Page 025: You Can't Control The Rain
You Can't Control The Rain
Summary: Anais visits Amelia in the dungeons again, this time better prepared.
Date: 06/August/2011
Related Logs: On Strength
Amelia Anais 
Dungeons — Four Eagles Tower
The heavy iron door that opens, leading down to the dungeon is the first sign that this is not a welcoming location within the Eagles Tower. The stairs go deep underground to a hallway that extends out in a straight line, the depths enough to conceal cries and screams among the torchlit pathways of dirt and stone. Off the main hall are several rooms that lead to their own areas. One such offshoot has a pair of ten foot wells with flat walls for prisoner storage while two more have caged cells. The last area is one large room with shackle bars bolted to the walls and some hanging from the ceiling. In the center is an open area where prisoners can be flayed and punished as needed.
August 6, 288

The door to the cell opens with a wretched creak that echoes through the stone labrynth. When the light of the torch illuminates the interior, the prisoner isn't immediately visible. The woman's dress has been stripped of her and lain in the corner. Mice, working at taking it apart for bedding, scurry away at the light and disappear into cracks in the walls. The dress seems to be slowly taken apart with most of the softer underskirts already gnawed away. A few more of the rodents scurry from the sprawled shape on the filthy floor. Like her dress, Amelia is covered in the brown/green smudge that seems to coat most of the surfaces down here. She's been placed in the cheap burlap pants reserved for prisoners with the shirt under her stomach, which she lays on. Her back has had a simple, clean white sheet tossed over it to soak up the blood from her wounds but is otherwise naked above the waist. Her arms lain flat to her sides, her head is pointed away from the door and towards the dank wall. It stinks in here, but no more than any other cell. Sort of like stale urine, sweat, and dirt. She does not say anything right away, but the woman's head stirs against the sudden emergence of light into the inky blackness.

Anais is perhaps better prepared this time, having seen the dungeon. The results of the flogging are new, though the can't be unfamiliar to a woman who used to frequent the docks of the Banefort. Once more she carries a basket over her elbow with bread and bacon and drippings, hot and fresh, though she's added an apple as well, and the skin of water she brings is much larger, almost comically so. There's a blanket as well, an old and ragged affair that should suffer little for a sojourn in the dungeons, but is at least clean.

"Rise and shine, it's breakfast time," she singsongs softly, taking out the blanket to start spreading it out as best she can. Funny how it bunches near Amelia. One might even think there was enough of it to slip underneath the woman.

"Umrfgarble," Amelia mutters. She tucks her head closer to her shoulder against the light, eyes wrenching shut. A moment later she yawns and swallows. "Lady Banefort?" she whispers. Her voice is dry and cracked like sandpaper against rock. More than anything Amelia sounds like that water will be a lifesaver. Her head slowly turns, that arm coming around to lay under her head to prevent the bruise from laying on the floor. The swelling seems to have gone down immensely but from this angle the red can still be seen in contrast to the disgusting dirt and grime smeared across the other side of her face. Her eyes are still closed tightly against the light but her nose still works. Like so many of the mice she now lives with, it seems to quirk at the arrival of food. The hand under her head comes out to drape her filty, oily hair out of her face and away from her lips. "My Lady. ..I do not know how I will ever repay your kindess. Ever."

"By telling no one how secretly soft-hearted I am, of course," Anais answers easily, a faint smile touching one corner of her lips. "Hold still now," she murmurs, leaning over to grab the edges of the blanket. "This may hurt some, but it should feel better afterwards." Carefully and quietly, she tries to work the blanket underneath Amelia, offering some protection from the stone and the slime. It's wool, though old enough that it's more soft than scratchy, and still fairly thick.

"Your secret is safe with me, my Lady. May your heart line the beds of babes for generations," she whispers, nearly rasping. She gives a pair of short coughs that look painful. Sliding the blanket under takes a little effort, especially when she has to move her back to lift her chest to resettle it. THAT hurts. She probably has not moved since she was dragged back in and dropped to the floor. She does not scream. She does not yell. Amelia does not even whimper. But the pain flashes on her face and tears drop free of her wrenched eyes. But when its over, she has something under her other than a burlap shirt. Something warm. Topless down here she most have nearly frozen last night. But now, its a little easier to bare. Once her breathing returns, she sighs. "Seven bless you. Thank you so much. I've been given much.. this may be more appreciated than anything else in my life." Men buy her dresses, offer her stags, promise to whisk her away (lies, anyway) but a blanket takes the cake.

