Chapter Eighteen
One Good Whipping Deserves Another
In the dark mustiness of the old cellar, Marcy hung from the post, her self-bound wrists and ankles aching almost immediately from the tight, wide cuffs. Her feet were no longer resting on the stone floor and it was only the tips of her toes that now touched the floor at all. The ring around the post had slid upward, a few inches away from the floor and, as it had been designed for, the post and extension arrangement caused the girl’s body to swing outward as the chain from the extension moved outward on its track, away from the post. Marcy knew this would happen because it was yet another of those unique disciplinary devices at the school that Boswick and the Head Mistress created.
This adaptation of the ancient hanging gibbet had som
