My leggings and tunic hang off me and I’m pleased I have no mirror to testify to my resemblance to the long-term residents of the catacombs. Quint ordered me to rest in bed, but I haven’t time. I pace up and down the sickroom, counting my footsteps. On my first attempt I stop after fifteen tottering steps. Soon I can walk for thirty. By lunchtime I make fifty and retreat to my bed, childishly pleased with myself. The door opens; it’s the Hound, carrying a tray with a bowl of meat stew. My mouth is watering before he sets it on my lap and I manage to nod thanks at the same time as gulping the first spoonful. ‘Glad to see you’ve found your appetite. You’re all bone and hair.’ I wince. ‘Thanks!’ ‘Nice bones and nice hair. But could do with a bit of covering.’ He smiles, opens his mouth to say something. Closes it. The Hound, at a loss? ‘Well?’ I put down my spoon and wait. ‘Finish your food, Zara. Eat up and I’ll tell you.’ Slowly, keeping my eyes on his troubled face, I begin to eat again.
