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The thought first strikes her at the start of the second week. It takes some time before it stops being just a half-realized possibility, something unsolidified and out of reach except in small glimpses, and it takes even longer before she stops being content with just consoling herself to sleep with lofty, extravagant fantasies of its success, and actually consider putting it to the test.
It's sometime in the middle of the third week, when she's having tea, that Elfriede wonders why she's biding her time. The afternoon breeze rolling in from the kitchen window is cool, almost lulling, and for a fleeting, treacherous second, she thinks it might be fear. An immediate chill skirts down her spine when the insinuation dawns, and she straightens up so quickly – a jerky, abrupt reaction that invokes anger as much as shame – that her fingers nearly slip, and she barely catches herself from spilling boiling tea onto her lap and all over the floor. To her fortune, the overpowering urge to retch seizes her too quickly before her mind has any chance to work out the reason for her distress. She's hesitating because she doesn't want to waste such a good idea on a failed attempt, and if that happens he'll pat her on the head for effort and prepare countermeasures and she'll be back to square one, defeated. That's all there is to it.
But, as she sets the cup back onto the table, she can't help but feel Reuenthal's laughing at her for taking so long to go through with trying to absolutely, definitely kill him.
And, well, she can't just let that pass, can she?
With this in mind, she tries to make the best of the next few nights. She starts by making a habit of lingering around in the room longer. If he notices, he doesn't mind it, which is why her assumption is that he doesn't. Most of the time, neither of them bother to acknowledge the other. Most of the time, she gazes outside the window and at the sky, mulling over the listless summer weather; tonight, though, she stretches on her designated half on the mattress and looks up at the canopy that suspends above the bed. It's the first time she's paid any meaningful attention to it, and she notices how regal it looks and how it doesn't really suit the rest of the room.
She's taken to wondering if his tastes are less predictable than she thinks (unlikely), or if it's some kind of inheritance left over from the deceased mother he probably didn't appreciate as much as he should've, if what he'd said is anything to go by – because trust him to have been an ungrateful child, really, no wonder he grew up to be like this. Doesn't he know family is something that's supposed to be cherished? The speculation starts to eat at her, stinging for a reason she knows but doesn't want to dwell on, and Elfriede almost opens her mouth to ask about it. But then, in a sudden rush, she remembers what she's actually here for – and feels so embarrassed at having forgotten that she ends up having to excuse herself and forgo her plans for the night altogether.
Once she gets over the initial snag, Elfriede gathers her resolve and tries again. Waiting turns out to serve as an advantage; the relocation date is nearing and he's been swamped with work as a result. This is what she concludes to be the reason for this careless act of letting her fall asleep beside him that will soon prove fatal. Reuenthal remains silent as she stumbles out of bed, and she only gives him so much as an onceover behind her shoulder before she starts reaching around the floor for the blaster.
It's hard to see under the dim yellow lighting, but eventually the dull glint of it catches her eye. The blaster feels heavy in her small palm. She's not quite sure of how to steady her grip or even stop her hands from shaking so much, because that's silly, really – of all the times, and she chooses to fidget when she's the one holding a weapon for once. When the tip of her finger hovers over the trigger, she has to remind herself that she needs to act fast, just so her knuckles tighten around the handle instead of quivering and letting go to drop it altogether.
His back is turned to her. Exposed, vulnerable, a target that's deceptively easy – but suspicion isn't even an afterthought until much later.
One shot to the back of the head. That's all she needs. She recalls reading about it somewhere, once, a long time ago. She remembers her bright eyes of a thirteen-year-old's, poring over indifferent descriptions of various execution methods, and deciding it wasn't worth satiating her own aimless curiosity a second later. If she could afford to, she'd have aimed somewhere far less vital – perhaps the stomach, or either shoulders – somewhere enough to incapacitate, enough to hurt. She'd have gladly watched him bleed. The imagery is enough to make her heart swell, but it's a prospect she's willing to give up. What she needs right now is certainty.
Her father probably met his end by the gallows, she realizes then. The Lichtenlade family tree is vast and sprawling, and it wouldn't be worth wasting shots on mass executions. She'd never paid much attention in history class, but the vague recollection of her teacher's lecture sticks out and she thinks hanging was always the way it went in the lessons he read off the textbooks. The memory stings, somehow, and by the time she notices, it's too late to blink back her tears. It's nothing she can't handle, though. She swallows back her sobs and keeps her arms tense.
Elfriede aims – one shot to the back of the head – and holds her breath, and with all the strength she has in her small body, she pulls the trigger. Her eyes shut once she hears the click and her shoulders instinctively brace, waiting for the incoming recoil.
It doesn't come. She tries twice, thrice, and the trigger clicks dully each time and nothing happens. Frustration threatens to overtake her, but she bites down on her lip and decides she'll have none of it, because Reuenthal is still oblivious, still unmoving, and the fact she's considered a retreat at all is enough reason for him to laugh at her after going so far. The barrel end of a gun is metal; blunt force trauma is less reliable than a shot, she thinks vaguely, but if she can hit hard enough—
She tries to raise her arms over her head, but a force pins her wrists in place in front of her and it takes a second of disbelief until the realization she's woken him up dawns completely on her. When that happens, she drops all pretense of calmness. Her knuckles are still taut around the handle and she fumbles, unsure of where to put her hand holding it, until he solves the problem himself by pulling it free from her grasp – which is an act he does without warning and with such ease, she has no doubt the resulting humiliation she feels spreading all the way down to her toes is wholly intentional on his part.
Eyes wide, she watches as he disengages what she belatedly realizes must be the safety with a sort of effortlessness only experience can afford. When the unspoken insult reaches her ears, she feels her face heating up even worse than it already has. An ugly mixture of anger and shame rises up her throat and for a moment, she thinks it might be volatile enough to explode, but just a second later and the outburst sizzles and flattens into disappointment sinking and sloshing inside the pit of her stomach.
His free hand finds its way to set against the small of her back, fingers absently tracing a gentle, aimless line on her skin that ends in a curve as he pushes her towards him to close the space between them. A small, fragile part of her wants to cry, but at the same time another stops her from it. A surprised sound of protest chokes itself up her throat when he kisses her but he pays it no mind, and then her eyes flutter shut and she chooses to do the same. She lets herself lean into him because it's easier this way, and because he's bruised her ego far enough that this moment of indulgence is scant in comparison. It isn't so much giving in as it is a calculated forfeit. This is what she tells herself as the back of her neck heats up and he steadies her with his hand, leaving the gun presumably forgotten somewhere on the corner of the bed, and she makes no move to pull away because she figures that this, too, must be another sacrifice she has to make. This is what she repeats to herself again and again and over and over.