The horrific beauty of the Lord’s wrath is insignificant compared to a mother’s desire to glance upon her precious child.

This is Edith’s main thought as she stares out the window into the abyss before her. A furious storm descended upon the English countryside earlier in the day, and it refuses to release its hold. During the brief bursts of lightning, Edith spots the grass fields that surround Warin’s Inn. The silvery, wanton blades dance in synchronous turbulence until they reach the edge of the tree line. Usually that forest is alive with the chorus of fowls, but those pleasant sounds have been replaced with the creaking and rustling of its ancient boughs. Looking out through the curtain of rain, all Edith can think about is her daughter.

Emma.

It feels like a lifetime since Edith last saw her daughter. Edith imagines Emma’s lovely features, desperate to have any source of comfort within the thundering storm around her.

Emma. Her hair is as black as her mother’s, and her mane already reaches the bottom of her spine. Her eyes, however, green as springtime grass, are a constant reminder of her father.

Her father.

Edith shakes out that formless void. She needs something real.

Emma has already survived five summers. She’s recently developed a new habit where she puffs up her cheeks and taps on them when she thinks. It’s a silly habit, but Edith can’t think of anything else she’d rather see at this moment.

Thunder jolts Edith out of her head, evaporating all thoughts of Emma. Edith looks away from the window, back to the compact kitchen that is her workspace. The intermingling of both cool and hot air causes her to perspire uncomfortably. The storm outside Warin’s Inn has been unrelenting for the past three hours, and only God knows how much longer it’ll last. The magnificent storms which haunt the English countryside during early spring are beasts to be avoided and abhorred. To be caught in one is certain death.

Emma.

Edith shakes her head. She can’t think of her daughter, not now. She has to get through her shift, and more importantly, she needs to save that woman who just stumbled in—the poor soul who got ensnared outside in that tempest.

What was her name? Verona. Verona and Paris.

The couple appeared to have gone through Hell and back. Edith needs to help them. But to do that, she is going to need rosemary and sage. What had the alchemist said? Mix rosemary and sage with a canteen skin of fresh water. Let it settle. Make sure they fully drink it. Edith nods.

A large central fire occupies most of the kitchen where a cauldron hangs upon a metal post above the flames. The pottage should be fully cooked by now. Edith wipes sweat from her eyes. The humid storm and simmering hotbox of the kitchen cause her to sway. She steadies herself. Herbs and preserved meat hang on the walls around the kitchen. The floor is uneven dirt. The wooden walls and ceiling bounce candlelight into sharp, unflattering shadows.

Lightning flares outside the window. Edith glances back out it. The weather really is getting worse. Emma must be terrified; she always did hate storms.

“Edith, what are you—stop looking out the fuckin’ window!”

Edith spins. Warin the innkeeper bursts into the kitchen. His bloated belly shakes with the room as he thunders to the cauldron. He breathes in a series of constrained wheezes. Edith pushes herself against the wall as he passes. The smell coming off him is unbearable, or at least, Edith hopes it’s from him.

“Sorry, Warin. Won’t happen again,” says Edith.

“We have two knights who just walked in,” he says sluggishly. “I need you to take care of them.”

Warin doesn’t bother to look at Edith while he orders her around. He moves erratically with quick, sudden changes of direction, as if his body struggles to catch up with his mind. Warin knocks a wooden pot off the wall, which ricochets across a table into an open candle. The wax and flame tumble off the precipice, catching the wooden wall alight.

“Blast it! Whole place is gonna burn down one of these days,” says Warin as he stomps out the growing flames. Once he is content that the fire is fully smothered, Warin grabs a pewter dish and scoops up pottage with it. He hands it to Edith. “Here, take this food with ye. Give it to the farmers.”

“’Course, sir.”

Edith spots a few dead insects in the corner of the room. She shudders at the thought of what ingredients Warin puts into his cooking, especially during the famine seasons of late winter and early spring.

Better off avoiding any customers asking about it, she notes.

Edith glances up at the wall of herbs. Her eyes linger on the rosemary and sage. She must help that couple.

But no one can survive after being caught in those storms.

The thought circles in Edith’s mind.

Maybe if I give it to her soon enough . . .

Her fingers wrap around the sage. She didn’t even know she was reaching for them, yet here she is with her fingers already around the herb. Edith glances behind her. Warin stares into his cauldron of better-left-unsaid pottage.

Edith tears the herb off the wall. She stuffs it into a small pouch tied onto her belt. No turning back now. Edith steps over to the rosemary. The herb glistens in the warm candlelight. Footsteps cause Edith to glance over her shoulder.

