His fingers, steady and practiced, worked the pearl buttons of his shirt. He did not rush. He let the linen fall open, then shrugged it from his shoulders. He folded it precisely and laid it on a nearby chair. Now he stood in trousers and shoes. The air was cool on his chest, where a soft grey hair curled between his clavicles.
She knelt. Not in supplication, but in examination. She placed the cool metal of the mallet against his inner ankle. “Turn.” CMNM Monsieur Francois Gay
The click of the lock was soft, but in the silence of the gallery, it sounded like a rifle shot. His fingers, steady and practiced, worked the pearl