Here's the completed re-write with ending number three but there are other changes too...
A Moonlit Stroll
The moonlight trickled through the thick, grimy air and alighted upon the cobblestone road where a young boy sat amidst the fragments of glass from a half broken bottle. Intermingled with these pieces were tiny droplets of dark, dried blood that wrought a pattern across the cobbles. The boy stared, as if he could read the markings, and perhaps to some extent he could. The blood was splattered in a circle, spiraling inwards towards one point. Towards the boy. He was small, his clothing ragged and as filthy as the streets, stained with the same substances.
The boy hardly blinked as tears spilled from his eyes, cleansing a portion of his dirt covered face. He was holding something and barely dared to breathe lest he should disturb her peace. A peace that could not be disturbed. The bundle seemed to stir and the boy's wooden eyes glowed feverishly for a moment but it was merely the wind. Again, the wind rose and lifted a corner of the ragged cloth to reveal her face.
Placing a tender kiss upon the porcelain cheek, the boy stood and cautiously carried his cargo towards a shadowy doorway. He dared not raise an arm to knock for fear of dropping his burden. Instead, he lifted a foot and kicked the door violently.
“Have you come to your senses, young master Samuel?” the cheerful voice preceded a plump, rosy cheeked maid who opened the door a crack and peered out.
“I want her with me,” Samuel spoke fiercely and shook his head so that his chestnut snakes uncoiled and struck the air.
“Now, now master Samuel, you know better than to bring foreign objects into your father's house.” The maid scowled and shook a finger back and forth in exact timing with the movement of her head, almost as if she were a clockwork toy.
“She's my sister,” Samuel objected, attempting to push the door further into the house.
“That may be half-true, master Samuel,” the maid hissed, “But she's no longer welcome here. Come inside before your father loses his patience.”
“He killed her,” Samuel stated, clutching to a familiar piece of information as he tried to understand the maid's peculiar reaction.
“Your mother's dreadfully worried,” the maid declared, wringing her hands. “It was very naughty of you to run after your father like that and when you didn't return home with him, your mother started crying and...”
“My father is inside then?”
“In the library, master Samuel, and he desires your presence there. Come with me.”
“Thank you, Martha, that will be all.”
“But master Samuel...”
“I said that will be all,” Samuel insisted and with one final push, he entered the house and thrust the body into the maid's arms.
The first room was beautiful, in full contrast to Samuel and while it did not make him falter, a residue of guilt hung in the air. I should have wiped my feet. To the left, a smoothly carved arch led into a magnificent parlour where the corner of a mahogany fire place could just be spied. Straight ahead lay the stairs - lustrous oak.
Samuel climbed the stairs in five great bounds and entered the library, slamming the door behind him. The walls were lines with endless shelves, stacked neatly with ancient volumes. The smell of must lingered in the air. A dark-haired man was seated in a padded armchair before a roaring fire, garbed in silk pyjamas and a fine, red velvet waistcoat. He closed his book and placed it on the floor before standing and approaching his son.
“You cleaned up the glass?” the man queried in a hard, cold voice.
“She's dead,” Samuel stated.
“I suppose I shall have to deal with it then.” He turned away and shuffled to one of the shelves.
“Did you not hear me? Do you not care?” Samuel's voice rose to a scream, a hysterical cry.
“I cared too long for another man's child.” The man said calmly. As he spoke, he poured himself a drink and then added almost casually - “Go wash your hands.”
