Ficly

Bess

Near midnight, after working for hours as furtively as she was able, her fingers touch the trigger guard. Her wrists are blistered and raw and her hands slick, though whether from blood or sweat she can’t tell. Another half hour’s effort and she is able to touch the trigger with one finger.

She looks at the soldier at the door, the one who had earlier wanted to rape her. He has been watching her face for hours. When her lover lies dying in the inn’s courtyard, her own safety will be forfeit as well.

She hears hoof beats on the moor road. The redcoats, perhaps a dozen in all, begin to stir in the deep shadows of the yard and check their weapons. The one in the room with her is unarmed, the muzzle of his musket digging uncomfortably into the underside of her right breast.

She wants to catch a glimpse of her lover but she’s too far from the window and too securely tied and gagged. She can do little to help him but there is something and she hopes it will be enough. She draws her last breath. Her finger moves.

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