Elizabeth H. Hopkinson is from West Yorkshire, home of the Bronte sisters and the Cottingley fairies. Her stories have appeared in EOTU, Fables and Strange Horizons, and she was the winner of this year's James White Award. She is currently working on a series of "medieval" romances based on the 12 Days of Christmas. Her main weaknesses are the cinema (especially dependant on who is in the film!) and the coffee shop inside the old Bradford Wool Exchange. You can read more on her website.

Last time I had to do this, I lost my nerve. I won't be doing that again. There were misgivings last time, guilty apparitions that would have haunted me. Not today. Today I am completely certain, more certain than I have ever been in my life.

The maids of honour are wailing. The old Chancellor's hands tremble as he helps her to the block. How can I do this? That's what they're thinking, I know. Her gown as white as snow; the block as black as ebony. And the red.? I test the axe blade with the edge of my thumb. Oh, yes. Let them wail. Their day is over; revolution is coming.

The tender neck shows as the hair cascades over the floor. She clasps her hands in prayer. Such innocence! You almost had me fooled. But I won't be your stooge any more. I suppose it was your last gasp chance, the only thing to do after all else had failed. If you can't beat them. . . Of all the faces you conjured for yourself, I'm surprised you thought of this one last. One wouldn't expect a villain to scruple about cheating to win.

They have blindfolded her as a courtesy. They must be blind themselves. The eyes are the mirror of the soul. Only you never liked what yours had to say. I suppose it told you that you sold yours along with your poisoned trinkets.

She has dropped the act now. They still don't see it; they think the poor lamb is hysterical. No matter. I raise my axe. By now, the messenger will have reached the Seventh Mountain. The maiden will be here by dawn.