“No need for modesty. Your form does not intrigue me.” The woman paraded back and forth in front of her.

Their research into the Muungano ways couldn’t have been too thorough. There was no shame in nudity, so whatever psychological edge they hoped to gain from this display was lost. Fela braced herself as best she could for what might come next. The guards shackled her hands to the bar floating above her head.

“Enjoy your sleep. We’ll start again tomorrow.” The woman spared one last glance at her. “Or whenever we remember you next.”

When Fela awoke, the air had a desuetude quality to it, moist and recirculated without having been scrubbed. Fela tested her restraints. The tendons along her arms screamed with each movement. She hadn’t recalled going to sleep, nor felt anything approximating restfulness. Closer to her mind blacking out to find any relief from the pain. A table had been placed in her cell. Perhaps it scraping along the floor stirred her to wakefulness. Its material neither wood nor metallic, though it had the hint of a sheen. A chair placed on one side of the table, one opposite her—between her and the exit—an empty, yet expectant space.

“We have not been properly introduced. My name is Car’Annie.” The woman stepped out of the shadows, placing a large pitcher and two glasses on the table. After pouring herself a glass, she raised the pitcher as she poured another to illustrate the fullness of the stream. Its cascade. The lush whoosh as it filled the glass. The way light reflected from it. Her show caused her to miss her target often, allowing some of the liquid to splash in front of her. Wasted water pooled on the table. Fela’s eyes tracked each spilled droplet. She couldn’t remember the last time she drank. Or ate. Her throat tightened.

Car’Annie raised her glass in toast to her and slurped loudly as she drank.

“I understand that you enjoy making ceramics. Pottery, mostly.” Car’Annie’s voice bubbled, light and familiar, an old friend catching up. Somewhere there had to be a thorough file on Fela if they had learned the hobbies she long ago gave up on finding time to focus on anymore.

“All manner of dinnerware, actually.” Fela’s voice cracked, a hoarse whisper.