A vanity mirror was attached on top of the dresser. Mira caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror’s glass. She was about to move away but something caught her attention. She squinted, trying to focus on the shadow, and as her eyes adjusted she realized that the shadow was a man’s.

Mira opened her mouth but no sound came. She couldn’t scream, couldn’t risk waking up Mrs. Woodsman and being caught. She couldn’t move. Could only watch as the shadow crept in the dark. He went first to the cage, saw the lock. His hand slipped into his pocket and he pulled out his own key, a copy, made for this moment, and he pushed it into the lock and opened the cage’s door. Lucy’s eyes opened and she crawled out almost immediately. She must have known this whole time, must have been waiting for him to come and release her. The man pointed toward the door and Lucy disappeared through it.

He went to the bed next. As he moved closer, Mira got a better look. He was young, thin, with a thick beard that obscured most of his face. He didn’t appear to notice Mira as she stared at him, too concerned with Mrs. Woodsman sleeping in her bed. He stopped when he got to the side of the bed, pausing to watch her shift.

Mira stood, frozen. Even if she somehow managed to sneak out unnoticed, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Part of her knew what he was about to do, but still she stood, waiting to see if she would be right.

The man raised a hand in the air, a signal to God. He lifted his head and whispered a few words. When he was finished with his prayer his hand went to his hip. The knife he pulled out managed to gleam despite the room’s darkness.

His hand gripped the knife as he leaned over the bed. He brought the knife inches from Mrs. Woodsman’s throat and stopped. Mira held her breath. She expected any moment he would drag the blade across her throat, and she prepared herself for the gurgling sound it would make, Mrs. Woodsman choking as blood poured out, staining her clothes and the sheets.

It would be quick, if he were to do it. He needed to make one single, smooth stroke and then it would be done. He was so close, and yet—he stood silent, unmoving, unable, or unwilling.

What is he waiting for? Mira thought. His hand wavered. Mira worried he would drop the knife, but he managed to hold on. Why won’t he do it?

He stepped back, tried to regain his courage. He straightened his posture and breathed in. Then, when he appeared ready, he brought the knife to her throat again. This time he would do it, Mira believed. He steadied himself and closed his eyes.