Gabrielle lowers her head and scuffs the toes of her shoes against each other.

"Look at me!" Andrew hisses.

Gabrielle shakes her head and refuses to meet his glare.

"I—I'm afraid," she stammers.

"Why?" he asks.

"No," she whispers, "I'm nervous."

"Look at me or I'll put poisonous snakes in your room," Andrew threatens.

Gabrielle raises her head and meets his gaze in an instant. As he stares into her dark, bright eyes, he remembers the cross-eyed way she stared at the snake and he almost laughed aloud.

"Who's Mr. Clifford?" Andrew asks.

"He's the one with patterns," she said hurriedly, "He has a sharp head that looks very much like yours. If you look, you'll admit you can see a resemblance."

"So you're not calling me names?" Andrew asks suspiciously.

"No. I wouldn't dare," she responds.

"I didn't think you would," Andrew says, "Now come here and apply ointment for me."

Gabrielle is relieved. She quickly grabs cotton balls with tweezers and dips them in alcohol to disinfect hi sutures. Before she can apply anything, Andrew grabs her wrist.

"Tell me, why isn't my wound healing properly after so many days?" he asks.

"Um, the healing process varies because everyone has a different biological system," Gabrielle answered, "Some heal quickly but others take more time."

"Why does it hurt much more after you apply the ointment than before?" Andrew asks suspiciously.

"Have you ever heard that bitter medications cause faster healing?" Gabrielle asks, "This is the same. The more it hurts when I apply, the more it helps you recover. "

Gabrielle speaks with such quiet confidence, she almost believes her own words. If she didn't know that she'd added salt to his ointment, she would think that what she said is true. Ever since seeing her scheming look in the snake room, Andrew has felt a growing suspicion, but she still seems quite innocent. He recalls the girlish, cross-eyed look she gave the snake, and he releases her hand and allows her to treat the sutures.

The back parlor smells strongly of chicken soup and Mrs. Florence Howel covers her nose with distaste. This pungent smell is her least favorite, and she can't help but feel that Avery is intentionally antagonizing her. She feels incredibly agitated. She meant to discipline Avery, but now she's catering to the woman's every whim.

The maids bring her her favorite tea and she inhales the delicate smell, trying to clear the smell of the soup from her nose.

"What if she doesn't leave?" Leonie wails.

"She will," Mrs. Florence Howel says grimly, "I'll make her beg to leave."

"Who's leaving?" Avery asks languorously as she enters the room, "Do you think I'll leave as soon as I've been given my soup?"

"Do you want to stay until the baby is born?" Mrs. Florence Howel asks.

"I'll consider it, provided I get chicken soup every day," Avery says with a smirk, "I told you it wouldn't be so easy to get rid of me, and as it turns out, I kind of like this place. If we spend more time together, Mrs. Howel you might even grow used to my presence and take a liking to me. Then you won't let me leave."

"You crazy woman! Who wants to see you every day?" Mrs. Howel snarls, "Get out of here after your chicken soup."

"Sorry, I suddenly lost my appetite again," Avery says, "You know how it is during pregnancy."

Avery can afford to miss the soup—she made sure to eat a large sandwich in the main house. Besides, she doesn't trust them to not slip anything into her soup. Leonie stands and approaches Avery. Instead of flying into a rage, she puts on her most winsome face.

"Avery, they have been cooking this for you for a long time," Leonie says sweetly, "The least you can do is have some. It's been a long time since you've had a nutritious meal, and pregnant women need good, nourishing food. Even if you don't it for yourself, you should think about the baby."

Leonie takes a bowl of chicken soup from a maid and tries to hand it to Avery.

"It's too rich, and I'm afraid it'll be too much for my weakened digestion," Avery says artfully, "How about you drink it considering you've lost so much weight for a birthday celebration?"

Avery wants to see if Leonie will drink it or if she'll refuse. A refusal could possibly be indicated that the soup has been tampered with.

"My situation is less pressing than yours," Leonie demurs.

She pushes the bowl towards Avery, but Avery waves it away. The broad sweep of her arm knocks the bowl from Leonie's hand and the hot liquid slops over the edge and lands on Mrs. Florence Howel's hand. Shocked, Florence spills her hot tea.

"You're nothing but trouble, Avery!" Mrs. Howel screams.

"It's not entirely my fault," Avery says, "Miss Summers helped."

Maids swarm to Mrs. Florence Howel to dry and clean her.

"It wasn't me! It was Avery!" Leonie wails.

She hurries to help the maids wipe the chicken soup and tea.

"Get out," Mrs. Florence Howel screams, "I don't want to look at you ever again."

"I can't do that," Avery says with a laugh, "You went through great trouble to bring me here and it turns out, I have deep feelings for this place. If you throw me out, it might upset me. I could become ill, and that would be detrimental to the baby."

Avery casually sits on the sofa.

"Fine, if you refuse to leave, prepare to live with the consequences!" Mrs. Howel says in a breathless rage.

Leonie strokes the older woman's back and whispers something into her ear. Mrs. Florence Howel nods and Leonie summons Maureen.

"Mrs. Howel's in the mood for music," she informs the maid.

Maureen summons the house band and asks them to play as poorly and as loudly as possible. Chaotic, atonal music quickly fills the house, destroying the quiet serenity of the night. Mrs. Howel leaves to change into her nightgown and returns to sit in her rocking chair. She nods as if she's enjoying the finest concerts all over the world.

Leonie looks provokingly at Avery. She knows that pregnant women are normally quite sensitive to noise. If Avery remains unbothered by the music, it could mean she's not really pregnant. Avery lies on the couch and forks a slice of apple from a tray. Before she eats it, she offers it to Florence.

"Come on, Mrs. Howel, have some apples," she said sweetly, "They say the elderly can't stand such noise. Chewing this can help reduce the pressure on the eardrums."

"I don't want your apples!" Florence says, knocking the fork out of Avery's hand.

Leonie smiles smugly, but Avery seems unperturbed.

"Don't you think this music is a bit similar to a funeral dirge?" Avery asks, "If an outsider heard this, they might think someone old in our family had died. I wonder who would request such miserable music? It seems like a bad omen."

Avery knows that Florence Howel is quite sensitive and superstitions about death. She looks challengingly at Leonie.

"Tell them to stop playing and get them out of here!" Florence screams.

Leonie is so angry that she almost rips her dress.

"Don't you throw wild accusations!" Leonie wails, "She twists everything! Mrs. Howel, get her out of here! She'll only drive wedges between us."

Avery smiles.

"My stomach feels odd," Avery says, ostentatiously placing her hand on her stomach, "I have to retire if you'll excuse me."

She stands up and walks toward the maid's room they have assigned her. She turns the door handle, but she finds that it won't open. She tries again, but the door doesn't budge.

"It seems to be locked from inside, somehow," Avery says, feigning regret.

She returns to the dressing room and nods at Leonie and Mrs. Florence Howel.

"It seems I can't get into my room, Mrs. Howel," Avery says, "I'm afraid I'll have to share with you tonight."

"What?" Mrs. Florence Howel asks with horror, "What do you mean?"

Avery smiles and leaves the room to go upstairs.

"Mrs. Howel, I think she means to stay in the same room as you tonight," Maureen explains.

Mrs. Florence Howel leaps to her feet.

"Stop!" she screams.