Warin hobbles to the far wall, grabs firewood, and feeds it under the cauldron. The innkeeper studies his concoction. Edith turns her attention to the rosemary. She needs to help them. Edith reaches for—

Warin yanks Edith’s arm. She drops the pewter dish. It tumbles to the ground and flings out a torrent of flying pottage. Warin brings his mouth inches from Edith. Spit and other foulness spew from Warin’s tongue and wet her face.

“What’d I say ’bout stealin’ food? Huh?” hammers Warin.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Belt it, you daft wench. You’re done after t’night. You hark?!”

Edith wrings her neck, shielding her face from his beratement. Warin pinches his swollen fingers around her cheek. He forces her to face him.

“I should have you beaten, taken before the duke,” he threatens.

“Oi! We need our damn food!” rings a voice from outside the kitchen door. Warin turns his rage away from Edith. She whispers a small prayer.

“You’ll get it in a moment,” Warin yells in response.

He cranks his neck back toward Edith and stares her down. Edith sticks up her chin in an act of defiance. It won’t do much, but it makes her feel stronger. That’s something.

“If we didn’t have so many patrons, I’d throw you into the storm.” Warin spits. “You steal any more food, I’ll have the duke hang ye. You and your daughter.”

Warin throws Edith backward into the wall. Herbs flicker to the ground around her like the leaves of a shedding tree during the cool autumn season. Edith braces herself before she collapses.

“Get movin’,” says Warin. “Don’t forget the bread.”

With his last order given, Warin thunders out of the kitchen. Edith is left catching her breath. Thunder rumbles the walls of the inn. Edith stifles a cry. She breathes in. The air flows through her, powering her, as the crisp chill of it mellows out her burning blood.

Emma. Do it for her. Black hair, green eyes, puffy cheeks. Emma.

Edith straightens her rumpled tunic. Her hands come away with a slimy grime. She wipes it away on the window. Her sleeveless tunic is covered with sweat, food, mud, and other unknown substances. She’s never fully appreciated how much it betrayed her work as a bar maiden. Edith flattens her frizzy hair. The humidity is awful this time of year.

Emma’s hair will be perfect, though. It’s always perfect.

Edith picks up the pewter dish from the floor, noting that there’s still enough pottage to serve. She then snatches the burned bread from the side table and takes a deep breath. She can’t allow herself to slip up.

Why do I always need to help? Someday it’ll get me killed.

Edith takes another breath. She can’t allow herself to get killed. Warin is capable of it. He’s not a man who makes idle threats. She only needs to look at his son for proof, the poor lad. It can’t happen to her. Not with her daughter a whole town away; not when she’s by herself during a storming night.

Edith holds the rosemary in her hand.

Shit, when’d I grab this?

Edith glances up at the wall. There’s a blank space where the rosemary just hung. Edith stuffs the herb in her tunic. She shakes her head.

Why am I always like this?

**************************************************************************

The common room of Warin’s Inn is a large square with not much in the way of decor. At the northern side of the room, next to the kitchen entrance, a fifteen-foot bar counter stretches across the space. A few scattered tables and chairs placed around the room, seemingly at random, allow for patrons to eat and relax. The “tables” are nothing more than a barrel with a wooden plank balanced above them, making them a distant relative of the well-crafted carpentry of those found within castles and palaces.

A huge stone hearth fills most of the western wall. The fire that blazes within it shines out, warming the air and lighting the inn with the same economic fashion of a miniature sun. A staircase adjacent to the hearth leads up to rentable chambers on the second floor. The dirt floor is covered with a thin layer of hay that insulates the common room. Even with the torrential rain and bellowing wind, Warin’s Inn manages to stay cozy and warm; in fact, the storm has even caused the inn to smell better than it usually does. If the owner wasn’t threatening to have her and her daughter hanged, Edith may have even enjoyed working on this night.

Edith stands under the doorframe to the kitchen. The two knights that Warin told her to check on sit at the bar. Edith recognizes one of them. Sir Algor. His tan-colored gambeson is torn and scratched. The hauberk he wears under it has various links broken and molested. Edith notices he has a bloodied bandage around his forearms, while his left eye is black and swollen. Edith stores her physical queries of Sir Algor in the back of her mind. She has more pertinent matters, considering that this particular knight is visiting on this particular night. He has stayed at this inn numerous times before, and he usually does so for Edith. She imagines this evening isn’t any different.

