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She could not recall returning to her room, but Paskia awoke in her bed, n***d under the covers. The room smelt fresh, and she knew someone had been cleaning it, either while she met with Fatina and Mallise or while she slept.
She reached a hand up to her hair, and realised that it was clean. They had showered her.
She felt hollow. They could do whatever they wanted. While she slept—no, while she was passed out, because this wasn’t sleep as she knew it—they could enter her room and do whatever they desired. If they needed her to be susceptible, they didn’t have to rely on the shake. They could administer Empathine while she was collapsed.
She would become the puppet they wanted. She had no choice.
Paskia thought of the story Fatina had told, of the girl striking her hea
