They do not know me. I do not know them.

The faces on the street are all unfamiliar, but they are all the same. The faces of the aged washerwomen and the young maids with milk and honey complexions and the mothers with slightly wizened expressions all blend into one. The strapping young men, the merchants on every corner hawking their wares, the militia men clad in the Count's heraldic colours are all just faces that I do not care to distinguish from one another. The sour smell of sweat and wine still fills my head as I leave the courtyard, my cap tugged over my face in inexplicable shame. The sky is sweet coloured, pinks and blues, and the sun's head is rearing from the east.

It is morning, but my body is leaden with exhaustion. I want nothing more than to sleep.

The ground is dirt and shifts under my weight as I move with awkward little steps through the town. My legs are bruised and my muscles are pulled tight, a lute string ready to snap at the slightest movement. I am a sorry sight, and all of the eyes I feel burning into my back makes me want to collapse to the ground. I bade the earth to swallow me up. The labyrinthine streets make my head spin. At one time, I knew the layout of the city. I knew the streets of Veluca. But now, they are a new place, completely alien. My eyes are not my own eyes; they have been adulterated and damaged through my murder at the Count's hands. I know no one will listen to a word from me, for they are viciously loyal. I am not moving now. I stand in the middle of the town, clutching my elbows against my chest, eyes turned up, looking at the rooftops.

A hand touches my shoulder. I scream, jump, spinning away from it. It is one of those washerwomen, with rough and dirty hands and watery green eyes. I do not know her. Her face is unimportant and it blurs before my very eyes. My body lurches away from her touch.

"My girl, are you lost?" Her voice sounds as if she has swallowed gravel.

I do not respond.

"Oh, fie. How d'you expect to get any help if you won't talk?" Every word from her jagged voice scrapes inside of my head. It infuriates me.

I cannot respond. My tongue is heavy in my mouth.

"Suit yourself, child."

She leaves me. I can still feel the pressure from her hand on my shoulder. I swat at my shoulder, to erase the ghost of her touch. I know she is watching me still. I force myself to move on, moving my eyes to a spot in front of me. I do not see, but I look, watching my feet pass over the dirt and then onto the cobbles. Some of the stones are worn down and they are smooth to the touch. Carriage wheels have beaten them into submission in various places. Centuries of foot traffic has worn them thin, as well. I follow the flattened and softened stones, hoping that they will lead me to the tavern.

My intuition proves right.

I push the door open, leaning against it. It gives way and I step into the tavern. The smell of wood smoke, roasting meat, mead, and warm bodies is thick in the room, and I pull a bit of my cowl over my nose and mouth as I shakily ascend the stairs. My footsteps echo on the stone staircase, and I grip the railing, hauling myself upwards. I cannot rely on the strength of my legs alone. The smell of pork causes my stomach to grumble, but the thought of putting any food in my mouth causes me to heave.

A breath of relief escapes me as I reach the clearing. There are only a few people in the tavern; a dark skinned man with a scimitar at his hip, and a man in leather armour, a crossbow slung across his back. The barkeep is a young girl with strawberry blonde hair and a smattering of freckles across a ruddy face. Her hands are just as rough as mine and she is clutching a linen, scrubbing at the counter top, trying to raise some unholy stain. The dark man rips off a piece of chicken with his fingers unceremoniously and eats it. The armed man does nothing, but he leans against a pillar and sips at a mug of mead.

Their eyes are too much for me. I keep my head down and approach the lady behind the counter. The soap she scrubs with smells caustic.

"Welcome to the Sleeping Bear," she chirps, her voice too light and too chipper. "How can I help you?" Her eyes are bright and it seems as if she does not mind this numbing job.

"I need a room." My voice can only carry that far. I feel angry at myself for being so cross with her. But the façade of merriment does not break.

"Very well then, dear madam. That'll be ten denars, if it please you!" She smiles at me and stoops down behind the counter to grab a key. The ring is made of iron, and it is old, covered with a sheet of rust. She looks at it as if she wants to pick some of it off, but she does not. I am surprised that she would let the keys show their age. She passes it to me as I dig into the pockets sewn into my dress. I scrounge up a handful of denars – I do not count, for my eyes and mind would fail me – and I lay them on the counter.

