'Very clever Irene,' the woman says to the shadows as a consummate actress puts on the performance of her life. Watches as the handkerchief, carefully stained with blood, falls to the floor, as the body does not move when a knife is thrust between her ribs, barely missing some essential organs. Not so many miles and several days away a man receives the handkerchief. (Her murderer and mourner both fall over a waterfall on a chilly night and people will try not to think it is her fault.)
'Well done Irene.' The woman shakes her head at the puddle of blood on the floor and the man who is falling to pieces at the grout turns red.
'Nicely played.' Addressed to the body of an unknown woman on a slab at Christmas as a man who, even though he does not like to think it, is simply human crumbles at the sight, though there is no marked difference in his countenance.
'Very lucky Irene.' The woman tuts as the sword swings away from a be-burkaed neck and towards a supposed co-executioner.
Death follows The Woman through many different faces and identities. Yet, despite her blonderedblackbrown shortlongcurlystraightpinneduploose hair, her job, singerteacherparamediccriminalmastermindartrestorerdominatrix, her straightromanskijumpbeaky nose, her name, AdlerNortonSullivanMoriarty, to Sherlock Holmes and all his forms, she is always The Woman.
