The fervor rises as a third prisoner is ceremoniously hoisted over the square. Drawn to this spectacle, Monica reacts as one of the throng, hooting and jeering as the ragged, emancipated men hang above them. The huge Master of Ceremonies bellows over the din, "Perhaps our Lord and king will save this child murderer from the sharp end of the guillotine". He pauses, gauging the response of the gathered thousands... "Perhaps Not" he laughs.
She is one with them, her voice and blood rising with theirs, a sheen upon her skin as bodies press about her. Conscious, as she is shouldered and tussled about, that some hands move over her with intent. Outwardly ignoring the fleeting grasps at her skirts. But privately, growing more and more aware of her body's reaction to the excitement, as it instinctively moves back or presses forward against open hands and errant fingers. She continues to make her way closer to the platform.
A reed caught in the swell of fast rising water, she pushes herself onward. Wanting, needing to be closer. To see the anguish in these men's eyes; to watch as their look shifts to a brief, yet brilliant flash of hope as the moment looms ever closer; to witness the final, dry, distant look as all faith is crushed. Replaced by an overwhelming realization of doom.
