The lamp in Jocelynn's cell had gone dark hours ago, fading into nothingness like an echo of Eleanor's fading light in the final moments of her life.
Jocelynn sat with her back against the cold stone wall of her cell, her wrists bound by iron manacles whose chains were just long enough to allow her to reach the crude wooden table where Inquisitor Percivus and his acolytes had piled the altar cloths he expected her to embroider.
Every day since she'd arrived in this dank, dark cell, Jocelynn had worked at the embroidery, pricking her own fingers in her clumsiness as she tried to make enough progress to earn a meager meal from one of Percivus's lackeys. Today, however, she'd refused to touch needle or thread.
Her hands belonged to her, and from now on, they would only do what she wanted them to.
