Thirteen
When Clarina wakes me the following morning, I feel a little as though someone shoved a stake through my eyeball. And a screwdriver through my other eyeball. Someone must have also turned up the brightness of the sun; I can only peel my eyelids apart for about half a second before having to squeeze them shut again.
“Your lunch is in the sitting room, my lady,” Clarina says. “Everyone is eating alone today, as some are still recovering from last night.”
“Lunch?” I ask in a croaky voice.
“Yes, it’s almost midday, my lady.” Her footsteps move closer, and she adds, “The drink beside your bed will ease your headache.”
I push myself slowly up and squint at the crystal goblet of clear liquid. I almost ask how she knows about my aching head, but I suppose she’s been here long enough
