This was not her room.
The realization came slowly, then all at once.
She pushed herself upright with difficulty, muscles trembling as she sat.
Her eyes traced the walls, the window, the simple furnishings, searching for something she recognized and finding nothing.
Then it hit her.
Not in pieces. Not gently. Everything.
Her breath caught sharply as memory crashed over her, the cottage, the ropes, the smell, the voices.
Her hands shook as she pulled the sheet aside, dread coiling tight in her chest.
Bandages.
So many of them, wrapped carefully around her legs, her ankles, her feet. White. Clean. No trace of blood.
Her gaze dropped to the nightgown she wore, soft fabric, unsoiled, as if nothing had ever happened.
As if she hadn't been broken and drained and discarded.
Slowly, almost fearfully, she lifted a hand to her cheek, touching the place where she had been struck.
No pain. No swelling.
