𝑺𝑯𝑬 𝑯𝑨𝑫𝑵'𝑻 𝑹𝑬𝑴𝑬𝑴𝑩𝑬𝑹𝑬𝑫 𝑻𝑶 𝑪𝑳𝑬𝑨𝑵 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑩𝑳𝑶𝑶𝑫 from her gown. Whispers of the Painters' Council's new weapon had reached her ears at the dinner that night, and a few whispers from her john had confirmed it. She tells herself there is a hole in her memory between the time she returned to her sponsor's manor and now -- that she doesn't know what happened. Yet her pulse pounds in her ears as she sprints through the rain, mascara running and hair plastered through her face.
Thunder crashes above. Ruby flinches, nearly tripping over an uneven cobble in the road, but the light at the end of the street tells her she's at her destination. There's no-one else she can turn to, no-one else who would dare go against the painters for someone like her.
She clutches the pillowcase in one hand, soaked through and weighed down banknotes and valuables, and pounds on the door with the other. Please be home. Please be home. If Celia didn't answer the door, Ruby wasn't sure where she'd be able to go. By dawn, people would know what she'd done. What she tells herself she doesn't remember doing.
Another flash of lighting brings the dark street into view for a brief second, with thunder rolling in half a second later. Were those police dogs in the distance? Had they found the carnage already? Ruby turned back to the door, saw the blood on her gloves. Desperately, she yanked at them, and pounded on the door once more.
