Tess muttered to herself, pulling her shabby work shawl tighter around her and leaning closer to the low-burning hearth. Removing her useless gloves, she rubbed her hands together, trying to get the blood flowing in the frozen sticks that used to be her fingers. Her feet were so cold they were almost numb, no matter than she wore three pairs of wool stockings. It was almost as if the very air was too thin, and laced with a cold that nipped at your bones. Tess had visited prisons many times, but she’d always gone back to her nice cozy house; never had she had a taste of real confinement. Never had she felt so dreadfully alone. While Anna was there, Tess had put on a brave face. But now, alone with the shadows, real and imagined, Tess couldn’t decide which was worse, the sorrow or the terror. She vacillated between wanting to lie down and cry, and jumping at every noise, a fireside poker raised in her hand. Tess once more checked the small glass clock she’d brought from her bedroom.
