The stairs ended at a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron bands that had gone black with age. The older servant produced a key from somewhere in his livery—a massive thing that belonged in medieval romances rather than any reasonable reality.
"Your quarters, miss," he said, turning the lock with movements that spoke of long practice.
The door swung open to reveal a cell.
Not a room, not chambers, not even spartan accommodation. A cell, pure and simple, carved from living rock and furnished with the bare minimum required to sustain human life. A narrow bed with coarse linens. A washstand with a chipped pitcher. A single chair drawn up to a table that looked like it had been hewn from a single piece of oak.
And bars. Iron bars set into the stone, creating a window that looked out onto