"Do you know," Anais muses, pressing a handkerchief over the mouth of the water skin to dampen it. "I believe you may be the closest thing I have to a friend here right now. I'm not sure if my father would have a conniption, or roll his eyes. He certainly wouldn't have much room to talk, at least." Once the handkerchief is damp enough to be of use, she offers the skin to Amelia, then settles down on the other side of the blanket, sitting crosslegged. "Well. Cayt is a friend," she allows. "Though I think he's more embarassing by accident than you could be on purpose." She prattles quietly, filling the chilly dungeon with warm, quiet words as she leans forward to gently try to clean the other woman's face. "Cayt is my half-brother. Caytiv Hill. Father sent him to squire with Jaremy here. He's sweet, and I love him dearly, but he doesn't have a clue about courtly manners."

Amelia feels for the skin, her hand finding the opening and dragging it across the stone towards her. For all the pain she may be in, she does her best to just fight. The woman looks as likely to magically turn into a brick as she would to start complaining or asking for sympathy. But she is, without a doubt, appreciative. The skin's opening, though, is held above the rest of the bladder which lies on the stone floor she curves her lips up to reach for it, only lifting her head slightly. While Anais speaks, Amelia drinks. Its lifeblood. She is not being tortured by this woman is obviously reliant on the delivered water more than anything else. Nearly a third of it is taken before her head collapses down onto her arm to catch her breath. The airflow to her lungs sounds healthier, too. That grating sound seems to have abated some, the water having given moisture to her vocal chords. That unbruised half of her face smiles to the words and the gentle cleaning, the woman looking like she might cry with the outpouring of kindness. "Thank you, Lady Banefort. Your words and actiosn mean more than I could possibly ever tell you." She sniffs and finally braves the lift to squint up at the other woman beside her. "Jaremy is to have a squire?" she whispers. "Your brother is lucky."

"So I'm told," Anais laughs softly at the mention of her brother's luck. "I'm rather hoping Jaremy will be able to foist a few manners on him. Otherwise, I'm going to have to hire someone to teach him how it's inappropriate to tell his sister that she can jump on his shoulders if he needs a ride back to the castle when she's greeting neighboring knights. No laughing at that, now," she chides teasingly. "I'm working on your nose." Her touch is gentle as she cleans, careful to conserve clean handkerchief for the important parts.

Amelia does her best not to laugh. It hurts. But Anais also asked. But some of the smile creeps onto the bruised side of her face and she whispers a soft, but spirited 'Ow.' with it. "If you continue to say such things I may find your company a disservice and cry foul for torture." She may be squinting up past the hand cleaning at her nose but there is life there. It will take far more than this experience to kill her spirit. "jaremy should be able to. And much more. Despite.. what he has done, he is the kindest man I know. But his strength is untapped. He will do great things. This bodes well for your brother.. Lord Caytiv, is it?" Her strength is nowhere near what it was just this time yesterday. The words come slowly, but she is not going ot quit on a conversaiton. The mouth of the waterskin is dipped once more so she can drink. And drink. And drink.

"No, no lord," Anais smiles crookedly, taking care around the bruise to at least get the worst of the sludge off. "His mother was a sheperdess in the mountains. He's just Cayt." Once she has the worst of the sludge cleaned from Amelia's face, she leans over, reaching for one of the woman's hands. "Hands next," she declares comfortably. "Seven only know what most of this slime is, but I doubt any of it is strictly edible. We've a visitor here, by the way," she adds. "Ser Rygar Nayland came with all sorts of messages. And a few thunderclouds above his head. Or at least there should have been. He is the most polite grump I've ever met."

"Ah. A bastard." There's no malice. Just an observation. "Like Jarod. I have a particular affection for them. Where nobles are refined animals, the bastardy of Westeros seems more like wild horses. Energy and potential. It can be beautiful. Or painful." She sighs and turns her eyes down. That smile disappears. The hand holding the skin does so as gingerly as possible to allow it to be cleaned. Her other arm she just refuses to move for any reason. As for the slime, "I have found things you wish to remain unknown, my Lady." There's nu humor either. But the mention of Rygar's name has her stiffen. Its flashed and it causes her to flicker in pain because of her back. "What does Ser Rygar bring to the Roost this day? More arrest writs?" she tries to joke. It falls flat and sounds more like concern.