The boy to Sir Algor’s side looks even worse. His padded armor is similarly devastated, but his hair is thick with mud and rain, while Sir Algor’s head appears relatively clean. There are more scratches and nascently-formed scars on his face than Sir Algor’s. The boy has a distinct bruise around his neck. Actually, Edith now notices, Sir Algor has a similar bruise as well.

And . . . and are those tears in the young knight’s eyes?

The boy rubs them away. Edith watches Sir Algor scratch his young companion’s back. Interesting. She stores all of her observations away for later. As a bar maiden, she never knows when she may be expected to ask a patron about their woes.

Edith’s eyes flicker to a hunched figure that sits and rocks before the hearth. His shirt clings to his back. His black shoulder-length hair sticks to his neck and forehead. He twitches back and forth. The figure glances at Edith, his blue eyes gripping her into a stare down. Paris. She has to help his lover, Verona.

No. First she has to attend to her work duties. She can’t have Warin hunting her down in the meantime. Edith approaches the two knights. Sir Algor straightens up as she crosses to them. He fixes his armor and brushes back his hair. The young knight seems to laugh. Edith takes a deep breath. Best get this over quick.

Edith puts the pewter dish on the counter. She sets her hand on the young knight’s arm hospitably, squeezing it lightly. “I’ll be with you sirs in a moment,” greets Edith.

“I’m looking forward to it, madam,” says Sir Algor, grinning a stupid grin. Edith avoids eye contact and gives a considerate smile in response. Move on, move on, move on.

Edith picks up the dish and trudges onward. At the southern wall of the inn, next to the main doors, rests the largest table in the establishment. It’s pushed against the wall with one of the few windows right above it. Five farmers sit around the table. Edith hasn’t bothered to learn their names, as these peasant types are more usual, and with the royal wedding tomorrow, it is likely all the inns and taverns in the surrounding land will be filled with more patrons than typical. Despite the deadly storms and roaming banditry, people will never miss an opportunity to masquerade their misfortune for a night. Perhaps, Edith ponders, even in spite of them.

“’Bout damn, fuckin’ time,” the filthiest looking farmer complains. Edith sets their pottage in the center of the table.

“Sorry, we wasn’t expectin’ so many people t’night,” says Edith.

She catches the oldest looking farmer glaring at the filthy one. He smiles up at her. “No worries. Thank ye,” apologizes the oldest one.

Edith spreads out the stale bread to all of them. The filthy one scoops pottage with his hand and slops it on the bread. He scoffs it down. The only female farmer does the same.

“Let me or Warin know if you need anythin’ else,” says Edith, turning away from the table. She catches Paris storm up the stairs. Edith feels the stolen herbs in her pocket.

Sir Algor peeks at her from the bar. Edith sighs. She has to do her job first, then she can venture off and help the helpless. Paramount to all other objectives, she needs to guarantee she’ll see her daughter in the morning. If that means dealing with horny knights, so be it.

**************************************************************************

Edith stands outside the door to Chamber 1. The second floor of the inn is one long hallway that connects to four guest chambers. At one end of the hall are the stairs that descend to the main room; at the other end is a large window that usually shines light into the hallway. On this turbulent God-forsaken night, however, only the occasional flash of lightning gives any glimpse at the tenebrous hall.

Edith opens the door. The contrast of the bedchamber to the common room is immediately apparent. There is no light or warmth here, no comfort that one can become lost within. The foul, acidic smells of puke and deteriorating flesh burn Edith’s nostrils and cause the hairs on her arms to stick up. Diffused moonlight shimmers through the closed window shutters.

Paris kneels at the side of the bed. His lover lies on it. Verona. Her jet-black hair, damp with rain and oil, soaks into her forehead and into the sheepskin sheets. Her brown eyes stare at the ceiling, focusing on nothing in particular. She coughs. Saliva seeps onto her lips. Paris wipes it off and continues his prayer. Edith watches their quiet moment together.

“How she doin’?” asks Edith.

“Worse,” says Paris without looking up. He brushes Verona’s hair back with trembling hands.

“Let me see.”

Edith takes out a full canteen of water. She stuffs the rosemary and sage into it. Paris wanders to the shuttered window as Edith replaces him next to Verona. She shakes the canteen, dissolving the stolen herbs within. Paris paces back and forth.

“’Tis my fault. We knew a storm was comin’. We were warned, but I made us leave.”

