The late afternoon light broke through the clouds, staining the winter sky with a burst of Van Gogh yellow. Like a flash of lightning the sun flamed through the window, dappling her face with a shower of tiny sunflowers. For a moment her reflection in the mirror shimmered, gold brushed her cheeks, and she looked beautiful. Then suddenly a veil fell over the sun, storm clouds thickened, the light faded. And her face became ordinary again.
        Her face was too pale, she saw. Almost a greyish pale. The face of a ghost, a shut-in, an invalid—or the face of a newly released convict, she thought. She turned towards the window as if to bring some colour to her skin. But the light had gone, and a shameless film of dust had settled in its place.
        She looked back at her reflection. The grey eyes that were the mirror of her soul showed nothing—nothing but the cold white stare of madness—and of uncompromising resolve.
        Even his death had not brought her close to tears. Grief was beyond her. She had stretched out for it, had longed for it, but any human feeling she could feel had been swallowed up by the darkness that had gathered around her. She couldn’t mourn; couldn’t feel sadness. Her heart had been ripped out. It lay frozen somewhere in a far-off land, waiting for justice.
        Mascara, blusher, lipstick. Her hands were sticky with nervousness as she applied her make-up. She pressed her palm to her forehead, panic breathing down her neck. Must stay in control... must... must.... she chanted breathlessly as she scanned her mind for anything that could go wrong.
        Nothing could. It just couldn’t, she told herself. She winced as she swept back her hair. It was wet. Wet from the sweat that was beading her face. She frowned. The trick