"Not that he mentioned to me," Anais shakes her head to the last question, taking care to use the cleaner parts of the handkerchief first on the hand that is moving, then on the one that isn't as much. "There were a few for Rowan. He wouldn't mention what they said, but I caught a few words here and there. Either they were love letters, or there's been some sort of betrothal. Or both. And he was in quite a hurry to speak with Lord Jerold," she adds. "But as I haven't seen soldiers scurrying about like an anthill that's been kicked, I suppose it can't have been anything /immediately/ dire. On the other hand, he did want to speak with Ser Gedeon and Ser Anton," she grimaces.

Amelia does not sound like she heard anything else. Her lips were just moving towards the mouth of the skin again when she nearly drops it. "Lord Rowan might be betrothed?" she gasps. "I cannot think he to speak with Lord Jerold for a love letter." The whore swallows, eyes opening more to stare up at Anais. "Oh seven hells. He- he is not ready for such things." Rumor has it Rowan spent a night with her recently. All night. "I am not ready for such things."

"No, no I meant Ser Rygar wanted to speak with Lord Jerold. Rowan had a sit down by the tree and came back later, after the rest of the group. He insisted it wasn't a relapse," Anais explains, though she seems skeptical of the last. She arches a brow at Amelia's response, carefully folding the handkerchief with the dirty parts to the inside once she's gotten the other woman as clean as she can. "He's no younger than I am," she notes. "And I'm to be married in two months. I'm sure if it's a betrothal they'll wait until he's knighted, anyhow. And who knows when that will be?" The next thing she produces from a pocket is a small comb, just the size of her palm, and she carefully shifts to sit to Amelia's side.

There is some relief to the woman's features as Rygar is explained to have wanted to meet with Jerold. Okay, maybe this is not as bad as she thought. "If he is to be betrothed this.. does not bode well. Especially if Ser Rygar brings this news." Her eyes are still down while her mind works. Her head lifts to the flask absently and she takes a few more sips. "I am sorry, I mean no offense to you, my Lady. You are ready. I would not have said so to Jaremy if I did not believe so. Lord Rowan, though.. My Gods." She swallows hard and looks around with her eyes, drifting towards where Anais has taken a seat beside her, gaze lifting. There is genuine worry. "Rygar is an evil man. He brings only bad news, my Lady," she advises with a cool whisper.

"Why would it bode so ill for Rowan to be betrothed?" Anais asks, leaning over to carefully start combing out Amelia's hair. "He seems to care for the Terricks much as you do. I don't /know/ of any other heiresses in the area that would pull him somewhere else other than Terrick's Roost, though even if it was that sort of arrangement, it would be good to have an ally." She speaks as she combs, thoughtful. "I suppose if it was an arrangement to someone the Naylands trusted, they might treat her as something of a whisperer, to send them word of movements here," she muses. "That would be…challenging." At the last words, regarding Rygar, she smiles ever so faintly. "Then we'll get rid of him first," she murmurs in the same tone as the rest, as if it were nothing.

Amelia seems to falter for a moment on her words but takes a breath as she finds her words. "For the reasons you've stated, my Lady." When her hair is brushed, the woman's body seems to relax and her eyes close in the low, flickering light. This is probably the most relaxed she has been since her arrival, despite the pain in her back and face. "Ser Rygar is not a good man. He is of the Naylands across the river." She sniffs, her head settling more comfortably on her arm. "If he brings notice of betrothal, it is poor tidings for the Terricks. It could be the Tullys, but I would think it more likely a Frey." The Leige Lords of the Naylands. She exhales as if it were the pain leaving her body. Brushing out her hair seems to have brought the woman a peace that she cannot find elsewhere. "Thank you, my Lady, for being so kind as this."

"Frey," Anais muses, still combing quietly. "Now that you mention that, he might have said…" She pauses for a moment, closing her eyes as she tries to recall. "He /did/ mention Igara Frey." There's a moment for that to sink in, and then she wrinkles her nose, making a face. "Ugh. Sly little thing, she was. I don't think I'd trust her as far as I could throw her." She resumes combing then, pausing to gently work through a tangle. "You've been very kind to me, Amelia," she murmurs. "The least I can do is to return the favor."

