Thirty

 

Day blended into night, for there was no light down here, except that which came from the torches, which guardsmen replaced every day when they brought Molina's meals. The food was not so fine as the fare she'd enjoyed in Lubos' chambers, but it was no worse than some of the things she'd cooked on the nights Helga spent with her family.

Until one morning, when the smell from the stewpot curdled the contents of her belly and she had to bring her dinner back up again.

Too weak to work, she'd lay down on her straw pallet, pushing the food as far away from her as possible.

If she did not work, she would die down here in the dark, she told herself, but the words were not enough to rouse her. Some illness had laid her low, and she did not know if she would survive it.