The assassin trod, light-footed, up the steps. This place was usually a place of serenity, but in this child's darkness it had become a spinster's garden. The trees and plants became menacing in the night, casting misunderstood, faint shadows upon the grey-tinged ground. The woman looked up to the sky, her dark hair shimmering around her shoulders, wishing suddenly for the light of day to glimmer through the tree tops. How low she had stooped; to be doing other people's errands, when she had once been in command of them. But the money was worth the loss of pride.
Three steps until she reached the side of the house. Silently she made them, and lifted with a thin tool the unlocked window, smirking. Things were going so perfectly. There had to be a catch.
Without a sound, she slid through the window, leaving it open for her escape. She drew a knife from her belt: thin, serrated, with a red and gold handle and a perfect, scimitar's curve and a poison tint, and wishing she could use it on the other, the stupid girl, too.
Then the assassin grinned, and in one, seemingly united and fluid movement, stabbed him through the heart and was gone. Neither of the two in the room would see anything but the shadow of revenge.
The scream awoke the child, who ran into the room to see her mother standing over a bloody corpse, tears streaming down her face and the water refusing to move.
The scream was the mother's, who had been awoken by the liquid that had trickled onto her neck. The wind whistled through the open window and told them what had been done.
As much as the mother tried, she could not bring him back. No washing of the poison, no healing of the scars could bring back what was already gone. Still she tried, perpetually, even though there was no heartbeat and no breathing, and blood drying on the bedspread. The child stood there in silence, watching with disbelief as her world tore itself apart at the seams.