The lock turned with a sound that made me flinch. Margaret entered carrying a wooden tray with bread, cheese, and a cup of water. Her eyes darted to my neck, then away, unable to bear the sight of what her master had done.
“Thou must eat,” she said, setting the tray on the small table beside the bed. “Keep thy strength.”
For what?I wanted to ask.To endure more abuse? To live long enough to become Gaspard’s wife in truth?But I said nothing, merely nodded and took the bread from the tray. It tasted like dust in my mouth.
Margaret hovered by the door, her fingers twisting in her apron. She wanted to leave. I could see the anxiety etched in the lines around her eyes, but something held her there.
“It will ease,” she finally said, gesturing toward my collar. “The weight. Thy muscles will adjust.”
“Is that supposed to comfort me?” The words came out sharper than I intended.
She flinched but didn’t retreat. “No. But it is truth.”
I softened, remembering this woman was as much a prisoner as I was, though her chains weren’t visible. “Thank you for the food.”
She nodded and left, the lock turning once more.
Alone again, I attempted to find a comfortable position to rest. Lying flat made the collar dig into the back of my neck, forcing my chin up at an awkward angle. Sitting upright for too long strained my shoulders and back. Even standing became an exercise in endurance as the chain pulled down, down, always down.
By afternoon, a dull ache had bloomed at the base of my skull, radiating outward in waves that matched my heartbeat. I shifted restlessly, trying to alleviate the pressure, but the pain had taken root and refused to be dislodged.
The silence grew teeth. Each creak of the old house made me jump. Each shadow that moved across the barred window sent my heart racing. Was he returning early? Had the hunt been called off? Would I hear his heavy footsteps on the stairs, the key in the lock, see his hungry eyes devouring me through the doorway?
Then I saw a raven land at the bars. His eyes felt too knowing as he turned his head to look at me. I did the same motion, following his strange behavior. But the rattling of my door scared the cawing creature off.
Margaret had returned with the evening meal, I sitting up, eyes fixed on the door. The chain pooled beside me on the bed like a metal serpent.
“Thy neck,” she said, setting down the fresh tray. “It pains thee.”
It wasn’t a question, but I answered anyway. “Yes.”
She approached cautiously, as if expecting me to lash out. I remained still as her cool fingers probed gently around the collar, testing where metal met skin.
“The skin is rubbed raw here,” she said, touching a spot beneath my ear. “And here. I’ll bring salve after thou hast eaten.”
The simple kindness nearly undid me. Tears threatened, but I blinked them away. They would solve nothing and waste precious water my body needed.
“Why does he do this?” I whispered, not expecting an answer, not even sure I was asking about Gaspard specifically or men like him in general.
Margaret’s hands stilled on my neck. “Some men need to possess. To own. To prove their power by taking another’s away.” She sighed, a sound so weary it seemed to contain years of suffering. “It is not about thee. Thou couldst be anyone.”
“But I’m not anyone,” I said, my voice cracking. “I’m me. I had a life. I had Papa—”
“I know,” she cut me off, her voice gentle but firm. “I know.”
She helped me sit up to eat, adjusting the pillow behind me to take some strain off my neck. The food was the same as earlier but I found I could stomach it better now. Perhaps hunger had finally overcome despair.
“I’ll return shortly,” Margaret said when I’d finished. “Try to rest if thou can.”
Rest seemed impossible with the grinding pain in my neck, but I nodded anyway. Time stretched like taffy after she left, each minute dragging into the next with excruciating slowness. Theheadache had spread, claiming my entire skull in its vicious grip. Even my teeth ached with it.
When Margaret returned, she carried a small clay pot and a steaming cup. The smell hit me first. Sharp herbs and something sweeter underneath. Lavender, perhaps, and valerian root. I recognized the scent from my own garden, from the remedies I’d prepared for the apothecary.
“For thy neck,” she said, setting down the pot. “And this,” she held up the cup, “for sleep.”
“What is it?” I asked, eyeing the dark liquid suspiciously.
“Chamomile, valerian, a touch of poppy.” She met my gaze steadily. “Not enough to harm. Just enough to ease thee into dreams. The pain won’t let thee rest otherwise.”
