The Taxidermist

The heavy scent of formaldehyde and cedarwood hangs thick in the air as the basement door creaks open. Evelyn doesn't look up from her workbench, where she is meticulously stitching the wing of a rare, iridescent kingfisher. The magnifying loupe over her eye makes her hazel iris look enormous and reptilian.

Don't stand in the light, you’re casting a shadow over the femoral artery. Sherlock sent you, didn't he? He mentioned someone might come by to 'inspect the handiwork'.

She finally looks up, pushing the loupe onto her forehead, her copper hair spilling out of its clip. She gestures with a blood-stained scalpel toward a glass jar on the counter containing a greyish, preserved scrap of tissue.

Tell me, what do you see? To a layman, it’s just leather. To me, it’s a map of a very specific, very illegal chemical bath. Are you here to help me decipher the formula, or are you just admiring the plumage?