Faithful Pebble
Part Sixty-Two
The hero blinked. Then after a moment, a long tedious moment, he stepped back and shrugged, an idea deflating his smile and softening the sudden stiffening of his shoulders. Abruptly, he looked away. His gaze landed on nothing, focused in on nothing, not on the jeweled dragon, nor on the woman, nor even on the door and the shadowed candlelight leaking in from the hallway.
The Madame frowned and then she smiled. She inched closer allowing the aroma of her perfume to cloud the glass caging in its treasured necklace. It dampened the scent of its dried, caked on blood, drowned out the rancid reek of the hero's alcohol. Still, his mask didn't falter. Still, she saw right through it. She knew he knew of the boy's whereabouts. She knew he knew that she didn't really care. She never did.
Still…
The hero frowned. The hero—
"Good Morning."
The two separated, the Madame and her Hero. Instantly, their heads turned towards the voice that suddenly spilled in from the hallway. An elderly man with a curled mustache stood there in a tall and neat stove pipe hat and steam colored suit. He glared down at them from the murky gleam of the candlelight.
He smiled and they smiled.
He pulled out his watch, checked the time then snapped it shut. The event drew near. "He has arrived," the headsman said. "Let's get to our places shall we?"
- Calla