“I’ve gotten full,” she replied.
“You’ve gotten ugly,” he said.
The worst part was not the work. The worst part was the democracy of degradation. She had imagined, in her childhood lessons of fallen dynasties, that a vanquished princess was granted a dignified death—a quiet tower, a poisoned chalice, a silk cord. But the conqueror was a practical man. He saw no profit in killing her. He saw profit in using her. A princess who scrubs latrines is a sermon to every noble who might consider rebellion. A princess who begs for a stale heel of bread is a tax on the pride of the conquered. the vulgar life of a vanquished princess