Page 102 of A Touch So Wicked

Clutching her satchel with nerveless fingers, Elissa felt her bravado falter as she followed him down the narrow corridor and up another flight of stairs. Finally Lieutenant Belton halted before a sturdy oak door. He fumbled with the ring of keys dangling from his belt, selected one, and turned it in the lock. Then he shoved the door open and pushed her inside.

Elissa set down her satchel and looked around her with growing apprehension. The chamber smelled of dampness and rot. She felt a cold draft and glanced at the small barred window across the room, shivering as another blast of chilling air wafted through. Forcing her gaze from the window, she saw a narrow cot covered with dingy sheets and a single blanket, and prayed they weren’t infested with vermin. An empty candleholder resting on a small table and a low stool were the only furnishings besides the cot. There was no source of heat that she could see, and she didn’t even want to think about the slop bucket sitting in a dark corner.

The foul odor arising from the bucket rocked Elissa back on her heels. Appalled, she returned her gaze to Belton, her brows raised, silently questioning his judgment in placing her in such wretched surroundings.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Belton advised. “You’ll grow used to it in time.”

Her heart thumping wildly against her chest, Elissa knew she’d never grow accustomed to such depressing accommodations.

“A warder will bring food and a candle. Use the candle sparingly, for it is replaced only every third day. The slop bucket will be emptied each morning and you will be provided with two meals daily. Breakfast, and another later in the day. The warder will see to your needs as he deems necessary. If you have blunt, or can get your hands on some, give it to him and he will provide you with small comforts you wouldn’t otherwise have.”

“Small comforts?” Elissa asked. “I donna understand.”

“Things like a warmer blanket, or a piece of meat in your soup. Perhaps a brazier to keep you warm.”

“I have no money and know no one in London.”

“Ah, well, too bad. Good day, then, mistress.”

He let himself out the door and locked it behind him, cutting Elissa off from the world. Never had she felt so abandoned or been so frightened—it was as if her life were slowly slipping away.

Elissa sank down on the cot, too dejected and dull witted to think straight. Straw crunched beneath her and a moldy odor wafted up from the lumpy surface. Then a curious rat appeared from beneath the cot and scampered under her damp skirt. A scream froze in her throat as she leapt to her feet and scrambled atop the stool. The rat raised up on its hind legs and gazed at her through bright, beady eyes. It was a standoff of sorts, until the rat finally became bored and scampered off.

Frantic with despair, Elissa feared she would never survive the Tower. It suddenly occurred to her that maybe she wasn’t supposed to survive, that the king meant for her to die here. Where was Damian? Had his promises been hollow ones?

She stepped down from the stool, gathered her skirts about her, and sat down on its hard surface. She remained there for what seemed like an eternity, shivering, yet lacking even the energy to change into dry clothing. The shadows had lengthened considerably when she heard the key turning in the lock.

A man entered the chamber. “I be the warder, mistress. I brung ye something to eat,” he said as he slammed the door shut with his bootheel. Some of the contents of the bowl splashed out as he placed it, a hunk of moldy dark bread, and a spoon on the table. When she looked up into the man’s face, her spirits ebbed to its lowest point, for he was leering at her through mean little eyes.

Placing his face close to hers, he said, “Well, mistress, are ye settling in?”

His breath was so revolting that Elissa reared backward to escape the stench. “’Tis a terrible place,” she said with a shiver.

He cackled, revealing a mouthful of rotted teeth. “Me name is Dooley. Yer better off here than at Old Bailey or Fleet Prison.” He rummaged in his coat pocket and brought out a stubby candle and a few sulfur matches. He placed the candle in the holder and set the matches on the table beside it.

Elissa glanced into the bowl and recoiled in revulsion. “What is this?”

Dooley gave her an exasperated look. “Cabbage soup. Are ye blind?”

Elissa continued to stare at it. It looked like nothing edible she’d ever seen.

“Ain’t it to yer liking, mistress?”

Elissa pushed it aside. “I’m…not hungry.”

Dooley gave her a sly look. “I can get ye something more to yer liking if ye got blunt to pay for it. I can bring ye a brazier, too, and mayhap another blanket.”

“I have no money.”

“Then I reckon ye’ll learn to like the food and endure the cold, won’t ye?”

“I’d like some water, please.”

“Bossy little thing, ain’t ye? I’ll go fetch ye some water.”

He left and returned moments later with a bucket of water and a tin cup. “If ye want me for anything,” he said suggestively, “bang on the door with yer cup. If ye change yer mind about those extra comforts I mentioned, there is more than one way to pay for them, if ye get my meaning.”

“I don’t need anything from you,” Elissa bit out.