was beginning to be very worried. Where have you been? And what’s that around your neck?”
“I’m sorry, Roland,” said Arren. “I’ve been . . . sick.”
“Sore throat?”
“You could say that. Have I—I haven’t lost my job, have I?”
“No, no, not at all. We’ve been coping well enough. I’m assuming you’ve recovered enough to come back to work?”
Arren started to say no and then changed his mind. He needed the money too badly for that. “Yes, I think so. But I can’t do any heavy lifting for a while.”
“That’s all right. You can just help with the feeding for now. I won’t push you too hard.”
“Thank you,” Arren said, and went inside.
Nothing had changed much. The moment he entered, the chicks started shrieking for food, and he crossed the room to the cage of rats.
Work that day wasn’t too strenuous. He fed the chicks and changed the straw in the pens and went home that evening with his pay, tired and sore but feeling oddly relieved. Work took his mind off his troubles, and being paid cheered him up. It would take a long time, but he’d be able to buy some new furniture in the end.
Roland had agreed to let him work for only half the day for a few weeks, and the next day Bran came to visit again shortly before he was due to leave. He’d brought more food, and some blankets, a pillow and a new tunic. He’d also brought news.
“Took the note to Flell. She wasn’t at home, but I gave it to her housekeeper. So how are yeh? Better?”
“I will be, Bran.”
And he was. As the days and weeks slowly passed, he recovered. The broken ribs grew less and less painful as they healed, and his headaches went away altogether. Only the collar remained and it was a constant torment.
Bran kept on bringing him food and also supplied him with a new hammock and a chair. There were no more problems; no-one attacked or threatened him, and he slowly lost the feeling of being watched. And, gradually, he started to relax. Maybe it was all over now. Maybe.
Flell, though, still hadn’t contacted him. He went to her house several times, only to be told she was out, and she hadn’t sent a message. But other people who’d seen her assured him she was well.
Deep down, Arren knew she was avoiding him. But he tried to convince himself that it was better this way. She deserved better than him. She always had. All he could do now was be grateful that she was safe, and hope that she might decide to contact him again.
At the end of two months he was able to go back to working all day. His ribs had completely healed, though they still twinged occasionally, and he was putting on weight.
But the collar still would not leave him alone. It was always there, hurting him, a constant, secret reminder, humiliating and degrading, even though he kept it covered. Roland started to ask him why he kept his neck wrapped up, and looked suspicious when he evaded the question; other people kept staring and saying things. “Why’re you wearing a scarf?” “You’re not in the North now, blackrobe.” “Covering up your collar, are you, blackrobe?” “Hey, blackrobe! When you’ve finished wrapping your neck up, come and clean my floor.” “I could use a slave to help around the place.” “What are you looking at, blackrobe?” “I don’t sell to blackrobes, get lost.” “Go back to the North, blackrobe.”
Stupid things. Mindless things. Cruel things. But they went on and on, every day, all the time, following him everywhere like a disease.
Arren’s face became gaunt, his eyes cold, his mouth set into a hard, bitter line. He stopped talking to people unless it was necessary. He stopped smiling. He forgot how to laugh. Not even Bran could cheer him up any more. He stopped caring that Flell had abandoned him. Perhaps she was ashamed to be seen with him.
Roland noticed. “What’s wrong, Arren?” he asked in kindly tones, about three months after the assault. “You’re not yourself any more.”
Arren paused in sweeping the floor and leant on his broom. “Aren’t I?” His voice was flat and dull.
“No,” said Roland. “You’re not. What’s happened to you? I’ve never seen you so . . . depressed.”
Arren was silent for a time. “I’m sure I shall be fine,” he said eventually, and resumed his sweeping.
“What is it?” Roland said again. “Have you had an argument with Flell? Is