Scyther crouched at the edge of his pumpkin field and watched the tall house on the hill. He was a scarecrow, stitched and straw-stuffed, and he had spent the last month learning that the physician inside that house had killed at least three people who could not fight back. That was the same shape of cruelty he had grown up under. He meant to end it. But he did not yet know when the man ate, when he slept, or which door he used at dusk. A blind strike would kill the wrong person. The manor kept servants. Scyther had watched a girl carry laundry across the yard that morning, no older than fifteen. He would not put a blade through her by accident. He walked back to the small shed beside his patch, where he kept his tools. Pumpkin-carved knives hung on the wall, orange and hard as bone, still fresh after months. He took the shortest one and slid it into his coat. Then he went to the herb bed behind the shed and cut a bundle of rosemary and mint. A delivery boy carrying herbs would draw no eyes at a servants' door. He did not need to go in yet. He needed to watch. He crossed the fields at dusk and settled in the hedgerow across from the manor. He counted windows. He counted lamps. A cook came out to empty a pail at the side step. A stableman locked the gate at the ninth bell. At half past, an upper window lit, and a thin figure in a dark coat passed behind the curtain, then passed again, pacing. Scyther marked the room. Something shifted above him. He looked up. An owl sat on the hedge, its feathers cut from yellow-green crystal, catching what little light was left. It should not have existed. It watched the same lit window he watched. Then it turned its head and looked at him, direct, patient, as if to say: yes, that one. Scyther held still. The bird lifted off without sound and flew a slow circle around the manor. It landed on a stone ledge outside a small door at the rear, tucked behind the kitchen wing. A door Scyther had not seen from the field. Then it flew back to the lit upper window and settled on the sill. A back stair. A private entrance. The pacing man used it, or would. Scyther waited an hour. At the tenth bell, the upper lamp went out. A moment later, the small rear door opened, and the thin figure stepped into the yard, alone, and walked toward the herb garden with a lantern. No servants. No witnesses. Scyther drew the pumpkin knife. He now knew the physician's route, the hour, and the door. The blind strike was no longer blind. He rose from the hedge and moved.

Scyther crossed the yard low and fast, the pumpkin knife flat against his sleeve. The physician walked ahead with his lantern, thin shoulders under a dark coat, moving toward the herb bed behind the manor. Scyther had the hour, the door, and the route. He did not have one thing, and the lack of it stopped him at the wall of the kitchen wing. He did not know if the man wore a warning charm. A bell sewn into the collar. A whistle on a cord. A signal that would bring servants or guards before the blade finished its work. If Scyther sprang blind and the man made one sound, the girl he had seen carrying laundry would come running, and so would others. He needed to see the man's throat and chest before he closed the distance. He pressed into the hedge beside the garden path. The lantern light passed and steadied. The physician set the lantern on a stone and knelt at the herbs. His coat fell open as he reached for a sprig. Scyther watched the collar. No bell. No cord. A plain shirt, buttoned high, and a chain thin as thread that ran under the linen. A chain meant something hung on it. Scyther held his breath. The physician pulled the chain free to keep it from the dirt. A small silver whistle swung at the end, no bigger than a thumb. One breath into that whistle would end everything. A soft light moved above the roofline. The crystal owl he had seen the night before circled once and dropped onto the peak of the two-story house, yellow-green plumage catching the lantern. The physician did not look up. Scyther did. The bird stared at the whistle, then at him, the way it had stared at the lit window. He understood the shape of the problem. He could not rush the man. He had to take the whistle before he took the life. Scyther slid the knife back into his coat and drew out the rosemary bundle he had cut that morning. He stepped from the hedge onto the path and let his boots scrape the gravel. The physician's head came up. His hand went to the chain. "Herbs from the field," Scyther said, and lifted the bundle. "Cook said to bring them round the back." The hand paused. The whistle stayed at the collarbone. Scyther walked closer at a delivery boy's pace, eyes down. Three steps. Two. He held the rosemary out with his left hand. The physician reached for it. Scyther's right hand closed on the chain and pulled. The thread snapped. The whistle came away in his fist. The physician opened his mouth to shout. Scyther drove the pumpkin knife up under the ribs before the sound left the throat. He held the man against him until the weight went slack, then lowered him to the herbs. The lantern still burned. No door opened. No feet ran. The owl lifted from the roof and was gone.