THIRTY-TWO
Rhona spat out a mouthful of the strange food that burned her mouth. "You are trying to poison me!"
The witch looked affronted. "I feed you the same as I eat. It is not my fault your delicate stomach will not tolerate it." As if to demonstrate, she snatched Rhona's bowl and began to spoon the contents into her own mouth with evident signs of approval. "It is perfectly good venison. I don't know what you are talking about."
Between the burning food, strange flat sheets of what the witch called bread and the gritty white liquid that the woman called milk but didn't taste like it had come from any kind of cow Rhona had ever met, Rhona wasn't sure how long she would last as the witch's captive. Forcing down every bite of food and then forcing it to stay down was a daily struggle,
