“Lizzie Borden took an axe…”
“Gave her mother forty whacks…”
“Then she hid behind the door…”
He slowly swam into consciousness, his remaining limbs twitched with awareness. Cold. The cobbles were cold, as was the fog drifting around him. An incredible pain radiating from his temples. He was on his feet, surprisingly enough. He reviewed his surroundings with dizzying and sluggish movements.
“Isn’t it lovely?” A smooth and cultured voice, ripe with pride spoke directly behind his ear, startling him. Her voice. “I must say, I do my best work when you get out of my way. You can be so dull after all.”
A pale white figure glided past him to circle a pile of rags on the cobbles.
“I bet this fat fool will never try to pick a pocket again! Of course it is awfully hard to do so without hands.”
A small booted foot kicked the pile, separating an object from the rest of the rubbish. The grimy hand, detached crudely at the wrist, rolled to a stop by his boots. He looked up to the young face of the woman. Her appearance was of an innocent, her stature of a woman in her twenties. Speech and clothing spoke of breeding amongst the upper crust, though that changed quickly and without warning, as he was beginning to learn.
She walked to his side with a small smile on her face, fingering the empty sleeve of his coat, expectant of his praise.
“I told you to leave me.”
“As if I would do that, you need me. I am your companion now. After all, what would you do without me? See how well we work together?” She gestured to the bloody heap, axe gleaming wetly on the ground nearby. She began humming under her breath, patting his heavy pocket.
“Stop being a dullard, I retrieved your valuables for you. You should be thankful.” With a swish of her stiff skirts she turned from him, her visage wrapped in fog.
“Come along… let us find someone to properly repair that arm.”