“Matters not. It be in the past,” consoles Edith. She feels Verona’s forehead with the back of her hand. Verona squeaks. The smell coming off the woman is gut-wrenching. A pitiful smile curves the corner of Edith’s lip. Verona stirs under the blankets as she tries to lift a hand. Edith stops her. She tucks the sheepskin around Verona tighter. “Stay still.”

“The storm brought her death,” croaks Paris. He wrings his hands restlessly. His voice grows thin, and his breaths become shallow as he stares out the window. Shafts of moonlight glisten through the shutters, sparking particles of stagnant dust that twinkle like a clear night full of stars. “She would have lived longer if we stayed. We believed this was the only passage.”

“Paris, you must stay calm.”

“Stay calm. Yes. Stay calm.”

Edith looks into the canteen; satisfied, she shows it to Paris. “Give this to her. It shall remedy some pain.”

Paris snatches it from her. Edith jolts back at the sudden move. Paris doesn’t bother to apologize as he moves his full attention immediately to his lover.

“Verona, it’s me,” whispers Paris sweetly. “Ye hark? You must drink.” Paris puts the canteen to Verona’s chapped lips. When she opens her mouth, the crackle of splitting skin soars into the electric air. She drinks.

“That’s it,” says Paris, relieved and smiling. Verona guzzles the medicinal tea like she hasn’t drunk anything in days.

“Make sure she drinks often,” says Edith, standing over the two lovers. Paris nods.

“I will. Thank you, ma’am. Thank you.” Paris lays his head on Verona’s stomach. He kisses her chin. Edith smiles. She backs out of the chamber.

“Let me know if you need anything else.” Edith bows.

She considers the pair for a final moment before she exits and closes the door behind her. Edith sighs. Lightning flashes through the far hallway window, followed immediately by earth-shaking thunder.

“What are you doing there?”

The masculine voice makes Edith’s skin crawl. Goosebumps climb up the back of her neck as she spins to face the voice.

Sir Algor stands between Edith and the staircase. The knight blocks her path, anchored into the floorboards as a bulwark of muscle and steel. The darkness of the hallway coerces Edith to see only a monochromatic outline of the man. His eyes, however, reflect a single, brilliant white light that pierces the humid air and stares straight into Edith’s being.

“Helpin’ a patron,” says Edith faintly.

Sir Algor takes a step to her. His padded armor chaffs against each other as he steps. The chainmail shudders. The sword and scabbard tied to his waist clanks against him.

“You’ve always been so tender, so nurturing,” compliments the knight.

Thunder booms. The walls shake. The inn bellows. Moonlight spills into the hallway, making Edith and Sir Algor fully visible. His eyes are trained on her. The moonlight disperses, and they drench back into shadow.

“I’ve missed you, Edith, so much. Are you working tonight?”

I knew it. Edith closes her eyes and curses under her breath.

“Not t’day,” strains Edith.

“Why not?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” is all Edith can muster before she attempts to scurry past him. Algor swings his arms around. He catches Edith between him and the wall, clasping his two trunk-like arms around her body. The knight steps to her, pinning Edith back. The hilt of his sword pinches into her groin. Edith instinctively yelps.

“You always do,” whispers Sir Algor.

Every sensation in Edith’s body becomes enhanced to the extreme. Every patter of every raindrop on the roof, every warm breath from Sir Algor, every footstep and distant voice from the floor below them. Everything is loathsomely thrown into the precarious present with Edith.

“Not t’night. Please,” begs Edith.

“You’ve never refused me before.”

“T’day I am. Now, Sir Algor, if you’d please.”

Sir Algor studies her for a long moment. Edith shakes her head at him. She can’t have this tonight. He has to know that, right? He has to be able to tell. The knight lifts Edith’s chin up and gazes into her eyes. Lightning flashes across his face. Sir Algor steps back, releasing his arms. Edith slides past him and rushes toward the staircase.

Get downstairs, tend to the guests, survive the night. Emma. Don’t forget her. You’re here for her.

“It’s the innkeeper, isn’t it?” echoes Sir Algor.

Edith freezes in her tracks. Thunder vibrates the very air around her.

Keep going downstairs, keep going downstairs . . .

“He dismissed me, starting in the morn,” says Edith scornfully.

She faces Sir Algor. Seething blood courses through her veins, injecting an anger into her that Edith hadn’t known was possible until now. Judging by the look on Sir Algor’s face, the vehemence must have surprised him as well.

“That corpulent dolt,” spits Sir Algor. “Do you need him taken care of?”

Sir Algor grips the hilt of his sword. He stares at her. Edith knows the threat isn’t idle, but she finds herself unable to immediately answer. She should say no, shouldn’t she? She can’t possibly be considering—

If he’s dead . . .

