"Yes, the wine is rather exceptional, isn't it?" Verité de Merteuil let out a joyous gail of laughter, clinking her glass against that of the man who was accosting her with slurred flirtation. It had always astounded her how easily some people got drunk so early on in the day. The reception was taking place in one of the plush buildings overlooking the main square, a palatial hotel with a suite completely booked out for the purposes of entertainment. From here, the guests could enjoy an optimum view of the King's speech out of the great glass windows and on the large, sweeping balcony. 

It had not been hard to gain entrance to the reception, Verité smirked as she looked around the room. All you had to do to get into any event in the city was to know the right people, perhaps spend an evening with a man or a woman here and there... peak properly, have good table manners, and know your wine. She circled the room, leaving the greasy, suited gentleman to contemplate himself for a while. The wine was not exceptional, at all. It was a bad vintage - far too sweet; almost syrupy. Which sort of epitomised the whole event. The decor was gaudy, almost chintzy, with chaise longues thrown haphazard around the room. Everyone was dressed in far too little, or far too much. The food was not up to scratch.

Despite all of these grievances, Madame de Merteuil continued her circuit. She glanced down at her diamond-encrusted watch. It wouldn't be long now before things got underway. Sure enough, glancing out of the window, Verité could make out the figure of the King with his shock of blonde hair and his attendants. A crowd had amassed, and no doubt the entire country's media was watching and waiting. The crowd began to drift out onto the balconies and towards the windows, and Verité followed suit. Her blonde hair was piled up on her head, and a red ruby pendant adorned it at the top. She had often used the shining broach to signal to other assassins her allegiance, and putting it on today had been a brave but perhaps foolhardy move. The party hushed as the King began to speak.

He, too, represented everything that gone wrong with society. His very presence was a pestilence, a decay. His withering and blindingly white smile and immaculate hair was rotting away at any sense of high society left, and with every move he made his very presence made Verité bristle with annoyance. And now he was coming for her, and she had a reason to hate him. This speech was going to be the beginning, but she had receptions throughout the day, a dinner, and then an after-party. It was not unlikely that she would see him, in the flesh, at one of them. All she had to do was get close to him, and then she could strike silently in the night. 

The beginning of the speech made several members of the assembled jump. One woman dropped her glass, which smashed onto the granite balcony with a resounding crash. Verité, for her part, opened her hand fan and held it in front of her face - her subconscious expression of distaste. Laughter erupted at the loudness of the speech. Verité hardly studied the words. Instead, she watched the crowd, and the rooftops she could see, looking for some sign of a fellow assassin. She hoped that one would recognise her. It had been too long since she had been able to openly meet with her fellows.

The announcement of execution sent a gasp rippling along the crowd. Several men cheered boyishly, and a woman applauded somewhere down the line. "Bravo!" She called. Verité reddened, and fingered the vial of cyanide she had had sewn into the hem of her dress.