Bond
There had been no name attached to the number John left her when he went off to die for Queen and Country. It was just a slip of paper with the appropriate amount of digits, probably to somewhere in London, though Elizabeth wasn’t sure where. She’d tried Google and got nothing out of it, her phone just spitting out a series of errors one after the other that led her to believe there was more to it than met the eye.
Maybe another person would feel bad, questioning the wisdom of their now-dead significant other--accused of treason or not--but they weren't Elizabeth Woodville. So there, in the light of the full moon, she reeled in another foot of fishing line and heard a metallic ‘clink’ as the charm at the end of it bounced onto dry land and off the rocks. After a month, finally, it had come to tell her fortune.
Elizabeth knelt and swiped it up, then held it to the light. A little handgun, perfectly formed, one of the three charms she’d left at the end of lines a month ago. She’d cut all but one without knowing, and this, this was what was left. When she'd chosen it as one of the three, she hadn't known if it mean protection or death. She'd only known it felt right.
She was lost enough, and sick enough of her own lack of agency, that she knew what she had to do, anyhow. Clutching the tiny pewter gun, Lizzie stood and produced her mobile from her pocket, then dialed.
An answering service picked up--not a voicemail box, but a genuine human being. "Dynamic Affiliated answering service, would you like to leave a message for Mr. Bond?"
Mr. Bond, is it? Lizzie tucked the pewter gun into her pocket as she returned to the house. "Yes, thank you. My name's Elizabeth, and I'm the--executor of the estate of a friend of Mr. Bond's who's just passed. There's some important business to conclude, so I'd appreciate it if he could meet me tomorrow between six and eight at the Scarsdale Tavern in Kensington..."
Maybe another person would feel bad, questioning the wisdom of their now-dead significant other--accused of treason or not--but they weren't Elizabeth Woodville. So there, in the light of the full moon, she reeled in another foot of fishing line and heard a metallic ‘clink’ as the charm at the end of it bounced onto dry land and off the rocks. After a month, finally, it had come to tell her fortune.
Elizabeth knelt and swiped it up, then held it to the light. A little handgun, perfectly formed, one of the three charms she’d left at the end of lines a month ago. She’d cut all but one without knowing, and this, this was what was left. When she'd chosen it as one of the three, she hadn't known if it mean protection or death. She'd only known it felt right.
She was lost enough, and sick enough of her own lack of agency, that she knew what she had to do, anyhow. Clutching the tiny pewter gun, Lizzie stood and produced her mobile from her pocket, then dialed.
An answering service picked up--not a voicemail box, but a genuine human being. "Dynamic Affiliated answering service, would you like to leave a message for Mr. Bond?"
Mr. Bond, is it? Lizzie tucked the pewter gun into her pocket as she returned to the house. "Yes, thank you. My name's Elizabeth, and I'm the--executor of the estate of a friend of Mr. Bond's who's just passed. There's some important business to conclude, so I'd appreciate it if he could meet me tomorrow between six and eight at the Scarsdale Tavern in Kensington..."