Noble Blood

Earl of Whittemore entered the ballroom, his eyes less alive than they were before, wearing the look of deep disappointment; what he had taken for two wholly different beings, embracing one another, turned out to be an ugly feature of nature. It was no more than a predator, preying on yet another weak soul.

Walking in slow and steady steps, prisoner of his realm of thought, he joined the rest of the attendees to what seemed like a never-ending play, orchestrated by some proud maniac, who dared sit on a throne they didn't earn.

By that time, Iris was cleaning, just cleaning; she had been dismissed from serving the guests, as her mind could neither stand it, nor was it expected to. She had her hands busy, and the silence fuelled her thoughts. She hated to think, but she hated being empty; she hated being alone, yet wished for no one's company. Then, once more, there was nothing; she allowed herself to be lost in the flow of time slowly.

Her assumed piece was interrupted by the sound of masculine heels. She turned to see who that was, even though she couldn't tell whether she was waiting or expecting someone, as those unsure feelings disappeared when the butler, Mr. Altham, clapped his hands twice, attracting more than just Iris's attention.

"The young Lady calls for your presence."

She sighed and followed his steps, anticipating what her mistress could have in mind for her. Despite her best efforts, she had no idea that, to her, Eleanor was childish. She observed how all her actions lacked meaning; Eleanor seemed to only move to please herself, and for that reason, she was both distant and despised.

Once they stood in front of her, in a small hall leading to the ballroom, which was dimly lit, they bowed slightly.

"My Lady," said Iris vaguely.

Eleanor lifted her hand in approval and showed a deceivingly concerned look.

"Are you well?" she demanded.

"Well enough to work, my Lady."

"Very good then, you see, I can't find Theo anywhere," –to no one's surprise, "so I shall use you instead."

Iris nodded, swallowing every desire to disagree she had, along with the things she could have said with it; she just followed and watched, waiting for any instructions, but Eleanor just walked in a menacing silence.

Then she stopped, drew near to Iris, and gently put her palm on the maid's forehead, "Your eyes…"

"Excuse me."

"They're dark," her voice hardly above a whisper, one would swear she did not intend to speak in the first place, the words were just flowing with and against her will, but ultimately serving her cause.

Confused, Iris just nodded.

"A second murder will occur, we cannot stop it –or at least I don't wish to do so, I need you to observe all, from now on, you shall be my eyes."

Having spotted Iris's unease, Eleanor added, "You are around my age if I'm not mistaken."

She then drew even nearer, until it became clear that Eleanor had no sense of distance; every person to her was a fortress, and her army was full of catapults, ready to take down any stubborn walls. She whispered something that somehow made Iris ever so slightly at ease.

The two walked into the full hall, where it was not possible to disregard the heavy air; patience was visibly a limited resource. None of the attendees could trust the other; even friends who knew each other for years could not feel safe leaving their backs exposed. There was a killer, and everyone felt it in their bones; the killer will strike again, and the first to loosen up is the first to fall.

"Lady Thornwood!" screamed someone from the heart of the crowd, "how has your luck been trying to find the murderer?"

"Viscount Hatherleigh, we are proceeding very well. No need for concern," Eleanor replied mechanically. She hadn't needed to prepare for such a question, she expected it, but cursed the obviousness of the follow-up.

"Countess! Forgive me, but I must ask, is this how justice is served now? With a waltz and a whisper? I'd imagined the hunt for a murderer might require a touch more urgency... and perhaps fewer pirouettes."

Her lips curved into a thin smirk.

"You haven't seen many murder cases, have you, Viscount? The mouse never shows itself if you stand at the entrance of its hole."

He straightened, retaliating with more confidence in his tone than he truly possessed.

"Then you may pride yourself, my lady, for being the first person to invite me to a ball with a mouse."

"For that, I apologise, and I will appreciate your patience."

"There shall be no need for it, I am leaving," he said while bolting towards the door. No one tried to stop him; most of the guests weren't certain they would keep up in that spot any longer, and as for the host, she frankly knew it was deemed to happen eventually.

As he opened the door and stepped outwards, he froze still, his steps, his movement, even his breath; he was still as a statue while everyone eyed him.

It was Iris who first noticed, and fear swirled in her mind; she composed herself and spoke to Eleanor, "My Lady, is that blood?"

So was it indeed.

Eleanor walked towards the Viscount, whose blood was dyeing the floor. She gasped at the sight of him, a thin bloody line was drawn along his neck, as he started dropping on his back, Eleanor heard… a string? The Viscount started struggling where he hit the ground, his hands tight around his neck, his eyes red and enraged, he had no voice to speak, but if it'd been otherwise, he would have cursed, he would have prayed, and he would have begged for his life, never for the gift of death, never, the dying man valued himself, his own life more than anything else. He knew that if there were any other life, it would not be easy for him. The dying man wanted to live because only he could forget his sins.

Eleanor carefully examined the door to find a transparent, hair-thin string that was attached to both ends of the entrance, which was shoved inches into the Viscount's neck before the latter could realise. His struggles stopped, and he was dead.

Eleanor looked at her guests and said with a wicked smile, "I guess the mouse is the one standing at the entrance of our hole."