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39: Accepting Food From The Devil Is Wrong

I keep the charades up for days. Behaving nicely when Miranda comes to my aid. I hope she passes along a good word for me. Brags about how innocent and feeble I am. I haven’t tried to fight her once. That should be rewarded, right?

Miranda’s arrival is announced by her light knocks before unlocking the door. I sit on the bed and look unthreatening. I like to think that I’m growing on her, that she trusts me, but I can’t be too sure. She’s been trained to remain emotionless or after years of abuse she’s learned to be a blank slate.

Today she holds a long ivory dress in her hands. Immediately I freak out. A white-ish dress, Cato’s repulsive obsession with me. I’m nearly hyperventilating thinking about it.

Her words are relieving, but still heavy upon my shoulders, “tonight you’re going to dinner.” She holds the dress up. “I’m here to help you get ready.”

“Just dinner? It’s not some special occasion you’re not supposed to tell me about, is it? Like some ceremony to trap me here?” A s
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