Becoming Sophia (87)

If you have ever seen the inside of a dungeon, my heart goes out to your poor soul. If you haven’t—consider yourself lucky. There was no light—not even the moon or stars, for there were neither candles nor windows. I couldn’t see my own hand held in front of my face in the pressing darkness.

I was pitched forward roughly into the cell, my hands and knees hitting the cold cobblestones painfully. I felt my way to a corner so as to lean against the wall. There was a strange sort of moisture on the wall stones—I pushed away the sickening thoughts of blood from beaten bodies. I prayed that my mother would forgive me for ruining her wedding dress. I was sure that the stains from whatever coated the dungeon would never come out. I felt filthy.

The wind howled outside and I tried to burrow further into my gown to avoid the cold, but the sheer fabric held no warmth.

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