Mrs Abercrombie surveyed her moonlit formal gardens from the window of her Louis XIV bedroom. Their perfection was entirely to her credit. Acres of miniature boxwood mazes imposed order, definition. Beyond this, a long artificial pool sparkled to the horizon, a watery avenue overlooked by tall rows of pruned trees, dusted now with silver.
Mrs Abercrombie cherished above all her black swans. Imported especially, they glided pristinely along the sharply defined waters. She’d had their tendons spliced, of course, so the wings could only flutter, the smallest of movements. They would
never fly, and were still picture perfect. What could be better?
She tensed, remembering the sight of the elegant dark feathers, scattered in the path. But soon she would settle this. The trap was set.
For three hours she’d sat, watching, before the fox came. She saw him sniffing at the blackberries inside the box. He climbed in, and Mrs Abercrombie heard the cage door slam, over the long distances of the lawn, boxwood, and stone stairs. She smiled, triumphant.
Into the moonlight she ran, her silk dressing gown billowing, a decorative spectre, until she came face to face with her nemesis. The fox was pressed against the rear of the cage, his body tense, his eyes wary. She picked him up, brought him to the water, and plunged him in, watching the churning liquid until it receded then stopped altogether, the stillness and beauty restored completely. Satisfied, she strolled back.
This is actually inspired from someone I met at a party who described drowning a raccoon in this way. Her look of vengeance was something to behold.