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When Rosie came to, her head still aching and the memory of Nick's lost and desperate shouts ringing in her ears, it had been within the hot, filthy confines of the kitchen dungeons, the other prisoners--including Charlie, frantic at his own capture and how Sabrina had suffered during it--caged around her. It had been terrifying; foul, small creatures traipsing in and out, tormenting them with blows and threats alike, the ceaseless heat of the oven. Some people had even been taken away and brought back again, shaken and shaking, while others never seemed to return at all.
That had been bad, but what followed was somehow worse.
Through magic or mischief or some dark and fell knowing, their captor had learned of her. Or perhaps just of her voice, pure and sweet and clean. Master wants you, pretty bird, the goblin had rasped, leering at her as it unlocked the door, as it and two others dragged her out with sharp-nailed hands tight on her wrists. Lucky little black-haired bird, freed from the pie. She'd fought and screamed and wound up beaten for her trouble, their swinging fists and heavy clubs landing everywhere but her face until they dragged her away sobbing to place her in the throne room in another cage, more opulent than the last. When she'd seen the figure sitting on the throne, she'd screamed again, loud and terrified. Then, after another blow and a booming command, begun to sing.
Rosie doesn't know how long it's been going on, how long she's been here, one performance bleeding into the next, small creatures passing by when her captor is gone to pinch and poke at her or tell her the vilest and most frightening things. Long enough that her voice is nearly broken. Long enough that she doesn't cry as much as she had before, when it was all new and frightening.
She's alone now, one of those rare moments, sitting slumped at the floor of the cage and just waiting. When she hears the sound of footsteps coming closer, she turns her head towards them, staring listlessly for a moment before she grips the bars of her cage and pulls herself up again, readying herself for another song or something worse.
That had been bad, but what followed was somehow worse.
Through magic or mischief or some dark and fell knowing, their captor had learned of her. Or perhaps just of her voice, pure and sweet and clean. Master wants you, pretty bird, the goblin had rasped, leering at her as it unlocked the door, as it and two others dragged her out with sharp-nailed hands tight on her wrists. Lucky little black-haired bird, freed from the pie. She'd fought and screamed and wound up beaten for her trouble, their swinging fists and heavy clubs landing everywhere but her face until they dragged her away sobbing to place her in the throne room in another cage, more opulent than the last. When she'd seen the figure sitting on the throne, she'd screamed again, loud and terrified. Then, after another blow and a booming command, begun to sing.
Rosie doesn't know how long it's been going on, how long she's been here, one performance bleeding into the next, small creatures passing by when her captor is gone to pinch and poke at her or tell her the vilest and most frightening things. Long enough that her voice is nearly broken. Long enough that she doesn't cry as much as she had before, when it was all new and frightening.
She's alone now, one of those rare moments, sitting slumped at the floor of the cage and just waiting. When she hears the sound of footsteps coming closer, she turns her head towards them, staring listlessly for a moment before she grips the bars of her cage and pulls herself up again, readying herself for another song or something worse.
