It was quiet in the boys room, the time of night when Mister Sand had brushed away the daily fear and pain of life in the orphanage and replaced it with the hopes and joy of youthful dreams. The only sounds were the deep breaths of the slumbering, peppered with a few light snores and the nose whistle of Shep, who always seemed to be stopped up.
Unfortunately the fresh welts on Justyn’s back prevented him from joining the others in blissful sleep. He lay on his stomach, covers down to his waist and his shirt pulled up to keep the rough cloth from inflaming the wounds further. Even the night air couldn’t seem to cool the painful, throbbing reminders of the lash. It had been the worst beating Justyn had ever experienced, and he had mercifully passed out before Cold Crone had finished.
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