From the folds of her dress, she produced a blade. It wasn't a long, menacing knife. It was a boning knife—short, thin, flexible. A tool for precision. A tool for separating flesh from bone without tearing the grain.
The air in the shop always smelled of iron and cold stone. It was a clean smell, sharp in the nose, the kind of scent that announced business was being conducted—serious, irreversible business. miss butcher