Closing the door behind him, he glanced at the dark corridor and sighed. No matter how many times he explained, he couldn't make them understand. It was too soon. The measurements would be all off and just have to be repeated. It would really be best just to wait until time, or at least until after the woman had…. But then that thought made him even more uncomfortable in an ill-defined way. He sighed again. Not his place to question. Just to do.

His steps echoed on the dark floor until he stopped in front of her. Squaring his shoulders, he took his time studying her form. She was sitting so he couldn't be completely sure of her height, but if he was any judge—and he was—she was not too short for a woman, perhaps 5'6". She was thin though, too thin considering her condition, perhaps eight stone.

He was disturbed from his calculations by an unexpectedly gentle voice. "Are you the man who's to kill me, then?"

Lifting his chin a fraction, he studied the eyes that were now studying him. Sad, kind eyes. That surprised him.

Hiding that surprise behind a deep frown and gruff voice, "I am the executioner, Mrs. Hughes."

She stood to her feet and smoothed down her skirt with shaking hands. He couldn't resist a downward glance; just the hint of swelling there. He was also pleased to see that his initial estimate was correct. 5'6" but perhaps closer to nine stone.

She gave a bitter laugh. "So professional. You're the executioner. Am I not to at least know your name?"

He twisted his neck in his collar and narrowed his eyes. "I see no need for you to know that, Mrs. Hughes. I'm just …"

"Just the man that's to kill me," she said, with resignation instead of the expected malice, "I should at least know your name."

"Carson. Charles Carson."

She inclined her head, "And I am Elsie Hughes, as you already know. Tell me, Mr. Carson," her voice rolled over the 'R' of his name in an intriguing way, "why have you come now? Have they changed their minds?"

He sighed in frustration, "No, Mrs. Hughes, they've not changed their minds. They do not understand that things will change."

"Change? How?"

"Your measurements… It is important. To be quick…" His voice trailed off. He'd never been this frank with one of his jobs.

"My measurements?" she asked before realization first brightened and then clouded her eyes.

"You mean after the bairn is born, don't you? Does it make such a difference?"

He chewed his inner cheek. Against his better judgment, he found the words slipping out. "I have to take your height and weight into account. It will make it easier, quicker."

She closed her eyes and breathed out quickly, before she opened them to reveal deep clouds of sadness. "Quicker, easier," she repeated flatly.

He was intrigued even further by her lack of self-pity or even fear. "If it is quicker, it will be easier. I have no wish to harm you. There will be little pain."

"Do you speak from experience, Mr. Carson?" she asked with a hint of amusement in her voice.

His gaze dropped to the ground, and his shoulders fell. He chose not to answer that question. Instead, he asked a question of his own, "It will be four months, I believe?"

She caught her lip between her teeth, "Closer to five."

He glanced down reflexively, "Do you have someone to bring food?" When she glanced at him sharply, he added, "I should be able to see that you have enough. The babe shouldn't suffer…."

"Just because his mother is a murderer?" she finished for him.

He nodded, eyes fixed now on hers.

"The guards have been kind so far," her eyes darted away from hers.

"They will continue to be so," he assured her gravely. "I will return tomorrow."

"I will surely be here, Mr. Carson," she said and then turned back to her seat.

As he walked down the corridor, he felt his gaze pulled back to see her sitting with back straight and dry eyes watching him.

He paused in his step. A most intriguing woman. That was something to ponder.