This is the Hour of Lead -
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the snow -
First - Chill - Then Stupor - then the letting go -
From Emily Dickinson, #341
The summer crowd at the Ugly Duckling is in a good mood, despite having to wait a while for service at the bar. The pub's garden is full of happy customers, including a middle-aged but classically beautiful woman who is greeting nearly everyone by name and working on a pint of bitter. The air is warm but not sticky, the evening sky settling into a deepening pink glow over the western horizon.
The woman finishes her pint and brings the glass back inside, setting it on the bar. She bids good night to the landlord and many of the others, hugging some, bussing some on the cheek, squeezing hands held out to her. Several of the well-wishers call her Milady, their eyes shining with fondness. She walks out into the road, looks west toward the rosy horizon at the large, stone house silhouetted there, and smiles a little. She strides firmly away from the pub, heading west. A few yards in that direction and around the bend is an iron gateway that grants admission to the stone house. None of the pub's customers is paying particular attention to the direction she takes. By the time the police question them about it, no one will remember many details about the evening, or where the woman went when she took her leave.
.
.
.
By now, the eastern sky is ruddy with the promise of the rising sun. The stone house is no longer a silhouette; instead, it fairly shines, pink in the morning light, even at this early hour. The dawn promises no respite from the heat wave of the past three days.
In the house's kitchen, the cook stands watching as her mistress emerges from the walk-in freezer. They look at each other for a long moment, both aware of the significance of their relationship and of recent events. The lady slams the freezer door, a bitter smile on her face.
The cook stirs from where she is standing and hands the lady a piece of paper – a handwritten note. "This alright, M'lady?"
The lady reads it over and nods curtly. The cook, delighted to have satisfied her lady, folds it, places it in an envelope, and seals it. The lady then takes it, a look of smug satisfaction playing on her lips.
"Alice?"
She needn't have said the name, she has the cook's full attention already.
"I don't need to tell you that I need your utmost devotion in this matter. You must never, never tell anyone about this, and must act as though you know nothing about what happened this morning. Am I clear?"
The cook's eyes gaze unflinchingly on the woman making this demand. "Yes, M'lady. You can count on me. I won't never tell no one."
