When that door opens, there is only the empty space between him and the gallows. All there is is that. The yard is empty. The gallows, spattered. The chill basket. It must be shattering cold. His knees buckle and his helpers hold him up. When that board indents the fabric of his trouser knees he recoils again without a sound. Or with not more than that strangled sound. They lay him down. They strap him there and stand away. He lies there on that board, his head turned on his cheek.

And now she glides across his path. She’s tall and willowy, wears that loose, rough black thing. She’s stately and calm, and he watches her shadow loom past him and he convulses, makes sounds. He struggles on that thirsty plank. She leans over him with the dreamy eyes and lightly checks his bonds with lean fingers. He won’t hear the breath that darts swiftly in and out of her nose.

With a slam he is rammed forward, his head between the rails. His scream is all but lost in his mask. He is looking down through the mask into the sop basket. A balance is tipped—this is the part no one is ever told about—and the board spins him around face up and he sees at once that livid line and her, looming over with that well-eyed look. He sees her pull that lever. He sees the line streak down with a loud rattle.

A searing jolt. A blur. No sensation. One event. Frayed holes in the hood. The rim of the basket. That smell. Taste of blood. The light all seeps away.

She would always fling her arm around his shoulders the moment after it happened, pull that body back to keep the blade from spraying blood everywhere. Always listened eagerly then for that last exhalation of breath from the viscous stump. Then she stands back, and those two who brought him take the parts away quickly. Stuff blubbers out the cut neck, that always looked like a stuck pigskin, or wine skin, is that what I mean? The head is heavier than it looks. She takes it by the bottom of the hood, that’s a bag now. It doesn’t occur to her that she has blood on her gown until it cools; that’s body temperature when that gets on. As you would expect.

And that’s how they got her, during the fighting, when many were brought there to be executed. She was at it all day. At night she sharpened. On and on. She started to tell them to hurry up, and crowded them together. All decorum went. For the first time, she became sloppy. She stayed, panting, by the lever. Then she climbs on that slick plank and reaches for the lever. Giggling. She was stretching her neck across that groove and groping for the lever. Stretching it out and stretching and stretching, giggling inanely. That’s when they replaced her. She went to the madhouse that day, or soon.