There was a knock on his door, and he hissed in irritation because he’d nearly succeeded in numbing himself to the imprisonment. He could have put on jeans, he supposed, but he was losing that long-ago lord a day at a time, and the clothes served as a reminder of what he had once been-though some days, some years, he could not remember why it was that remembering what he had once been was so important. He’d worn High Court dress for the first week he was here, but there was no one to impress, so he’d left them off and exchanged them for the more comfortable clothing. Doubtless if there were still courts, still High Courts, he would be considered out of fashion entirely. Still, his long red hair was confined in a complicated series of braids that trailed the floor behind him, a court fashion of at least a millennium ago. His clothes, like his boots, were practical, but still representative of his position as High Court Lord-though he no longer remembered much about that part of his life. Sound distracted him unduly from his purpose-which was to bore himself to the point where he no longer thought about anything. His boots were soft and he made no sound as he paced. Three steps, turn, four steps, turn, three steps. The fae lord stalked back and forth in his cell of gray stone.
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