This is the prologue to a book I'm starting to write. Tell me if it's good. Also, tell me if it sucks. It doesn't really have anything to do with anything, sso oh well. Here goes.
Her name was Pietra, her tale brief and haunting. She strode carefully up the cobblestone walk, careful not to let her exquisite burgundy dress dangle to the ground. She was impatient to reach the carved front doors; her broad new hat would certainly be damaged in this weather along with the expensive peacock feather that came with it.
That bleak December evening was not to be forgotten for many a year. The rain struck the cobbles of the Smythesâ€™ front walk like sabers. A carnival of thunder shook the air.
Pietra heaved the mahogany door open and stumbled inside. Across the foyer, a single dying ember writhed about upon the hearth. This momentarily alarmed the youthful lady, as she was sure tat she had put out the fore in the fireplace hours ago. Anxious to crawl into her stupendous-yet-cozy four-poster bed, she hastily lit a candle, kicked off her shoes, and plodded up the grand front stairway to the master bedroom.
She slipped out of her formal party gown and into her white nightdress with the high collar and lacy shoulders. She sank into one of a pair of cream-colored velvet armchairs facing a full-length window. Pietra gazed out at the magnificent garden that her window looked out upon and observed its regality.
A medley of ancient weeping windows and cherry trees flanked either side of a labyrinth of low hedges, in the middle of which lay a spectacular fountain, carved of extravagant marble. Pietra considered the exquisite, towering fountain her place to sit and think. In a way, it was her own personal sanctuary.
She must have dozed off while staring at the garden, because she was spontaneously jolted awake by a crack of lightning that illuminated the sky and made a border of the gargantuan fir trees that bordered their property simultaneously with a knocking at the front door. At first she thought that she must have been imagining things, but then the tapping came again. Rap, rap, rap, it insisted.
Ah! She exclaimed to herself. Everett must be home early. Her young husband had informed her that he would be home at approximately a quarter to midnight, and it was only about ten-thirty according to the little clock propped up on her nightstand.
She relit her candle and bustled down the grand staircase once again to greet her husband and perhaps brew him a cup of Earl Grey tea, his favorite, as a welcome-home surprise. She had to yank several times at the front door to force it to open. â€œEverett my dear! Welcome home!â€
He did not respond to her warm welcome. A bolt of lightning suddenly lit up the landscape at the front of he lawn â€“ and the face of the man standing before her â€“ and since he had a mustache, she assumed that this was not her dear Everett. The person drew a dagger from an extravagantly detailed leather knife bag, raised it by the hilt far above his head, and aimed it directly at the center of her throat.
â€œSir,â€ she croaked, â€œYour mercy I implore. I have done nothing to deserve this ill fate!â€ She stumbled backward, attempting to escape from the clutches of this wicked man, but he was too clever to let her slip away; with every step she took backward, he took one toward her.
Improvising with what was near, she grabbed a fire-poker from the hearth to shield herself with. For several of the manâ€™s attempted stabs, her reflexes were quick enough to block the dagger. Their battle grew more and more intense as they traveled across the foyer, and the ladyâ€™s strength began to deteriorate along with her reflexes. She missed one block of the dagger, and that stroke was her death knell.
Pietraâ€™s killer dropped the dagger, and it fell to the floor with a clatter. He ripped off his false mustache and tore off out the side door. The dagger and mustache, proving Pietraâ€™s assumption wrong, belonged to none other than Everett Smythe, Pietraâ€™s husband.