He was ever so talkative.
“…and of course, I couldn’t leave the poor blighter hanging there. I roped him to my horse – my very own Stampede – and I pulled him out of that damnable chasm. All this not two weeks after I told Stanley to fix that bridge. Did I not tell him, Margery?”
Margery nodded. It was futile to speak. He had already begun again.
“I had a turn with a hammer myself the other week. Dodgy hall doorframe and there’s no gettting the handyman to see to it, lazy sod. So I took it upon myself to fit it. Easy as pie. Who needs the staff, eh?”
He had been talkative when her father had shackled her to him with a golden ring.
“Old Riley is having trouble with his butler too, the fellow wants to take a holiday. I wouldn’t stand for it. I told mine when he could take a trip to a hiring fair, if he wanted a break so much.”
He had not stopped talking in fifteen years.
The ranting turned to wheezing as the poison inflated his throat, crushing all those empty words.
Afterwards, the silence was delicious.