CHAPTER 77

LAYLA

I lay on the bed, picking at the meal the maid had left for me earlier. The smell of warm bread and some sort of stew was enticing enough to pull me out of my haze, but every bite felt mechanical. I wasn't hungry, not in the way I should have been, but I knew better than to let myself waste away. If nothing else, eating gave me something to do, something to distract me from the swirling thoughts and aches that refused to leave me alone.

I swallowed another spoonful of the stew, its warmth doing little to fill the emptiness gnawing at me. The food was fine—good even—but it might as well have been ash on my tongue. The maid had smiled at me earlier, as if her cheery disposition could somehow crack through my gloom. She had fussed over the meal, muttering about the need for me to keep my strength up. I had nodded, murmured some noncommittal thanks, and waited for her to leave before sinking back into my bed like a stone.