Then what? How would she be in any better position?

“No. No,” answers Edith.

“I’ve always known he was cruel. How could one abandon a woman so beautiful?” wonders the knight incredulously. He steps closer.

“Sir Algor—”

“Edith, a woman as comely as yourself should be thoroughly indulged, not strewn aside to the gutter,” whispers the knight as he comes upon her. He combs back Edith’s hair, which appears to have become frizzy again. Edith reaches to deny his touch. “And what of your daughter?”

Edith stops herself. She glares at him.

“A daughter without a father?” wonders the knight. “It’s unnatural. What’s her name?”

“Emma.” Edith can barely squeak out the word, her name. Her daughter feels even more distant when talked about aloud.

“Emma. Poor, poor Emma. How can a single mother raise a begotten child with no means?”

“I . . .”

“But you have means, don’t you, Edith? You have me.” He scans her from head to toe. “You’ve professed I’m your favorite. Am I not? Privilege me with alleviating your sorrows.”

Sir Algor places his fingers on Edith’s bare shoulder, slowly drifting his touch down the side of her arm. He moves to her hips and pulls. Edith snatches his hand away. Her chest thumps. She clears her throat.

“Edith,” begins Sir Algor, dropping his voice to its lowest octave. The breathy rumble of it is faintly audible over the molesting storm. “Let me take care of you. My heart never fails to yearn for your touch. I’ll pay double.”

Double.

The money jingles inside Edith’s head. She doesn’t have a job any longer. That money can make the difference between her daughter eating or starving. Prostitution itself isn’t the problem. Edith has used her body to earn money numerous times, and Sir Algor is a regular patron of hers. Warin knows about Edith’s side gig, but he’s never stopped her. It means more revenue for him. The clients have to rent a bedchamber somewhere.

But tonight? Tonight, when Warin’s Inn has had more guests than ever before? Tonight, when the looming extravagance of Lord Merek’s wedding has been overshadowed by the threat of Edith’s broken neck drooping from a noose? Tonight, when a storm has hit the countryside that’ll be remembered for ages to come?

Edith can’t do it; at least, not for double.

“Triple,” demands Edith.

“Triple, then.”

Blast it! Should have asked for more.

Sir Algor grins at her. Edith sighs. Within her mind, she tries to navigate all the ways this can go wrong. There’s too many to comprehend.

“Madam, don’t abandon a knight in the cold. Don’t leave me yearning any longer,” says Sir Algor, holding Edith’s arms with both hands. She stares at him, contemplating, deciding.

**************************************************************************

Chamber 2 is identical to Chamber 1, with the only difference being that the window shutters were left open. A small pool of rainwater seeps into the floorboards below it. Edith releases Sir Algor’s hand, crosses to the shutters, and closes them. She then turns to the nightstand next to the bed, where she takes out a match and lights the beeswax candle above it. The light dances in the turbulent air while shadows blacker than death leap around the bedchamber. Sir Algor closes the door. He unclasps his scabbard and leans it against the wall next to the entrance.

“Sit,” commands Edith, pointing to the bed.

Sir Algor sits on it. The rain beats off the window shutters, and occasional gusts slam it harder. The pitter-pat creates a soothing lullaby as Sir Algor undresses himself. He undoes his armor first, placing it very carefully on the floor. He unstraps his belt, sliding his trousers to his ankles. He uses his legs to toss his trousers to the opposite side of the space.

“Money first,” says Edith.

“In my trousers.”

“Why’d you just kick them then?”

“My bad.” Sir Algor grins in a playful way that moderately vexes Edith. She sighs and walks over to the pants. Edith catches the knight staring at her backside as she walks away from him. He groans. Edith ignores it. She reaches into one of the pouches on his belt and takes out three handfuls of silver shillings.

“Happy?”

“Lean back,” she dictates.

Sir Algor does so. Edith drops the currency into her belt pouch before she slides the filthy tunic off her. Sir Algor props his upper body up. He now only dons an oversized shirt. Edith shakes away the desire to stare at how his muscles fill it up. This is business only. She strips down to her night gown and lies next to the knight. He slips off his under garments.

“What are you doin’?” questions Edith egregiously.

“What?”

“Do you think I’m magically ready?”

“Oh, right,” chuckles Sir Algor.

“At least warm me up first, ye fool.”

