I was watching Domenico pluck another petal from the rose, trying to remember how many that made. Seven? Ten? I could easily remember at least six and the rose still looked full, but that may have been due to its opening up. The rose was dying but it retained its shape, the head beginning to droop.
While I was transfixed by the odd ritual, Roman stepped into view.
“Your dinner is served,” he said with a smile.
“Thank you,” I replied, returning his smile, taking the plate and setting it down before relieving his hands of not one but two drinks.
“A little something extra,” he whispered, giving me a wink before walking away.
Immediately I downed over half the bottle of water. I’d been constantly parched since about day three. Whatever food and drink I was allotted was always just enough
