The Ill-Fated Fortunes of a Steampunk Madam Vi: Despair

The parlor crows erupted through the windows with more than the usual amount of clamor and cacophony. To a bird, they circled the ancient maple tree before they all settled into its embrace.

Well, nearly all.

All but one of them settled into the tree. All but Oliver.

"MURDER! AW! AW! MURDER! MURDER! AW! AW!" His rough and grizzled voice carried into the house ahead of his arrival. "MURDER! MURDER! AW! AW-AW!"

The sudden commotion had snatched Fiona's attention from Mrs. Leonard's aged despair. "Oliver! What...?" The commotion of the crow's entrance through the billowing sheers was underscored by the soft tinkling of the bells that had been strung through the ancient rose bushes by Fiona's grandmother.

Truly alarmed now, Fiona strode purposefully to the window through which Oliver had entered. There, trapped in the thick and thorny embrace of the hedge, were the sun-dried, dissicated, ancient-looking remains of a man dressed in modern clothes.

Surprised, stunned in fact, Fiona turned to where she'd left Mrs. Leonard. The woman was still sitting at the table, quiet and still.

Too quiet.

Too still.