It's been a week, and he visited me for the last time, or at least it is until my three turns are up.
He'd sat down on my bed, eyeing disdainfully the state of my little cell. His eyes roved over the small writing desk he'd provided, over the scattered quills and smashed ink pots.
"So," he breathed, "so."
I stood stiffly in the corner, arms folded.
"You think me a fool?" His voice rose barely above a whisper, so palpable was his anger.
"No more than what you think of me."
He gave a small, quiet laugh. "Oh, my dear girl, I would never think you a fool. Underestimating you was a heavy price I have already paid. I am simply… intrigued."
I waited, knowing he had much more to say.
He rose, his expensive deerskin boots made nearly no sound as he stalked over to the desk and picked up the pile of parchments.
"You will write, because you have to, and I will see them. I will," he emphasized, "by any means necessary. You have a tale to tell, and I know that it will be of great benefit to me."
He tucked the papers into his sleeve, and paused on his way out, his look more cutting than any knife's edge.
"You are an unreliable narrator," he said, and left.
I could only laugh at that.