them drying to create a volatile powder that would quickly produce the effects they were after once it was thrown directly into flame.

* * *

No less than an hour and a half later, while the night was still young and the mist had begun to collect in the lowlands, Jonathan stood in full raiment, rummaging through his garage for a canister of petroleum. Fires, needed fuel. The most reliable source of fuel he knew of was petrol; it would burn hot and bright, and flare up at a moments notice. Perfect for scaring one of his most hated enemies. The drum swung from his arm almost unchecked, and settling it by his boots he cackled quietly. Not half an hour ago he’d been fed, although how much food he actually managed to swallow was anyone’s guess. Excitement was building and the Scarecrow was having difficulty concentrating on anything but the task at hand. For too long old One Eye had gotten the better of him. Tonight, he would get his comeuppance. In fact, the Scarecrow was adamant the heart of the bloated, pungent man would give out before the sun rose. If not from fright, then almost certainly from toxic shock.

As the moments jumped by like decrepit spiders with too many legs missing, the Scarecrow tapped his foot with almost impatient fervour. Where was his Partner in Crime? After food, they parted ways once again; Linda went to go and change into something a little more … frightening. Jonathan was left to gather together everything they needed for their excursion. Idly, he removed his hat to waft away the impending moths. The straw in his costume apparently attracted them; either that or the metal clasps reflected the moonlight from the clear sky above. Around him, the mist was gathering in the fields; a low haze that settled between the dead stalks of the corn and swirled like the cold hand of death around his ankles. He couldn’t have hoped for more eerie weather; and in that moment he decided it was the perfect night for mischief making. Indeed, this was decided well before Linda, or rather Fright, emerged from the house. If the Scarecrow believed things to be perfect beforehand, it wasn’t a patch on how brilliant everything was right then.

She was dressed in what could only have been an old nightgown; the lace and cotton hem tattered and torn, grimy and sullied like some dress belonging to a shipwrecked maiden. Her hair surrounded her like a halo, glowing faintly in the night’s light and merely adding to her ethereal appearance. She had made herself up to look dead; a walking corpse or else some apparition from beyond the grave and her eyes, rimmed with kohl and accented with a cold, deathly blue were violent; threatening. Truly, he could not have done a better job himself and it was this admiration that caused him to sink into a half bow, before extending a gloved hand. In the wait he’d collected together everything they required to kick up a ruckus at that old, neglected farm, and in all honesty Scarecrow was not sure if the excitement from Hallowe’en had ever really left him. He felt that familiar tug in the pit of his stomach; sensation he knew all too well. It was the urge to frighten, the desire to seek revenge. Truly, he wanted to see old One Eye suffer that night, and there was one thing you could count on, it was that Jonathan Crane never let up on his word.

“My dear, you look positively ethereal.” He commented with a grin, accented by the mask’s loosely stitched gash of a mouth. “I might be concerned for you catching cold but …” He cackled softly, tapping the gas can with the toe of his boot, “We’ll soon have several bonfires to keep you warm.”

With a glance skyward, tipping the brim of his large pointed hat back a little so that he could see, the Scarecrow made a thoughtful nose under his breath and retrieved his gas can. “We should set out; it’s walking distance, given that the both of us used to walk to the school every morning. Plus, there’s nothing stopping us from cutting across the fields.” He pointed out with a wry tone to his words, “Shall we?”