The woman began to prepare a cup of tea with the practiced gestures of a familiar art. She was seated in the conservatory with a tea trolley next to her.The jungle of exotic, potted plants that surrounded her basked in the sunlight that shone through the glass walls and ceiling. The phonograph music was just loud enough to cover the sounds of screams and battle that wafted from the street.
She blinked as a spray of red blood slapped against the glass wall. Sighing, she set down her cup and saucer.
“Andrews,” she called, barely raising her voice. An old butler paced into the room.
“Ma’am?”
“Do go outside and remind the revolutionaries not to play their war games in my garden.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Take care that they remove the body and have Stephen check all the gates to make sure they are locked. I don’t want this to happen again.”
“Very good, ma’am. Shall I have one of the maids clean the window?”
The woman looked through the ceiling at the angry black clouds in the distance.
“Don’t bother. It looks like rain.”