It was snowing outside. Coming down in sheets, thick enough to suffocate a person at a moments will.

She was looking out the window. Her hands running down her silk and taffeta skirts. He sat across the room, golden eyes staring at her. No matter how cold the air got around them, they couldn’t feel it.

Once in a while she could see Big Ben looming in the distance. A place she had been in, a time that felt like a life time ago. A haunting sort of memory that lingered with her, but not a memory that stung in the way old memories usually sting. Nay, this one was pleasant and soothing. Feelings that she had left in her old life time.

He continuously stared at her, his golden eyes assessing her and categorizing every movement that she made. His hands were resting on the arms of the green barrel back chair. Completely still, no movement could be accounted for. Not a blink of a twitch of the jaw.

She turned and looked at him , her hands once again sliding down the front of her skirts. Soothing down invisible ruffles that resided there. Pale fingers intertwined with the lace that littered her skirts, her fingertips skimming over the small pearls that rested at the bottom the delicate madness. She smiled slightly, those pearls were her mothers.

The man met her eyes. Her eyes were his opposite; hers black as the soot that flew from the chimneys that littered the roofs of the houses. A crescent bruise rested under the one eye. He smiled a smile that once was joyous but now turned into a twist cruel sneer that she knew all so well.

She placed her hands to her sides. Her right hand grasping something that was buried deep in the velvet couch cushion.

He turned looking outside into the sheet of snow. She wished for a moment that he would go out there and let the snow envelope him into the guise of contented sleep. But she knew that he was smarter than that.

Her gaze followed his, out into the blizzard. Hers not searching for things unknown. She wanted her clock. Her lovely clockwork tower.

He saw her, her gaze trapped in the outside world. Searching for that damned clock of hers. That small sliver of hope that he knew she clung to. His hands clamped into fists, his eyes became silted.

She knew this look all to well. The look of absolute distain that poured down upon her like a poison shower. She used to cower in fear of him, letting him have his way with everything. But not now. Lately she tied her corset tighter, she wore an extra skirt. Forcing him to get so frustrated that she was then not worth the effort. He was not a stubborn man. And that was her advantage. But she also knew if he wanted something hard enough he would get it one way or another. There was no way really to stop him, only to slow him down.

She had, had enough. Enough of looking through the scratched window panes, clinging to a clockwork tower for hope. Enough of trying to remember the life that once was, before the devil came to live in her house.

Enough of fending him off of her, trying to trick him to leave her alone. Enough of the pain and weakness she felt for nearly a quarter of her life now. She was finished.

This was her life and she was ready to take it back.

He moved toward her, his hands out stretched to grab her if she tried to run. Fierce persistence residing in those golden eyes. But she would not run, not this time. Her hand tightened around the object and yanked it up. A small pistol About 4 inchs long was resting in her pale hand. The butt of it was deeply embellished with up risen metal curves and twists, the metal covered the wood. It had two barrels. One for decoration it was carved into the shape if a dragon. The other the actual barrel of the gun. That was painted a bullet grey. Gears and strings of metal were also hung off of the barrel and the butt. It was a rather nice gun, one that she made herself.

He stopped dead in his tracks, his golden eyes widening staring down the barrel of the gun. The very moment that her hand clamped down onto the trigger, she looked up into his eyes. Those golden eyes that had haunted her for so many years, were flecked with lead grey. Corrupting the pure golden and rare color. She thought to herself that, lead corrupts Gold. Then would anger corrupt a man?