Executions
The moment she heard the physicians leave, Irenya threw back the bed covers and swung her feet to the floor. In the light of early morning she hauled clothes from the bedroom chest that held a growing collection rescued from the unclaimed pile in the citadel’s laundry. Opportunity-shop specials, she thought as she dressed. At least this lot fits. She wondered if anyone would recognise them and snicker, or want them back. The polished metal strip that served as a mirror reflected a young woman in a brown shift, blue overskirt and bodice, and a face thinner than it should have been.
She marked one more day on her makeshift calendar, a strip of parchment purloined from the library. Thirty-one days. Every morning she checked her watch, now hanging from a hook next to the calendar.
