The Executioner's Wife

THE CORPSE BIRD

The queen would not die until ten that morning, but the town was awake by six. They had never seen a queen lose her head before and were too excited to sleep. As the day slowly came into being, muted whispers in the blackened homes became anxious conversations in the streets. They wondered, aloud or to themselves, if she would weep as she rose the creaky steps to the chopping block, or if she would stay quiet and lay down to die with dignity. The nuns prayed for her soul and hoped the Lord would receive her without question. Hungover drunks from the night before guessed that she would viciously denounce the king with her last words. After all, there had been no trial. The sentence was announced the day before- death by decapitation- for treason. Neighbors met their fates for treason every other week. Funeral parlors were fed the heads and bodies of those sent to the axe for speaking or plotting against the king. If a family possessed the money, they could fix the body so it looked like the head and neck never left each other. Certainly the queen, after her appointment, would be granted an even more graceful presentation from nobler hands.

Of course, this was only possible because the executioner was so talented. Never a bloody mess on the scaffold. Always one swing, with no suffering or screaming. He was so quick that the condemned were said to blink and they would find themselves at the gates of heaven. But he had never aimed his axe at a royal before. They wondered if he would overthink, become nervous, and misdirect his downward stroke, driving the blade into her skull or her shoulders and causing the poor woman more pain than was due. Thinking too much, about anything, was a vice. Everyone knew that.

The executioner was not thinking at all. As the town continued to talk about his date with the queen, he was still in bed, with his wife. The two of them stared up at the ceiling, tangled up in each other and their thinning bedsheets. His wife, Lily, traced patterns across his chest with her brown hand. She was a natural poet, writing words that spoke of how much she adored his stupid jokes and handsome grin, words that made him shiver when she spoke them and chuckle when she drew them across his bare body. Like everybody else, they had been awake since the morning was dark, but did not rise with the sun. Morning, the last morning the queen would ever see, did nothing to stir them, even as the thin light invaded their small, humble room and carved shadows upon their tired bodies. Her head, wrapped in her silk scarf, nestled under his chin, and his hand, warm and heavy on her shoulder, were better reasons than anything the awful responsibility of the day could offer.

Her fingers were tracing ticklish circles on his sternum, just above where his gold cross lay. Her hand slid down to rest on his stomach, and she placed a soft, firm kiss where it had been.

"We should get up," Lily finally said.

Her husband, Alois, gave a long sigh. Lily kissed his shoulder. "To be fair, I don't think she's looking forward to this either."

"Maybe she'd appreciate an extra hour to live. Or two. Or three."

He missed the heat of her cheek and hand as she propped herself up on her elbow. He turned to face her. She admired his tired brown eyes, deep and rich as coffee, and told him, "All she has now is the certainty that her life is over and the hope that it will be quick. You can at least give her that."

Alois studied her from his pillow for a moment. Even in the mind-numbing air of morning, Lily retained a genius unmatched. He propped himself up to level with her, an effort that forced both gas and groan from him. Lily held her nose playfully.

"People think I'm going to miss," he admitted.

"You never miss."

"I know. I won't today, either."

"Are you nervous?"

"No. It's not my head." He noticed the puzzled frown on his wife's face. "Are you nervous?"