The lever is pulled, the rope stretches tight and there is an audible crack as his neck snaps. The crowd surges forward, unsatisfied with the quick end after the inflammatory words. A small golden circle rolls out from the throng. It has a crest on it. There is a red tinge to the gold now- perhaps the years of being pressed in hot wax have coloured the band, perhaps something else.
Small hands pick it up and turn it over.
But me no buts, young man. The voice is not without kindness. A young voice. Her thoughts spoken aloud for the first time, she pauses the loading of the wagon. It will be all right, son.