The wooden pole Hobs usually used to prod and smack at her rang against the bars of her cell instead. She leapt to her feet instantly and stood with her back to the damp stone walls. She had learnt the routines now, though they had called her a slow-witted child, stone-brained. Too stupid to teach.
Hobble-Along-Hobs leered through the bars at her. He was a toothless old man, with lank strands of white hair and she hated him intensely. He dribbled, long strands of drool hanging from his lips like a sleeping dog. He was often doubled over as he hobbled along, bent-backed and stooped, and she thought she might have been able to beat him – but he was one of many and she was one of one. She did not like those odds. So she stood with her back to the wall and let him taunt her. He held a bucke