Amelia makes a face and sips more at the water. "I do not know much of her. I have not met her before." She folds the waterskin back on itself so it will not leak everywhere. "She is one of the mid-level daughters of Lord Frey. That could be significant." The whore may not know details but she is not poorly informed. That previously dead arm of hersslowly turns out and drags itself across the floor to the basket to pull it closer. Food. Hunger. She cannot wait any longer. "You are a respectful member of nobility, Lady Banefort," she says with the same quiet whisper. "You are due kindness in addition to respect. I have done nothing you were not deserving of from the start." She reaches in for one of the rolls and drags her arm back over to the wool blanket and lays it next to her mouth. "Is there any other news? Lady Lucienne was here last night and said I need not be concerned." Anais is likely more aware of just where Amelia's concern is.

"I haven't seen Jaremy," Anais admits, leaning over to recover the bacon and bread and move it closer to Amelia. "So I couldn't say in that respect. It's…a little concerning. And awkward," she admits, going back to combing. "I'm betrothed to him, but I'm still new to them. Jaremy trusts me and seeks my advice, and for that I'm grateful. But I still find myself at the perimeter of things. Still, I make myself useful as I can." She sits up a little straighter, taking some pride. "I entertained Ser Rygar upon his arrival, which I can only hope gave the family a chance to strategize, at least."

Amelia nibbles on the piece of bread first. She needs something of substance first before the bacon — as good as it may be. She's likely had to survive in dire situations before and knows the score. "Jaremy will be there when he can," Amelia reassures. "Sometimes we must stand by our men even when we are new to them and we are having to learn them. Our time of finding each other must come after their matters of import." Spoken like a true noble Lady, if a little muddled by her laying nearly face-down on the ground. But she does not speak past her food. The movement of the brush seems to have brought this woman immeasurable serenity, though. "One day, my Lady, come by the Inn. I will take you upstairs and I will pamper you. I give an excellent massage as well as bathing. I believe you have at least convinced me that you deserve several." There are no sexual overtones, just a woman offering the services that might be found at home by potentially surley servants if they were asked of it. "Though.. forgive me for intruding on matters of family.. but might I ask what there is to strategize? If Rowan is to be betrothed.. It would not seem there is much that could be done."

Anais laughs softly. "Perhaps before the wedding. Or after," she suggests. "As far as strategy goes, there's always something to be done. It's a large family, and they need to present a united front. I've a feeling there is more to this visit than a betrothal for Rowan. There must be, or else why send Ser Rygar, rather than a simple messenger. No doubt there are also some opening gambits," she sighs, patiently picking through tangles with one tooth of the comb. "Requests. Demands. Issues to be addressed."

"As you wish, my Lady. I would consider it a debt paid to you." Amelia nibbles on the bread, picking little pieces off that she can just swallow without chewing. She listens, though, and lets it all settle on her mind. "I suspect there is as well. Ser Rygar is not a man who moves without reason. He is here for something." There is a distinct unease to her voice. "The opening gambits have begun with the marriage of Lady Isolde and Lord Ryker. Though what else they may play is another matter. She is a good woman but I fear she means too well and suffers as Jaremy does — of too much kindness. Their silence has made me nervous.

"I had no chance to meet the woman, I'm afraid," Anais admits, setting the comb into her lap and reaching up to brush her fingers through Amelia's hair. "Though I'll confess I didn not try very hard. I knew very well what my father had sent us for, and it seemed cruel to make things more difficult for the lady." With nimble fingers, she starts to braid the other woman's hair in an intricate herringbone pattern, one almost more suited to weaving rope than hair. "I did ask Ser Rygar to convey my congratulations to the new couple, though. It would only be polite." She falls silent for a moment, concentrating on the braid. "Do you think the Lady Isolde would work with us? Or is the malleable enough that the Naylands will already have shaped her to their purposes?"

"Mm. Likely a wise choice, my Lady." Amelia finishes the roll and slips her hand up carefully to find a strip of bacon. Its settled where the bread had just been and her fingers work at tearing a piece off. "I have met her a few times. It was hard caring for Jaremy as I have in the past and still thinking about them. I hope one day I can repair what I have undone a few days ago to talk to him about it." She sniffs, placing the bacon into her mouth. A moment to think and chew, swallowing before she speaks again. "I do not know anything of Lord Ryker. But I know Ser Rygar. I find it likely that they will play to Isolde's weaknesses and attempt to turn her against us." Not 'The Terricks', just 'us'. "If they can do that she may be purposed for them. Her heart is strong but theirs are black as far as I know. Only the Nayland name that resides on this side is to be trusted, in my opinion, my Lady. Lady Isolde is now a Nayland on the other side, for better or worse."

