He dies.

The absence of him spins the whole of the world around.
There is a strange clench in her stomach. Nobody speaks, not

Her, not the servants. The traitorous

Mess that killed him is still lying
Upon the floor and suddenly she is screaming, her anger

Abstracted. The rest play witness: no-one enters or exits,

Not even herself, not
Even the body littering the floor

In ignoble death.

Outside the servants linger in a string of silent
Rebellion that encircles her household

Until Edmund arrives downstairs - filial, sharp-toothed -
And returns order with his flinty touch.