Clang! One of the swords fell out just as the thief was about to slip out the door.
“What was that sound?”
“Nothing” he squeaked shrilly, avoiding her gaze.
She bent down and picked up the fallen sword. It looked familiar, too familiar in fact. She had heard the story a hundred times before from a hundred different faces with a hundred different masks of innocence.
He smiled nervously, shifting ever so slightly and proceeded to give her a chronological sequence of events as to how he got the sword, how he felt it needed a little polishing, and how he managed to get a discount at the polishing shop, so well he thought it would be a nice gift to return, you know a polished sword.
His words sounded rehearsed. Too perfect.
“I don’t believe you” she said calmly.
She caught a fleeting glimpse of anger on his face. The mask was dropping. He roared at her for never believing him. Called her names. Ranted and raged. Loudly proclaimed his inoccence. And ran for his life into the night.
(Although there are many meanings around the 7 of Swords I’ve always found the definition “the liar, the thief and the conman” to be the most appropriate description)
Copyright Mita Bhan. All Rights Reserved
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