Anais hums quietly to that assessment, falling silent for another moment as she thinks it through. "It is a hard thing to find your own house turned against you, I would think. To see strange faces at every corner. I don't think I could blame her if she folded under such pressure." Of course, there's something in her tone that suggests she couldn't exactly /respect/ her, either. "Jaremy will forgive you, I think," she adds after a moment. "I've not known him as you have, but he seems to me the sort who always has forgiveness for those who hold a piece of his heart."

"It is a thing I do not envy of nobility. To be married away to a horrific husband or have everything around you stripped away seems a nightmare. I have little but what I have I would not let fall away without a fight." A freedom provided to woman like her, though whether or not the trade-off is worth it is.. very debatable. The last words leave her silent for a moment before her head turns a touch to look back up at Anais. It probably hurts but that now clean hand lifts to touch her wrist. "Lady Banefort?" she asks quietly. It is the tone of a servant. That of a woman who knows her place. "I mean no threat to you. Please know that. I know you will make Jaremy happier than I could. It is a hard thing to admit but I do wish the best for you. If I am interfering?" She's earnest about this, the emotion plain in her eyes. "My Lady, but let me know. I will do whatever you ask."

Anais pauses her braiding at the touch from Amelia, carefully shifting her fingers to hold the strands in place while she holds the other woman's hand. "Amelia," she murmurs, smile faint, but reassuring. "There are fights that are worth fighting. There are things and people to fear in this world. But love? Of whatever sort. That is not something I will fear. Cayt isn't my only half-brother," she notes, a touch of amusement in her voice. "My mother always told me that being possessive of a man was like being possessive of a thunderstorm. You can't control where the rain falls. Best simply be ready to make the best use of the crops it nourishes."

Amelia watches that response from Anais and seems almost shocked at it, for whatever reason. She blinks and resettles her head back to her arm. Her eyes stare at nothing for a few long moments while her hand fidgets with the bacon and a new piece to be torn away. "I wish I could be you, my Lady. To have that chance. Just for a day to be pretty and respected. To be able to wake up in a big room with a nice bed and know that there will be breakfast and dinner. That the day will be just fine no matter what." She gives a tired smile and looks to the bacon as she breaks a piece off. "I've always wanted kids. Birthing an heir is sort of a lofty, storybook dream for me. But I would hope for it one day. I just know that this is not the life to bring a child into. I was nine when my mother was my age right now. Scary to think about."

"Ah, Amelia." Anais sighs softly, going back to her braiding. "For what it is worth, you are very pretty. And I do believe the Terrick men respect you, for as much as they can understand /how/ to respect you." When she reaches the end of the braid, she carefully twists a few loose strands of hair into something resembling a tie. It may not last forever, but it should keep it from getting any worse, at least. "I don't know what to say to make it feel better, Amelia," she admits, shifting to face the other woman once more. "I know it would all sound hollow. I will say, though, that for whatever it is worth, I knew many of the women at the dockside establishments did eventually settle down with their favorite old sailors."

"Thank you. But respect for a whore is not what I mean. They respect me for their own reasons, but I mean just for who I am. Not what I know or what I can do. Jaremy is like that. None of the others." She finishes the pieces of bacon and lays in silence for a few more moments. Amelia lifts her eyes to look at Anais and gives that short, half faced smile. "My Lady, I meant not to put you in an awkward place. They are just thoughts and mean nothing. It is shame to marry a whore and I know these things. Though if these wounds scar.." She sighs. "I suspect that if they look bad then that may be a part of my life I cannot continue. …If you were not a noble, what would you do?"

"I would be a part of a travelling troupe," Anais announces with hardly a pause, smile flickering across her features. "Perhaps the one Rowan's sister is said to have joined. We can be the Family Shame Troupe, and perform acts of…Well, something." She shifts a bit, making herself more comfortable on the blanket. "I love singing, and dancing, and music. I could wish to do more of it. Though I recognize that there aren't exactly a great deal of chances for it, and it is probably not as much fun as I would imagine."

