Slowly, painfully, her fingers had grown steadier despite the weight of iron dragging at her wrists and the pain of hunger gnawing at her belly. She'd learned to work with aching slowness, checking and rechecking every stitch before moving on to the next. She'd learned to hold her breath when threading the needle, to brace her arms against the work bench to minimize shaking, to position herself so the chain connecting her wrists didn't pull at the worst of her raw wounds.
Lately, she'd even done well enough that they'd left an oil heater in her room overnight, though it sickened her to realize how much desperate joy she'd felt hearing their praise at her fumbling efforts.