Sir Algor pulls Edith into a kiss. Their bodies intermingle as she folds over him. Edith clears her mind, letting the sensations of her body overtake the turmoil in her heart. She escorts Algor’s hand under her night gown, begging to quicken the process of erasing her mind. The knight bites her neck. She slaps him.

“I’m in charge here,” says Edith definitively.

“Yes, madam,” moans Sir Algor.

Bloody hell, he enjoys being told what to do.

Edith further guides his hands around her curves. Their breaths hasten. Thunder rumbles. Rain drips on them from the ceiling, adding to their increasing perspiration. The knight grasps her body. A piercing rush of heat spikes through her. For a brief moment of sensual pleasure, Edith forgets the threatening maelstrom. She straddles him. Edith allows Algor’s hands to wander freely, and they do. She pushes down on his chest, feeling him, slowly losing herself in the passion.

Emma.

Fuck, not now.

Edith wraps her arms around the knight’s chest. She twirls her body, flipping Sir Algor on top of her. She curls her fingers around his face, combing his short brown hair. She needs to get this along and leave her daughter entombed in the back of her consciousness.

“So, get to work,” says Edith shallowly. She hopes he can decide what that means. Sir Algor smiles. He lowers his head between her thighs. Edith stiffens.

That’ll do the trick.

She closes her eyes. Their moans echo into the howling wind. Three loud bangs bellow throughout the bedchamber. The rain pounds on the walls. The roof continues to leak. The muggy, condensed odors of dust, humidity, and human fluids tinge the air.

Three more audible booms thunder through the atmosphere. Odd, Edith momentarily thinks, that sounds like it’s coming from the door. Sir Algor quivers between her legs. Edith squirms, all inquiries on the audible qualities of the chamber gone. They are both gasping. The titillation of lust and chaotic cacophony of the storm disguise all other sounds.

The window shutters blast open. Rain and wind shower into the chamber. The one candlelight distinguishes into a fume of wispy smoke, leaving Sir Algor and Edith steaming together in the dark. Sir Algor rips his shirt off. Edith feels him up. She pulls his neck to her, and they embrace into a kiss.

I may as well enjoy this.

“Edith, we need your help!”

Edith opens her eyes. Sir Algor kisses down her neck to her collarbones. She flickers her eyes around the space. There’s no one else here. No voice reverberates within the storm. She shakes her head; clearly, she imagined the voice.

Emma.

Edith pulls Sir Algor over her. The financially incentivized lovers ignore all else around them. The storm climaxes with them. All sounds crescendo into indistinguishable, utter chaos: panting, howling, splatting, banging, whining, thundering, yelling. Even if someone were screaming for Edith, there’s no way she’d be able to hear them over—

The door bursts open. Lightning and thunder flare through the open window as Paris stumbles into the bedchamber. He’s drenched in sweat. Edith yelps. She pushes the knight off her.

“Edith, she needs help!” begs Paris, tears streaking down his cheek. He is hyperventilating. Sir Algor spins around on the bed. He spots Paris’s silhouetted figure.

“Aye! Get the fuck out!” clamors Sir Algor.

Paris curls his hands into fists as he stares down the knight. The peasant spins his head. He rushes to the door and unsheathes Sir Algor’s sword. The knight springs out of the bed, his completely nude body glimmering in the occasional moonlight.

“Whoreson, give me my sword,” commands Sir Algor.

“She’s gonna die,” pleads Paris.

“Paris, I’ll be there soon,” says Edith frantically. “Put down the weapon.”

“She’s gonna die!”

Sir Algor jolts forward. Before Paris has time to lift the weapon, Sir Algor tackles him into the wall. The door bellows closed as the two men bounce off the boards. Lightning flares them into blazing white angels. The knight slams the peasant to the ground. Paris barely manages to hold on to the weapon. Blood seeps from his nose. Thunder rumbles as Sir Algor reaches down for him.

Paris slices.

Blood splatters across the chamber. Sir Algor collapses to the ground, his stomach cleaved in two. A waterfall of blood splurges from his wound and drenches the floor in a maroon puddle. The floorboards soak it in.

Paris stands over the knight, the traitor sword still in his grasp. Edith covers her mouth, unable to process the carnage of the naked man she had just known. She watches the body of the knight convulse.

I’m dead. This is it. There’s no escape from this. Not for her, not for Paris, not for Verona. He’s doomed them all. She’ll never get to see her daughter again. He took that from her.

It all vanishes: the color of her daughter’s hair, the vibrancy of her daughter’s eyes, the habits of her daughter’s thought processes. Edith can’t recall any of it.

She can’t even remember her daughter’s name.