It was odd, the little things that changed. It was as if a switch had flipped when the Goblin Lord decided he’d be stuck with her for the long haul.
Clara scrubbed the floors with old rag blankets and the soap he insisted was for flea-bitten horses. She scrubbed the tub and the toilet, and even the shackles just on principle. Attendants took her old bedding, all stained with sweat and blood and gods knew what else, and left her new things. A buckwheat futon, wooly pillows, woven blankets. She enjoyed the novelty of setting them up, making herself a bed as if it would ever be restful.
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