Thornwood smiled his thin smile and made a notation in his book. He did not suspect that while acceptance was a shield, behind it lay an absolute intent to destroy him.
The opportunity came on Saturday, July 19, 1847.
Thornwood had spent the afternoon transacting business in Cahaba and returned smelling heavily of spirits. He drank further upon entering his study. When Sarah was called upstairs after dinner, she carried the heavy steel letter opener concealed within the deep pocket of her apron, wrapped in a scrap of cotton rag to prevent any sound against her skirt. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but her exterior remained entirely placid.
Thornwood was sitting at his desk, going over papers, his speech slightly slurred.
“Six months now,” he murmured, glancing up briefly before returning to his ledger. “A singular constitution. Most subjects lose their faculties long before this stage, yet your awareness persists. It makes the final phase extraordinarily valuable.”
He drank deeply from his glass, gesturing her closer.
“Step up to the desk,” he ordered. “Look at these notations.”
Sarah stepped forward silently, her right hand slipping into the folds of her apron, fingers closing around the brass hilt.
Thornwood leaned over his journal, pointing at an entry. His left shoulder was turned away; his neck and the base of his skull were completely exposed.