"Mm." Amelia reaches for the waterskin again and pulls the mouth close. There seems to be growing energy to her movements. The food and water appear to be delivering her life and it is manifesting first in the energy of her movements. Weakness is fading and she can feel it. "Yes. Rowan's sister." She leans the moutpiece against her nose. "I have had people suggest I try to take up singing for a career to escape having to bare the shame of my life longer than I must. But making a living of singing, as you said, would likely be far harder on me. And my chances for finding someplace I could call home again would be near zero unless someone took me to keep for himself." It happens. Women disappear on the road sometimes.

"And that would not likely be a blessing," Anais agrees. "But you are not the first woman to make a living the way you have, Amelia," she shakes her head. "I know you feel…Well, no. I don't know what you feel. But I do sense that if you don't feel shame, you have an awareness that people think you /should/." Reaching for the damp handkerchief, she rubs the clean side over her hands a bit. "I think that you are no so penned in as you think yourself."

Amelia's face flickers towards another smile but it doesn't quite find it. "No, I do. I think all of the whores do. Some of us pretend we don't. Some of us try to ignore it. The ones who cannot deal? They drink and take men for whatever cheap fee they can get and drown their lives in alcohol. Others are beaten into the life and have no choice for what they do." She takes a breath and sips at the water. "I feel the shame as any, but I do not let it control me. I know I am more than a waste disposal for men's lust. I have confidence and esteem of myself for who I have managed to become." She tests her back a little, lifting her midsection a bit and hissing at the pain. Laying down again, she looks up to Anais. "At the end of the day, Lady Banefort, I am what I am. I cannot erase the past. I have accepted this. But I lack important skills, a clean reputation amongst respectable men, and freedom. In a sense, I am penned in by the secrets I hold. Loosing me from this life carries dangers to what I know of others." She doesn't sound like she would be a danger to anyone in the Roost. But others outside the town might not see it that way.

"What important skills do you lack?" Anais asks, wincing sympathetically at the attempted shift. "Careful," she murmurs. "Have they sent a maester to see to you yet? A basic healer, even?" she asks, abandoning the earlier question. "If not, I'll go and yell at Jaremy myself. If nothing else, it will be interesting to see how he responds, no?" A faint smile accompanies the last, gently teasing.

"Any, really." Amelia does not say it with a defeated tone. "I have some basic skills of sewing and herbs, but nothing I could make a life of. "The problem is that.." Amelia stops herself. She's too comfortable. The whore shifts her legs a bit for the first time and the chain can be heard to rattle, securing her to the wall. "It is obvious, from our shared words at the Inn when we met, that I am not so simple. Perhaps one day we can talk on it, my Lady." She wets her lips and takes another drink of water, apparently emptying the huge skin of water. She's been quite thirsty down here. There is a smile at the thought of prodding Jaremy but a short shake of her head. "No one has come yet. That is still the same sheet bandage from after I was flogged. I expect someone to see me today." She hopes. Likely she expects it.

Anais presses her lips together, eyes narrowing. "Then I will ask after it," she says firmly, nodding once. "Seven bless, after I made certain Ser Rygar was settled in, I think I'm owed something." She sighs softly, glancing to the doorway. "I'm afraid I can't stay much longer," she murmurs. "I need to do some research into the records, and they'll start to wonder if I linger too long. Are you feeling at least a little better, though?"

"I cannot ask anything of you, my Lady. But I would be most grateful." There are no doubts that she would be grateful. "I am feeling immsensely better. I have you to thank for that. I feel like I might be able to try standing soon, but likely that will have to wait until I am better healed." She sniffs and tries to sit up more. It has to hurt like the seven hells, but she lifts her shoulders, chest and head off the blanket. Amelia grits against the deep pain, lips turning white for how hard they are pressed. Holding the position for a few moments longer, the whore seems to push past it and nods. "Stronger," she confirms, breathing heavily for a moment. "If you require help with research, I will be here. I cannot read well enough to be of use, my Lady, but I know verbal histories. A few important heraldic points." For her smile it could not be more obvious that she is completely oblivious to what Anais is likely looking into.

"I will keep that in mind," Anais nods, reaching over to give the other woman's hand a squeeze before carefully pushing up. "Stay strong, Amelia," she murmurs, gathering up the water skin and the basket, but leaving the blanket behind on the floor. Given the general dinginess of of the cell and the fact that the blanket is conveniently black and gray, it shouldn't stand out too much.