I washed with the cold water as best as I could, rubbing the bar of soap on the bristles of the bath brush and then scrubbing myself, not even caring about the goose bumps left in its wake. I wanted to be clean or just a little cleaner. To wash away the dirt in my hair, I dumped the cold water over my head, but that was a mistake. It’s now a half-damp mass of tangles, and it’s left me shivering. He only provided a small square washcloth for my towel, and the change of clothes is a long white gown with billowing sleeves and a high collar with the ruffle detail duplicated on my wrists. It’s almost like an old-fashioned nightgown or something you’d wear under your dress in the old days.

The strange dress coupled with what he said, with what I’ve prepared myself for, makes me feel uneasy.

The Tribunal.

It almost makes me think of witch trials of the past because what I’m wearing is ceremonial, and if there's one thing I’m sure of, it’s that The Society stands on ceremony.

I pull my still-bare feet up onto the cot and hug the blanket to myself. No shoes. My feet are freezing. I’ve eaten the bread and another bowl of cold soup. This time, there was an apple too, and I devoured that. The water is gone. Now I sit here waiting for him to return. I’m anxious for it. The longer I sit here, the more time I have to make up stories of what happened. To ruminate over Santiago’s collapse. I won’t let myself go further, though. He’s not dead. I have to believe that. But what happened?

I’m nodding off when I finally hear the sound of footsteps outside. When I sit up, I catch a fast-moving shadow pass by the window before hearing the key slip into the lock. Before he pushes the door open, I remember to pull the blindfold down. I tied it looser so I can open my eyes behind it. I can at least make out shapes then.

He walks in and stops. I wonder what time it is. It’s pitch-black now. But the canopy of trees could be making it seem later. I’ve slept off and on and have lost all track of time.

“Up,” he says.

I stand, dropping the blanket.

He looks me over, and I see his head move in a nod. “Good. Arms out.” He walks toward me as he says it and drops something on the cot.

“Tell me first about my husband. Tell me—”

“We are not bargaining,” he says. “Arms, or I’ll bind them behind your back.”

My head is tilted up to his face. He’s still wearing the cloak, but even without the hood up, it’s too hard to make out any features between the dark and my blindfold.