Jocelynn lay quietly on the rough wood and leather frame of the cot in her dungeon cell, her body curled into a tight ball in a futile attempt to preserve warmth. The thin, coarse peasant's dress they'd given her, made from rough-spun wool that scratched at her skin with every movement, was better than the sodden dress she'd traded for it after her first night in the dungeon cell, but it was still too little to protect her from the bitter cold that poured through the cell's single window.
The window itself was barely taller than her hand and only slightly wider than the distance between her shoulders, set high in the wall and fitted with iron bars that reminded her escape was impossible, even for a woman as slender as she was.
The window let in the faint light of stars and a sliver of silvery moon, but it also let in the winter wind that cut through the narrow opening like a knife, turning her cell into a frigid torture chamber every night.
