She rushed along a lightening illuminated path. Mud sucked one satin slipper off, the other she tossed away calling it useless, like she had the cooks whose roast meat was not bloody enough, their bread not crusty enough. Torrential tears fell. Rain streamed from her hair, her clothes, and the tip of her nose.
A man and his unruly mare pulled up, clods flying.
“Fool, do you know who I am,” she asked.
Eyebrow raised, he said, “A woman in need of dry clothes.” The lord carried her to his castle, grand as her father’s.
She didn’t sleep a wink.
Monica's Monday Morning Flash 