And then he was gone. She saw him a half mile deep into the field where he halted, his body visibly shaking, his head bowed. As she watched, he paced, then suddenly turned and punched the tree once, then again, and a third time; she saw it shift, tilting from the impact, a shower of dead leaves raining down on the ground as the blows shook its branches to their very tips.
She bowed her head, feeling ashamed, willing that the ground would open beneath her. With trembling hands she tried to tease free a clot of dried blood from her hair, then felt even more foolish, that she should be picking at her hair at such a moment. She pressed her hands together at her waist instead, her gaze on the dead earth beneath her feet.
And then he was standing before her again. Without speaking he opened the door and helped her inside, his knuckles still sticky with blood. He swung himself in after her, rapping on the roof; the carriage rolled forward slowly.
They rode in silence. He looked down at his hands, then wiped his hands on a tail of his waistcoat, pushing and digging to scrape off the dried blood.
“Tell me again,” he finally said.