The Trap

Around the edges, flickering light crept in. There were no windows to admit the silver moonlight. She had heard the footsteps approaching her door, and now the candlelight. The faint metallic tapping of lockpicks was next. Rosalyn was seated in her shift, facing the door. The door creaked open and the candlelight seemed to flood the room. When the man entered, he was presented with her grinning face, framed by red curls, calmly fingering her stiletto. He staggered for a moment, almost loosing a startled yell before composing himself. He stank of wine. Rosalyn’s grin widened; the trap was sprung.