This is part two of the Embroidery story.
I watched Townsend make his way across the graveyard, delighting in the confusion blooming across his face. Absentmindedly, he touched each headstone as he passed; draped across each one was a small scrap of fabric painstakingly embroidered with a flower in silk thread.
I flinched when he saw me. I was still holding my basket of flowers, and for a moment I thought of running. He scowled and cut across the grey grass to me.
I froze. Not a good look for an assassin, let me tell you.
“What are you doing?”
“What do you think?” My voice was defensive, maybe more than it needed to be. I softened myself. “I’m just paying my respects.”
“To every new grave?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Brock says you’re turning down jobs.”
“Only some of them.”
“Why? Is this about Larrissa?” He said my sister’s name like it was nothing; like she was nothing.
“Don’t you say her name!” I shoved him and he stumbled back a few steps. “Don’t you ever say her name!”
“What is this?”
“He told me I would save us from a civil war, that by doing my job I would save lives.”
Townsend looked confused.
“Look around! Does this look like I saved anyone?” I resisted the urge to let out a scream. “They built a new graveyard because the bodies were stacking up in the street!”
Townsend shrugged and opened his mouth to rebut, but the fierceness in my eyes stopped him cold. I shook my head and looked in my basket. There were still a dozen flowers to pass out.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t say that to me, say it to them,” I muttered as I laid another flower on a freshly turned grave. This one wasn’t marked yet. Perhaps it wouldn’t be.
“I don’t know what you want from me.”
“I want out!” I screamed. I imagined that windows opened so their owners could get a better view of the crazy woman screaming in a graveyard. “I’ve been doing this since I was a kid, and I’m done.”
“No women, no kids. That was the only rule I ever had.” I stomped back to him. “How many of these belong to women and kids? How many times has the water rippled and someone else gotten hurt even though I have my rule?”
“We can’t know that,” he protested.
“I know.” I pulled out my favorite dagger and plunged it into his breast, pumping it twice. “I quit.”
He crumpled to the cold, grey ground, his face was a mask of shock. I rooted around in my basket until I found his flower.
A black dahlia for death and betrayal.