I hesitated. Accepting comfort in this place felt dangerous, as if it might weaken my resolve to escape. But the throbbing in my head made thinking difficult, and without sleep, I’d have no strength for whatever came next.
“Thank you,” I said, taking the cup.
Margaret nodded, then began applying the salve to the raw spots where the collar had chafed my skin. Her touch was gentle, practiced. How many wounds had those hands soothed over the years? How much suffering had those eyes witnessed?
The tonic tasted bitter despite the honey she’d mixed in. I drank it quickly, grimacing at the aftertaste.
“It will work fast,” Margaret warned, reclaiming the empty cup. “Lie down.”
I obeyed, finding a position that minimized the pressure of the collar. Already, a heaviness was spreading through my limbs, a fog descending over my thoughts.
“I’m sorry for thy pain, miss,” Margaret said softly, her hand cool against my forehead. “No one deserves this.”
“Call me Isabeau,” I murmured, my tongue growing thick in my mouth. “Just Isabeau.”
She smiled sadly, tucking the blanket around me. “Sleep well, Isabeau.”
As consciousness slipped away, I clung to one final thought: this was only day one. I had two more before Gaspard’s return. Two days to find a way out, or resign myself to a lifetime of chains and collars and tonics to numb the pain. But not yet. Not tonight. Tonight, I would let the darkness take me, and pray for dreams of freedom.
Morning broke through the barred window like an unwelcome visitor. I woke with my muscles screaming, the collar having worked its cruelty while I slept. My neck felt like it had been wrung, each vertebra grinding against the next when I tried to move. The relief Margaret’s tonic had brought was long gone, leaving nothing but stiffness and the metallic taste of reality coating my tongue. Day two in my gilded cage, and already I was forgetting what freedom felt like.
That’s when I noticed the raven again, sitting in the same spot, watching me. It looked too intelligent, but I wondered if he smelled the bread Margaret had left.
“What is it you want?” I asked it.
It bowed it’s head then flew off, making my skin prickle in gooseflesh. My mind wanted to ruin me with beliefs that a bird could be intelligent enough to save me.
I forced myself to stand, stretching as much as the chain would allow. The metal links clinked with every movement, a sound I was beginning to hate more than Gaspard’s voice. It followed meto the washing basin where I splashed cold water on my face, wincing as droplets found their way beneath the collar to irritate the raw skin there.
The lock turned just as I was patting my face dry. Margaret entered carrying something draped over her arm. Fabric in a deep emerald green that caught the morning light.
“Good morrow,” she said, her voice hushed as always. “Master Gaspard ordered this made before he left. Thou art to wear it today.”
She shook out the garment, revealing a lady’s gown far finer than anything I’d ever owned. The bodice was intricately embroidered with gold thread, the neckline cut low enough to display the assets Gaspard considered his property. The waist was narrow, designed to cinch and emphasize curves. A prisoner’s uniform disguised as finery.
“I can’t possibly get that over my head,” I said, gesturing to the chain that kept me tethered.
“It’s made to step into,” Margaret explained, laying the dress on the bed. “Come, I’ll help thee.”
I reluctantly allowed her to assist me out of the oversized nightshirt. Standing naked except for the collar made me feel doubly vulnerable, but Margaret’s movements were efficient and respectful. She held the dress for me to step into, then worked it up my body, adjusting it around the chain before fastening the hooks up my back.
The fabric was fine against my skin, soft in a way that should have been pleasant but instead felt like another layer of confinement. When Margaret guided me to look in the small mirror on the wall, I barely recognized myself. The gown hugged every curve, displaying my figure in a way that made me acutely uncomfortable.
“It’s so... tight,” I said, running my hands over the bodice. “He’ll be able to see everything.”
“That’s the intention,” Margaret replied, her voice bitter. “To display what he considers his.”
I turned away from my reflection, unable to bear it anymore. “Do you have anything looser? The nightshirt, perhaps?”
Margaret shook her head. “He left specific instructions. This or nothing.” Her eyes flickered to my face. “It would be worse to disobey.”
She was right, of course. The memory of Gaspard’s threat against Margaret if I misbehaved was still fresh. I nodded reluctantly, accepting this new indignity.
“I’ll return with thy midday meal soon,” Margaret said, gathering the nightshirt. “And perhaps... perhaps I might stay a while? If thou wouldst like company?”
The offer surprised me. “Yes,” I said quickly, before she could withdraw it. “Please.”
She offered a small smile and left, the lock turning once more.
