Yet still there was blood on her hands – black blood all dark and thick and shimmering in the soft light of the moon. Then it was nothing but a shadow, misinterpreted by her guilty eyes. Then…nothing but soft pale skin as a cloud distracted the glow of night.
It wasn’t through guilt that she saw such bloody shadows. No. Perhaps pride? Or some other inhuman emotion, tainted by her occupation into amused indifference.
The last few strands of her lullaby drifted away on the chill Autumn breeze, through the orange, Tuscan fields.
Perhaps Venice next…maybe Roma. Somewhere colourful, she smiled. Somewhere where anonymity came effortlessly and the price of a life was higher than the cost of living.
A shadow moved in the barn doorway, paused just out of her sight. She nudged the hawk from her shoulder.
“Fly, Lussuria,” she whispered. The bird followed her song.
She stood, carefully and walked slowly to the shadow – stopping a metre away. She took the scroll, bowed her head.