CHAPTER TWELVEThe Sting
Limah opened the chamber door and peeked in. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep and he disturbed me. Rising, I staggered across the room in a disoriented weaving action. He raised a hand to stop me passing through the open doorway. “Wait,” he said, keeping his palm facing me. “We must talk.”
I retreated to the bed with a sigh and sank into the creaky mattress. Springs dug into the bones of my bottom and my spine ached at the memory of them. None seemed worse than the others, but the aged thing gave at my weight and sagged. Indicating my extreme hunger by patting my stomach, I turned my lips down in a pout.
Limah stood over me, his expression grave. He jerked his regal head towards the new ensemble of men’s clothing which hung from my emaciated frame. Newer boots encas
