His sword came down, and I could see the faces of my people in his blade. The frozen shriek of Kit Darmondy, the town baker. The shamed look of Frank Alegenon, the banker from down the street. The looks of pale horror from the Udesky twins. The sharp blade that was once clean-cut through Viktor Cross’s throat in one swift and effortless movement. Harold, the executioner, had that effect with a blade.

Cross’s headless torso twitched. Hands contorting inward with rapid jerks, boots thumping along the wood. I could only think of one thing through the muffled discussion among the townsfolk:

Who polished that blade? What on earth did they use? I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen my reflection in such pristine fashion.

Where was Rebecca? The housemaid. She would know. After all. She knew just about everything.