The embers in the fireplace were nearly extinguished. Arthur leaned against the carved oak bedpost, as the morning light seeped through the foggy glass window, clearly illuminating the bruise on his left cheekbone.
The maid Martha knelt on the Persian carpet, her coarse fingertips dipped in ointment, yet her movements were exceptionally gentle.
She thought to herself, this British gentleman's skin was as pale as the saints in the church murals, as if it would shatter with the slightest force.
Thinking of this, the maid Martha's fingers paused in applying the ointment. She glanced at the gold pocket watch on the bedside table, its chain snapped, stained with dried blood left by the robbers' tugging last night.
