17
To the beat of the swelling beneath her eye, Brook paced the space she loathed more than any other place she’d known. Stone floor, stone walls, a stone ceiling that seemed to crush down on her, and strips of matted windows no more than three inches in height. Although a light fitting hung overhead, it held no bulb. That had long since been removed.
A true feline shows no fear of the dark, her mother used to tell her as a child. A true feline needs no light for guidance.
Brook used to hate her mother’s lectures. They always left her feeling inadequate—still did. A particular favourite had to be, A true feline has no need for clothes. They are merely a commodity. A privilege. A right.
She’d heard that reasoning every time she’d been ensconced in the damn cellar and made to strip down.
