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Description
"Do not judge others by their appearance but be prepared to be judged by yours."

It was a lesson his father had taught him long ago, one of the few that he had not only remembered but adhered to his whole life.

Tonight was no different. Tonight he would make his fortune at last and he had dressed appropriately: fine white shirt, warm wool vest, black leggings, and his old soft-soled boots, with a blue naval cloak waiting on the bed. Simple yet fine, ready for wear yet ordinary in case someone caught him. Perfect.

He drew a deep breath. He knew that he had to go through with his plan to pay off his debts, to feed the servants and to boost his position on the financial floor, but after all these months of preparation, now that the night was finally here, nervousness pulsed through his body. It was a risky plan, anything could go wrong, but he must not think of that now, he must focus on the present, live for the moment, deal with events as they unfolded. He shook his thoughts away, turned with a sharp tap of his heels, and strode out the door into the dark hallway beyond.

He did not dare light a candle: any one of his guests could suffer from slight insomnia and choose to investigate the source, and then what would he say? The fine threads of the oriental carpet bent beneath his feet. The soles of his boots were so worn that he might as well have been barefoot. All the better. He moved down the corridor in complete silence, hugging the right-hand wall to the door on the end, the finest guest room in the house, the room where the Prima Donna slept.

He did not bother to turn the doorknob slowly for he had greased it well in preparation. He shut the door behind him and moved across the room toward the bed.

She had left a candle burning, as though she had known that the soft light falling across her face would cause him to hesitate for a moment. He sank to his knees beside the bed and rested his cheek on the vacant pillow opposite her head so that he could see her face properly. She was not beautiful, far from it, but she was well loved by her husband, children, and her many adoring fans and followers. How would they react when they heard the news?

Slowly, cautiously, like a tiger hunting its prey, his hand snaked across the bed covers toward her head. His fingertips brushed her neck and a sudden wave of fear surged through his veins when she shifted in her sleep and opened her eyes at his light touch.

When she saw him her brow creased with confusion, but she quickly adopted the benign smile of a puzzled guest as his other hand flew to join its partner.

"What-?"

She said no more. His fingers tightened around her throat and his legs straightened while his back arched forward so that he could press his weight downwards. Folds of flesh rose from her pale skin to fill the narrow gaps between his fingers. Her mouth opened, but deprived of air she could not speak, and her eyes widened in horror as she realized his intent.

He stared at her face as the life drained from her, watched the hues of red and blue shift in her lips and cheeks like those of a setting sun, and knew that the moment was here at last. His wild eyes fell on her golden earrings and focused on their reflected candle light as he gave the Prima Donna's neck a final squeeze and a twist for good measure.

Though her body lay limp on the bed, he could not remove his hands from her lifeless form. Sweat rolled down his face from the effort and fear of his deed, and the casual flick of his head to his arm to wipe the residue from his forehead dislodged his right thumb and forefinger. From there he was able to remove the other three fingers, but then he had to prize every digit of his left hand away. He flexed the cramped muscles in his hands and surveyed his work.

Ten dark purple stripes, the two thumbprints directly on her windpipe, encircled her neck. The blood would settle downwards, away from the place, but it would not take an idiot to reason out what had happened to the Prima Donna. He turned his eyes away and continued his work.

He tore the room apart methodically. Beginning with the bedside tables, then the chest of drawers, the wardrobe, the jewelry boxes, and finally the many unopened trunks scattered about the room, he opened, pawed through, and stripped of riches and valuables every container in the apartment. With a small knife he sawed pearls and even a few jewels from the hems and necklines of dresses and costumes. The gold lace he did not touch. He would leave that to the servant women, whose hands were far nimbler than his after years of sewing for their families and their lord.

He took great care to return that which he did not take to its rightful place, even folding a few items when he could remember how. He was not sure why he bothered; it all belonged to him now anyway, though he hardly planned to keep the many ruffles and dresses for his own use. The finer cloth would be torn apart from the seams and reassembled for sale to a new owner, while the lesser would be modified beyond recognition and worn by the servants. If his personal wardrobe was to expand at all it would be done honestly, with the leftover coin from the sale of the jewels. The very thought of wearing cloth worn by a woman he had murdered made his flesh prickle.

His work finished at last, he swept his arm across the floor, funneling his spoils into a fine velvet sack bought especially for the occasion. He hefted it, found it much heavier than he had expected, and sighed with content as he glanced back toward the corpse on the bed. Raising his hand to his face, he tugged his forelock in mock gratitude. He would sleep well that night.

