She held it tight, behind her back. Until the sweat rubbed off the characters, one by one. They became words with no meaning, letters, absurdities, lies even, maybe. The red seal was broken in half though: a clean break. The deep red of the wax shone like fresh blood. Was it dripping along her dress? What were those dark stains following the sharp angles of her fingers? They asked again, “Where has he gone?” And her eyes stared straight back, ever so dark. “How would I know?” Her voice was flat. I could see the paper getting wetter, redder. I could see her nails, digging deeper into her wrist. They hesitated. “Mind if we search the room?” “Please do.” She did not even flinch. And the blood was dripping, or was it the wax? So red it was. So thick. It looked, smelled like rust and I could feel my intestines rising. The men kicked furniture and opened closets and trapdoors. They hit me as they walked past, and some other servants, too. They shouted and laug...
