She was beautiful. That was all he could think.
All that lovely crimson blood dripping down her face, from her eye – ah! The entire world must have been all done up in the most lovely reds for her from that wound. She was even more beautiful than when those whores he and his Madame Red had torn up and killed, adorning them in a color far too beautiful for them.
Ah, how his heart ached at the thought of his beloved Madame! How he only wished she were here, able to see the lovely handiwork of this fine maid, nestled at his side like the lovely little cardinal she was.
He sniffs, wiping his nose as he stares in the window like a cat to a fishbowl. The silver-haired one is hastily trying to cover up the wound, clean it out, heal it. "Don't do it!" he wants to scream. "Don't ruin the lovely artwork!" But he remains silent, nestled in the branches of the birch tree, adjusting himself so that the wood did not prod and poke his delicate, lady-like figure.
Now a handsome man entered the room with a jar of water and a towel. He sniffed again, but this time in disgust. How dare this man ruin the lady's artwork! Who did he think he was? A black glove broke a tiny white branch, letting the splinters fall to the grass far below in an angry waltz.
Well, he'd pay for ruining her art.