I hear a bench scoot out, rumbling against the wooden floor. The dark skinned man is rising, and he wipes his greasy hands on his shirt. Claiming the keys from the counter, I move as fast as I dare to the ladder the barkeep gestures to. As I balance my feet on the bottom rung and clutch at the sides, I pray for my strength to preserve me, allow me to make it up without falling. Although my limbs shake and feel dead, I make it up to the clearing. I waste no time.

I glance down at the keys. A large '5' was struck into the iron. I scan the doors for the same number, and when I find my room, I plow into it and fall into the bed. Without doffing my clothing, I find solace in the cousin of death's sweet embrace. I do not wish to rise again.

But of course, no matter how much we suffer, time still wears on. I wake some hours later, tangled in the bed sheets. They are coarse linen and I do not think that they have been washed for some time. Rising up from the bed, I move my hands to the back of my head, to coax sleep snarls from my hair. Only when my fingers brush the back of my neck is when I remember that I had cut all of my hair off. The dull ache between my legs and up and down my thighs brings me back to reality. My hands are still bloody. My feet meet the ground, and I rub my aching arms. They had fought against the rich bulk of the Count, who had been bloated from a nice feast of roast capon, white bread, freshly churned butter and mulled wine. I kneel by the basin of water in the room and peer at my reflection in its still, glassy surface. I had only ever seen myself in the shine of silver plates and the occasional mirror I washed in Veluca. I am swollen with tears. The blood vessels under delicate pale skin had ruptured, and my face glowed red. I dip my finger into the water, and it pierces through my right cheek, sending ripples throughout the rest of my visage. Cupping my hands, I break the surface, and splash the cold water over my face. I gasp. The water tastes stale but I feel awake.

I gather myself, standing at my full height. I run a hand through my hair. The choppy mess sticks out like a broom. I force my head into my hood, pulling the pale green coif over the disaster. I do not want to leave the warm room but I must. I do not know what I want to do, what I am going to do, but I am filled with such a fury that I feel I must do something.

My father had once told me that travelling when he sold his wares had made him feel good. No one knew him in the tundra or the steppes, he said. As I exit my room, the ring of keys around my wrist, I am thinking. Father had secured his freedom in travel, but he had also found his prison in that selfsame thing. I sigh. I feel weak with hunger as I descend down the ladder, my legs trembling. I want nothing more than a good dinner before I run, run for my life, leaving Veluca and all of its newfound horrors behind.

There is a congregation of green suited men in the tavern, bearing the heraldry of Count Matheas. They must know that I have run away. The Count must have complained about it to them. "Find the whore, bring her back. She should know her place." He most likely spoke those words to the men. I avoid all eye contact with them and I move as quickly as I can, although my stomach is raw from growling. I trip down the stairs, weak, and exit into the city streets. Their memories have flooded back to me, now, and I think I know my way around. I am hungry, so hungry, and the shops are boarding up for the night. There are just a few people on the streets, now. A few children playing in the dying sun, whores, soldiers. I try to move quickly, quickly, faster than I have, and my legs scream in protest. I am aching still. He has hunted me and made me lame, a creature that is stuffed and mounted for display. To be looked at curiously and jeered at, a freakish thing.

No. I will not let myself become such a creature.

I walk with more purpose now, up the cobbled hills. The incline before the castle is great. My blood runs cold and I move the other way, gathering my skirts in my hands. I wonder if anyone else can see the bruises on my legs. The sun is shining in my eyes and I clasp my hand to my brow. I see an old man, with gnarled hands, a wilted face, standing at his stall. There are slabs of beef, rubbed with salt and pepper, hocks of ham, racks of mutton. I approach him with purpose, hunger overtaking anger. He looks at me curiously.

"And how are you?" His voice is like paper.

"How... how much for the bread?" I press my fingers into it. It is stale.

"It's over a day old," he explains. "Three denars, I'd say." He shrugs.

I dig out three denars from my pocket and drop them into his hand. He looks at his money as I claim my bread. I eat the bread carelessly, chewing through its tough crust. There are black burn marks on the bottom of the bread and the flour is very coarse. But it is food. It fills my stomach and that is all I can ask for. I am running through the streets now. My horse is at the stable, and I untie its harness. The stablehand does not even look at me. The horse is lame, this he knows, and it wouldn't be any big loss if someone were to steal it. I cringe, I almost cry, as I straddle the beast. But as soon as I breach the city limits, I drink in a big breath of air, and I feel my blood roar with purpose.