63
I can't be expected to spend my minutes in the chill, chopping off flower heads in my slippers and cottons. I have other things to be doing. His expression agreed. He discarded that line of interrogation for something closer to the pulse. What brings in the flowers? As I said before, Mr Kennelly had no part to play in the matter, other than to extend his hand in friendship, when required. He is a great young man, not yet fully shrewd, but adapt in the dismantling of problems, and with a fine eye for anything glass. I am sure that, if I had known of his lodging sooner, we may have even struck up a powerful friendship, master and apprentice. What brings in the flowers, had been his questioning. I had no longer need of further conversation. I knew what course to take. I left Kennelly without further word and descended the stairs. Tilda, I called. Tilda! She was washing plates at the kitchen sink. I stood and watched her from the doorway. Tilda, I said. Do we have a knife? What sort? Never you mind what sort, I said. The meat knife. She pulled out a drawer by the fridge and took from it a large knife. Is it sharp? Sharp enough, she countered. Enough for what? You have no idea what I need it for. Sharpen it! She took a sharpening pole from the same drawer and moved the knife once this way, once that, against it. The noise was dramatic. After a moment, she handed it to me and returned to her duties at the sink. I stood again at the doorway, watching her, with a knife now in my grip. For a moment I considered what I was approaching, yet I didn't linger long in thought, for fear of indecision, or worse, doubt. I lunged forward, not intending to make a noise, but there it was, involuntarily; ARGH. I plunged the knife into Tilda's back, a little right of her spine. Her collapse to the
theincubatorjournal.com