I was given no bed and no room of my own. At night, when the bitter wind howled through the gaps in the stone walls, I curled up on the cold floor in a small, dark corner of the servants' quarters. No one dared to give me even a rag of a blanket; that would mean acknowledging my existence. So I slept on the hard ground, with nothing but a torn shirt and threadbare pants to keep the winter's chill from gnawing at my bones.
The frost crept in through the cracks and settled into my flesh. My hands were the worst. The skin was cracked and raw, the edges swollen and purple from the cold, and every movement sent fresh waves of pain shooting up my arms. At night, I would press my hands against my chest, trying to warm them, but it was no use. The frostbite took more of me every day.