Wells thought about the door as long as it took him to recognize the purpose of the trunk, and then he turned his attention to his friend. Jules slept with his mouth half open and snored lightly. He frowned. The dear friend had probably stayed up most of the night watching over him. That tender thought made his heart melt, as he realized once more how deeply bonded the two were. That made him all the more determined not to distress his friend further.

So quietly, he moved the trunk, put on his clothes and slipped outside. The house was deathly quiet. Not a thing moved within it. Without his mother storming from one room to the other ordering the help around, or demanding it, as she had of late from her bedroom, there was no call for much movement. At least that is what he thought at the time.

Wells went into their rather sizable kitchen and was alarmed to see the stove on, but nothing on its top. On the floor were scattered broken dishes and pots and pans. The cupboards were all closed, so it wasn’t a theft he thought. But still odd. Where was Miss Glory, who always got up before everyone else and began baking. He checked the oven for the fresh bread, whose scent always filled the house while baking, and saw a baking pan there with bread in it, but no heat upon it. The oven was as lifeless appearing as the house itself.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” Jules says from behind Wells.

Wells is startled, but he refuses to show his fear to Jules.

“Undoubtedly they’re all off seeing to Mother’s funeral.”

Jules grabs Wells by his arm and spins him around. “Can’t you see what’s going on? They’re here. In our town. Right now.”

Wells stiffens. Jules lets go.

“The only thing I see is my best friend doing his damnest to scare me out of the one good life I have. Unlike cats, dear Jules, I have but the one. Try to refrain from such universal meanderings.”

Jules sighed and leaned back against the kitchen counter. “Ask yourself, would the servants just abandon a kitchen like this?”

Wells says nothing.

Jules wipes at his bloodshot eyes. “Fine. Don’t believe me. But they’re not going to take me. I’m fighting back.”

Jules starts to exit the kitchen, but Wells blocks his path. “Who is this they you refer to?”

Jules starts to answer, then shakes his head. Wearily he responds. “Wells, your mind is just as good as mine. When you figure it out, meet me at 54 Rue Morgue near the old pier. I will have a surprise for you.”

Jules darts around Wells and heads for the front door. He stops at the door and looks back at his friend, who seems in a state of shock. “I’d advise you to keep to the shadows, keep a low profile. And…”

“And what?” Wells asks weakly, uncertain how to respond.

“And don’t trust anyone!” Jules says with a tone that strikes a spike into Wells heart and twists it.