Elena knelt and bowed her head, and then waited as her hair was gathered behind her back. The was a moment of stillness, ended by the sound of the scissors. The ends fell forward around her face, like threads in torn fabric. Humility, that's what she would have to cultivate now.
A hand touched her between the shoulder blades, and she lay down prostrate, with her forehead against the stone floor. Obedience and self-effacing humility.
Someone spread a shroud over her. Under here, in the darkness, she was strangely alone. It was like laying awake on the bier at one's funeral, hearing the muffled sounds of the mourners waiting to take their farewells.
Steps, heavy but measured, came from somewhere to her right, approached, and stopped just beyond her head. She tried to keep her breath steady and to think of nothing but the simple smell of dirt. Dirt and also excrement. This was how a floor smelled when you had to put your nose to it.
Above her, a baritone voice called: "Elena Carlini, daughter of Baldassare Carlini."
"I am she," she managed.
"Elena Carlini, what do you ask?"
She knew what she had to answer.
But how could everything have gone so wrong?