A Touch of Poison

Chapter 10

Kicking her food down the stairwell might be brushed off as a childish tantrum or something of that sort, which her father would likely interpret as sulking, so she'd probably be okay. Still, she resolved to make sure her next meal was disposed of properly. Like she'd planned.

Closing her bedroom door, Gwen spied the food the cook had provided her with earlier, sitting there on a nearby stool. Realizing she was ravenous, she devoured the honey-cream and rye with wolfish abandon, though it seemed to taste far more bland and stale than it aught to have, especially with her being so hungry. Regardless, she finished it quicker than she'd thought possible, and prayed it would settle her roiling stomach as the cook had suggested it might.

An hour later, she was practically hanging out of her bedroom window, retching noisily, clutching either side of the stone window frame for balance.

She was there for a good fifteen minutes or so, alternating between being sick and taking huge gulps of air. When the intense nausea finally did pass, Gwen stumbled back to her bed and sat down, staring at nothing. The room was spinning a little, and dark spots appeared around the edges of her vision from time to time.

Hunger no longer troubled her stomach, but her abdomen felt tight and cramped. Her throat burned, and she was parched.

Her water jug was very nearly empty, she noticed. That was odd. She'd filled it last night, and couldn't remember drinking from it recently.

Gwen picked up the jug and, walking with slow, careful steps, she opened her bedroom door and headed back down to the kitchen. Somehow, this trip took even longer than it had earlier that morning. Though her legs were still shaky, she managed to haul the now-full jug, another loaf of bread, and a wedge of hard cheese up the stairs and back up to her room. While the very notion of eating was repugnant to her right now, gathering untreated provisions for later seemed like a good idea.

Once she'd wrapped the food in a blanket and hidden it in her closet, she hobbled back over to her bed and sat down, smoothed her dress against her legs, sighed lightly... and then burst into tears.

She didn't even know why she was crying exactly, but she couldn't seem to stop. It just felt like her entire world had suddenly transformed itself into an empty void – a vast expanse of bleakness and despair. She cried harder than she could remember ever crying before, and by the time she managed to stop she discovered her throat was once again parched, and the inside of her mouth had gone bone dry.

Gwen drank almost half of the jug of water she'd brought upstairs with her. Then she decided to lay down on her bed and attempt to relax, perhaps stare up at the ceiling a while and just focus on breathing and calming herself. She inhaled a deep breath of air through her nose, and then another....

And suddenly, it was late evening. Her entire room was dark.

Perplexed, Gwen sat up in her bed, or tried to. Her arms felt shaky, and didn't appear to be up to the task of propping her up. Groaning, she rolled herself to one side of her bed and lowered her feet to the floor, doing her best to ignore the cramps that had taken up residence in her calves and thighs, as well as the terrible itching sensation she felt around her shoulders and upper arms.

She hadn't slept, had she? It certainly didn't feel like she'd slept, that was for sure. Her eyes felt dry and scratchy.

After a few moments spent trying to steady herself and remain upright, she lit a lamp atop her dresser and then shuffled over to her door, feeling about a hundred years old. When she opened the door, she spied a bowl of stew and a small, buttered dinner bun sitting on the top stair. The stew had gone cold long ago, and looked slightly greasy.