She had cried, briefly, for the fate of that boy. She’d cried about Katu as well, because she couldn’t understand what it meant for him if his family was involved. Was he traveling, far away, ignorant, safe? Or was Katu also in danger? Bitterblue realized that she hadn’t thought much about Katu, here in her prison. It made her feel obscurely guilty.

—

On the days the guard brought water, she did not bring food. On the days she brought food, no water. Bitterblue took to making jokes with herself: It was lucky she had so many years of experience needing to function intelligently while in states of dire distress, or she’d never be able to think her way through this thing at all. Ha, ha. Giddon would’ve thought it was funny. I am stronger than the way this is making me feel.

Oh, Giddon. How I wish I could hear those words in your voice. My own voice is wearing thin.

—

Bitterblue had developed a daily exercise regimen, as much to prevent herself from losing her mind as from her concerns about weakening. Her fingers and toes were healing well and she’d removed her bandages. She did stretches, as Katsa had taught her, and ran in place. She did push-ups and sit-ups and tried not to mind how quickly she became breathless and dizzy. She kept Katsa close in her mind, for Katsa, who’d taught her to fight, knew about conserving energy. Katsa was an expert at pushing her students, but never too far. And Bitterblue was frightened to push her exercise regimen too far, given how little food and water she was consuming.

One evening in the dark, she did a few parries and attacks, using her letter opener as a sword. She’d taken to thinking about killing the guard with the letter opener. Not because she wanted to think about it, but because she had to think about it.

Giddon? she thought. No one is going to rescue me.

She began to cry again, painful, tearless crying. Her lack of tears frightened her and she cried harder just to prove to herself that she could make tears. Then, for a brief moment, she lost hold of her judgment. With a vague idea of making a sheet rope to climb out the window like she’d done once with her mother to escape her father, she began to throw the letter opener against the glass.

A few minutes later, the fox came bursting through the vent and ran back and forth, yipping, yowling, throwing himself around the room. When the letter opener clattered down beside his frantic body, he leaped onto it, grasping it between his teeth. He stood before Bitterblue, the blade in his mouth, his limbs braced and trembling, his ears high, his eyes glowing gold, and Bitterblue stared back at him.