The pain on my back was no longer a burn; it was a living, breathing creature of liquid fire clinging to my flesh.
Every tiny shift of my linen tunic tore open the fresh, sticky blisters that Tanya’s boiling broth had scalded into the base of my neck and down my spine. Between the searing torture on my back and the deep, sickening throb of the severed muscle in my right palm, my body was a temple of agony. My vision swam with dark, rhythmic waves of nausea, every breath dragging ragged and shallow through my constricted chest.
Yet, I did not cry out. I did not stop. I dragged my trembling legs away from the sun parlor, bypassing the main scullery entirely. I couldn't go back to the lower kitchens. If Beatrice saw the blistered ruin of my back or the fresh blood soaking through my hand wr
