The headsman honed his axe to a keen edge, steam-pressed his black hood and tights, and buffed the dark leather of his belt and collar, not neglecting to polish the spikes. He swept out the dungeon for the tenth time and made yet another effort to scrub out the spot of old blood in the far corner, resistant as the ghost of guilt in Lady Macbeth’s mind. He oiled the ratchets in the rack, dusted the sills of the high, barred windows, and re-centered the name plate on his desk. He shook the large ring of keys at his side to reassure himself it retained its customary musical jangle.
     Mounting the steps with a bucket, he went outside and scoured the gallows platform, then tested the trap doors, sanded the block, and mended the basket. He glanced at the sun. Still plenty of time to prepare, to ensure nothing had been left undone.
     He went back in and inspected the cells, emptied of their usual occupants for the big event. It had made for a rare opportunity to clean them out. He went through each in turn, yanking on the shackles and checking them for rust, from the largest chambers, with their lines of chains threaded through great metal rings in the floors, to the smallest, which eschewed such amenities but was sized to prevent the prisoner from either standing up or lying down—a practice out of style since the days of the old king, so now it was merely a good place to confine the cat while important personages received the tour. No Puss today; she was home with Jennifer. Too much ado. The headsman whisked out a few stray hairs.
     He fidgeted. Were the swords well honed? Two of the crowd arriving from the tower later in the morning were entitled to that treatment. Yes, they were. His eye wandered to the little framed scroll behind his desk: “If aught but the mind be dull, then all ’tis but hackwork.” Words to live by—or die by, if insufficiently heeded. The scroll was slightly askew. He straightened it.
     What more? Was anything left to do? No. All was in readiness. He allowed his mind to stray, considering the day’s clients. Worthy men, some; others of no name, with naught in common but their cause, or crime, depending on how you looked at it. Now lost, so it hardly mattered which. The headsman knew some of them, and felt a fleeting twinge they had come to this. He set it aside—not for him the intricacies of politics, but rather to speed the losers to the next life with efficiency and dispatch. If Duke Fernando had happened to pat him on the head as a child, or Earl so-and-so had once given his cousin employment as a favor upon application, it was no—
     —the headsman frowned. What was the earl’s name? A minor matter, but it would not do to let such things slip his mind. He went to his desk, opened the drawer. What, not there? He clicked his tongue in annoyance and went to the next down. No. Not in the desk, then. Again he made the rounds of the dungeon, this time with different purpose. Where was the thing? Not on the premises. Not in the courtyard, either. Again he glanced at the sun. Just enough time to nip home and back.
     He strode across the yard, threw open the familiar door. His wife was in her chair before the fire, reading a romance and absently stroking the cat in her lap. As he entered, she looked up with a sigh, marked her place in the codex, and arched an eyebrow. “What are you fretting about now, Henry?”
     “Honey? Have you seen my chopping list?”