Margaret could only rely on the frequency of food delivery to judge the passage of time.
One day, two days. By the third day, she could bear it no longer and swung the only chair in the stone chamber, smashing it against the unyielding iron bars.
"I need to bathe."
The commotion brought the guard, and she politely made her request, "Please let me bathe and change the dressings on my wounds."
The unhealed injuries were showing signs of decay. The Tower of Sacraments' prison couldn't use white magic, so she couldn't even heal herself.
The guard didn't immediately comply.
Margaret threw down the chair, sitting against the wall, curled into a small ball.
She had plenty of time to review the past, whether it was the nightmares at the border or Charlotte's death. The razor of self-examination tore open her heart, exposing every tepid wrong choice.