Description
"Do not judge others by their appearance but be prepared to be judged by yours."

It was a lesson his father had taught him long ago, one of the few that he had not only remembered but adhered to his whole life.

Tonight was no different. Tonight he would make his fortune at last and he had dressed appropriately: fine white shirt, warm wool vest, black leggings, and his old soft-soled boots, with a blue naval cloak waiting on the bed. Simple yet fine, ready for wear yet ordinary in case someone caught him. Perfect.

He drew a deep breath. He knew that he had to go through with his plan to pay off his debts, to feed the servants and to boost his position on the financial floor, but after all these months of preparation, now that the night was finally here, nervousness pulsed through his body. It was a risky plan, anything could go wrong, but he must not think of that now, he must focus on the present, live for the moment, deal with events as they unfolded. He shook his thoughts away, turned with a sharp tap of his heels, and strode out the door into the dark hallway beyond.

He did not dare light a candle: any one of his guests could suffer from slight insomnia and choose to investigate the source, and then what would he say? The fine threads of the oriental carpet bent beneath his feet. The soles of his boots were so worn that he might as well have been barefoot. All the better. He moved down the corridor in complete silence, hugging the right-hand wall to the door on the end, the finest guest room in the house, the room where the Prima Donna slept.

He did not bother to turn the doorknob slowly for he had greased it well in preparation. He shut the door behind him and moved across the room toward the bed.

She had left a candle burning, as though she had known that the soft light falling across her face would cause him to hesitate for a moment. He sank to his knees beside the bed and rested his cheek on the vacant pillow opposite her head so that he could see her face properly. She was not beautiful, far from it, but she was well loved by her husband, children, and her many adoring fans and followers. How would they react when they heard the news?

Slowly, cautiously, like a tiger hunting its prey, his hand snaked across the bed covers toward her head. His fingertips brushed her neck and a sudden wave of fear surged through his veins when she shifted in her sleep and opened her eyes at his light touch.

When she saw him her brow creased with confusion, but she quickly adopted the benign smile of a puzzled guest as his other hand flew to join its partner.

"What-?"

She said no more. His fingers tightened around her throat and his legs straightened while his back arched forward so that he could press his weight downwards. Folds of flesh rose from her pale skin to fill the narrow gaps between his fingers. Her mouth opened, but deprived of air she could not speak, and her eyes widened in horror as she realized his intent.

He stared at her face as the life drained from her, watched the hues of red and blue shift in her lips and cheeks like those of a setting sun, and knew that the moment was here at last. His wild eyes fell on her golden earrings and focused on their reflected candle light as he gave the Prima Donna's neck a final squeeze and a twist for good measure.

Though her body lay limp on the bed, he could not remove his hands from her lifeless form. Sweat rolled down his face from the effort and fear of his deed, and the casual flick of his head to his arm to wipe the residue from his forehead dislodged his right thumb and forefinger. From there he was able to remove the other three fingers, but then he had to prize every digit of his left hand away. He flexed the cramped muscles in his hands and surveyed his work.

Ten dark purple stripes, the two thumbprints directly on her windpipe, encircled her neck. The blood would settle downwards, away from the place, but it would not take an idiot to reason out what had happened to the Prima Donna. He turned his eyes away and continued his work.

He tore the room apart methodically. Beginning with the bedside tables, then the chest of drawers, the wardrobe, the jewelry boxes, and finally the many unopened trunks scattered about the room, he opened, pawed through, and stripped of riches and valuables every container in the apartment. With a small knife he sawed pearls and even a few jewels from the hems and necklines of dresses and costumes. The gold lace he did not touch. He would leave that to the servant women, whose hands were far nimbler than his after years of sewing for their families and their lord.

He took great care to return that which he did not take to its rightful place, even folding a few items when he could remember how. He was not sure why he bothered; it all belonged to him now anyway, though he hardly planned to keep the many ruffles and dresses for his own use. The finer cloth would be torn apart from the seams and reassembled for sale to a new owner, while the lesser would be modified beyond recognition and worn by the servants. If his personal wardrobe was to expand at all it would be done honestly, with the leftover coin from the sale of the jewels. The very thought of wearing cloth worn by a woman he had murdered made his flesh prickle.

His work finished at last, he swept his arm across the floor, funneling his spoils into a fine velvet sack bought especially for the occasion. He hefted it, found it much heavier than he had expected, and sighed with content as he glanced back toward the corpse on the bed. Raising his hand to his face, he tugged his forelock in mock gratitude. He would sleep well that night.