I don’t know how long it is between when Sebastian came down to visit me, and when the door to the cell creaks open again. It’s hard to judge time when you’re in a windowless room that’s almost completely dark.
I sit up as I hear the latch turning, thinking of all the things I wanted to say to Sebastian, the words I’ve been agonizing over all the time I’ve been trapped in here. But it isn’t Seb who opens the door—it’s Greta.
I search her face to see if she hates me too, as everyone must.
She doesn’t look angry—only sad.
She regards my ruined wedding dress with a pained expression—whether because the dark blotches of blood remind her that her friend and employer is gone, or perhaps because she started that day with the same sense of optimism and joy I did, only to watch it all burn before her eyes.
“Please don’t attack me,” she says. “I haven’t got the key to those manacles, so it would be pointless.”
“I wouldn’t anyway,” I tell her, and that’s true. Even if I knew Seb were on his way down here with a gun in his hand, I still wouldn’t hurt Greta. I’ve already done enough to tear the Gallos apart.
Of course Greta has no reason to believe me, but she comes into the cell without fear. She’s carrying a huge tray that must weigh almost as much as she does. On it I see a basin of hot water, a washcloth, soap, a toothbrush, toothpaste, fresh bandages, scissors, ointment, a bottle of pills, and a folded pair of clean pajamas. Then, next to that, a sandwich and a glass of milk.
I want all of those things badly.
A wave of gratitude hits me, almost as painful as pleasant. I don’t deserve Greta’s kindness. I got Enzo killed, and Greta was probably closer to him than to anyone.
I can’t even apologize for it. That only enraged Sebastian.
So all I say to Greta is, “I didn’t know what was going to happen.”
Greta nods. “I know,” she says. “You saved Sebastian’s life. You could have been killed yourself.”
“I almost wish I was,” I say dully.
I’m not being dramatic. I had one, brief, shining period of happiness with Sebastian. And now it’s destroyed. I can’t go back to the way my life used to be. Yet there’s no way he could ever love me again.
“Don’t say that,” Greta says. “As long as you’re alive, you don’t know what could happen.”
I don’t want to argue with her, so I just look down at the faded mattress.
“I need to check your wound,” Greta says. “I’ll try to be careful . . .”
She removes the old bandages, which are dark with blood on the side closest to my body. I look down at the place where I was shot, morbidly curious.
The wound is surprisingly small—at least on the front side, which is all I can see. It’s just below my collarbone, sewn shut with maybe a dozen stitches. The flesh around it is puffy and red, but it doesn’t look infected.
Greta gently applies the antibiotic ointment, on the front side and the back, then re-wraps my shoulder with clean bandages. She instructs me to take two of the pills, which she shakes out of the bottle into my hand.
I swallow them down with milk, then take a bite of the sandwich for good measure. I hadn’t realized I was starving.
“Go ahead,” Greta says. “Eat.”
I devour the sandwich in less than a minute. It’s a club sandwich, toasted, cut in half, and speared with toothpicks to keep it together. I’m not surprised by how delicious it tastes—Greta doesn’t strike me as a person who does anything halfway.
I finish all the milk, too, then turn my attention to the hot water. I’m filthy, and I badly need a wash.
“Should I help you take off the rest of the dress?” Greta says. “I don’t think it can be saved . . .”
My wedding gown was already cut away all around the wound. Not to mention torn and bloodstained everywhere else. Still, it pains me to watch Greta cut through the remaining fabric with her large, sharp shears. When she’s finished, I’m left in only a strapless bra and panties.
Greta doesn’t seem embarrassed by that, and neither am I. I use the soap and washcloth to give myself a bath as best I can, and then I brush my teeth and spit into the basin. It works reasonably well—I suppose this is how people did things in the olden days. And here I am in a dungeon, just like a medieval peasant who pissed off the king.
When I’m finished with all that, Greta offers me the clean pajamas, but we both realize I can’t actually put them on with my arms and legs attached to the wall by long chains.
“It doesn’t matter,” I tell her.
Greta frowns, obviously displeased with this entire situation.
“I’ll bring you another blanket,” she says.
By groping around, I discovered a small toilet in the corner, so I at least don’t have to burden Greta with anything worse. There’s a sink next to it, but the water tastes rusty and it only runs cold.
I do have one last favor to ask her.
“Could you leave the light on, please?” I say.
“Of course,” Greta says, frowning even more. “I’ll bring you some books to read, too.”
That’s almost too much for me. I have to look down at my hands again, clenched tight in my lap.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
