Chapter 39- stale bread

Chapter 39: 39- stale bread 39 ~Lisa’s POV I took the medicine that night, my hands still shaking as I forced the bitter powder down my throat. It scratched the back of my mouth and clung to my tongue like dust, but I didn’t care. I needed something, anything, to dull the ache burning through every inch of my body. After that, I did the only thing my body could manage. I slept. And I slept hard. There was no peace in it, just long stretches of darkness and a drifting numbness that wrapped around my bones like fog. Every time I stirred, the pain reminded me I was still here. Still alive. Still unwanted. No one came. Not the maids. Not the guards. Not even Maltida. They left me alone like I was something diseased, a ghost shut in a room no one wanted to remember. There was no food. Not a single tray at my door. No knock. No scraps. The next morning, my stomach twisted in hunger, gnawing at itself as if trying to eat what little strength I had left. I dragged myself out of bed, legs trembling, back aching, and wandered down the halls in silence, praying no one would see me, praying I could just get to the kitchen and find something. Anything. By the time I got there, it was empty. The dishes were already washed, the pots scraped clean, and the fire was dead. There was nothing left. I checked the wooden bin in the corner where they sometimes dumped scraps, and even that was picked clean. No food. No one left anything for me. I leaned against the wall, swallowing down the bitter lump in my throat. My body felt so light and shaky it scared me. I was surviving off pain and sleep and memories now. That was all. Milo would’ve brought me something. Anything. He used to sneak in crusts of bread when I missed dinner. Sometimes he’d show up with a napkin-wrapped fruit or sweet from the dining hall, grinning like he’d stolen treasure. My throat tightened. I missed him. I missed him so much I thought it might choke me. His voice. His laugh. The way he always looked at me like I mattered, even when no one else did. Now he was gone. And I was still here. Starving. Alone. Forgotten. I didn’t go back to my room right away. I sat by the cold hearth in the kitchen, holding my knees to my chest, eyes fixed on the dead coals. I stayed there for hours until the aches returned stronger than before. Until the cold reached my bones. And still, no one came. And the memory of the boy who once made it all a little easier to bear. That night, the hunger clawed at me like something alive. It gnawed at my insides, twisted my stomach into knots, and made my head throb worse than the fever ever had. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t even lie still. Every bone in my body ached, but I was too hollow to rest. By midnight, I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to eat. I pulled myself from the cold bed, legs wobbly beneath me, and wrapped a shawl around my shoulders. My hands were shaking so badly, I could barely tie it. But I moved quietly, creeping down the hallway like a thief. The palace was mostly asleep, only the distant torchlight flickered against the stone walls. I knew my way. I’d been to the kitchen enough times, cleaning, serving, scrubbing floors until my knees bruised. I knew which doors creaked, which corners to hide behind if someone appeared. Still, every step made my heart hammer against my ribs. Please... just a little food. Just something. Please. When I reached the kitchen, it was as cold and silent as it had been that morning. I moved straight to the pantry, glancing over my shoulder before slowly turning the latch. It opened with a soft click. I slipped inside and shut the door gently behind me. The shelves were lined with sacks of flour, bins of grain, jars of preserved fruit. Nothing fancy. Nothing luxurious. But it looked like a treasure chest to me. I moved toward the back where the bread was usually kept and spotted half a loaf wrapped in cloth. My mouth watered just looking at it. Hands trembling, I reached for it. And froze. The door swung open. A torch flared in the doorway, casting light straight on me. My breath caught in my throat. I was just about to break off a small piece of the bread, just enough to soothe the gnawing pain in my stomach, when the door behind me flew open. I froze. My breath hitched in my throat as I turned slowly. It wasn’t a guard. It was worse. Matilda. Her night scarf was still wrapped around her head, her arms stiff at her sides, and the fury in her eyes nearly knocked the air out of my chest. She stepped inside with a speed that didn’t match her age and raised her hand before I could even explain. Slap! The sound echoed in the pantry like a crack of thunder. My head snapped to the side, my cheek stinging sharply. I stumbled back a step, barely catching myself on a sack of rice. "How dare you," she seethed. "We do not tolerate stealing in this palace. Do you understand me?" "I-I wasn’t..." I stammered, but she raised her hand again, and I stopped. I bowed my head instead, my hand pressed to my burning cheek. "I’m sorry," I whispered, voice shaking. "I just... I haven’t eaten in days. I didn’t know who to ask. I didn’t know if anyone would listen." Matilda didn’t reply right away. She just looked at me for a long, cold second, like she was debating whether I was worth the trouble of another slap. Then she huffed and pointed toward the back of the kitchen. "If there’s no food left in the pots," she snapped, "you go for leftovers. Crusts. Bits. Scraps. But you ask before you take anything. Next time you steal, I’ll have you tied up for it. Do you understand me?" I nodded quickly, wiping the tears from my eyes. "Yes, ma’am." "Now get out of here," she barked. "And don’t ever let me catch you sneaking around like a rat again." I hurried out of the pantry, cheeks flushed, shame burning hotter than the fever ever did. My hands still trembled from the scare, but I did exactly what she said. I headed to the bins near the back counter, where the maids sometimes dumped the uneaten ends of meat or stale bread. I found a few scraps of yam and half a chicken bone with barely any meat on it. I took it. I sat in the corner of the kitchen floor, hidden behind a stack of baskets, and ate it slowly. Like it was a feast.