Her terror manifests itself in ceaseless trembling. She tries to cross her legs, to hunch over, to clench her stomach, but nothing works. She trembles, at times meekly, at others violently, her body heaving in the kind of big shudders that threaten vomiting. But her stomach is as empty as the threat. When she breathes, fear limits her breath to shallow panting. It hurts when she breathes deeply.

Breathe, she tells herself, and she musters a sharp gulp. Its exhale terminates in a quiet whimper. Once her brother killed a stray dog for eating her father’s chickens and as it died, it let out a wretched sound not unlike the one she makes now. When she tries to remember the scene in full, she cannot. It merges with the black at her periphery, is half formed. Remember, she commands. Dog, father, brother, blood, sound. But she sees only the rough wood grain of the table splattered with little drops of water from the rag in Faramund’s hand.