The basement reeked.
Armed guards led her down cement steps. Forced her onto a rickety wooden stool before removing her blindfold. By then she was already handcuffed to the table.
Jacinda scanned the cellar while adjusting to the oppressive overhead lights. Dozens of eyes stared back. Cold, dead eyes belonging to sad, broken women. Women who hadn’t seen daylight in years. Maybe longer.
Then she saw their tools: dull scissors, stacks of newspaper inserts.
Coupons. They were clipping coupons.
Rumors about the Countess’s extraordinary wealth, about her extraordinary frugality were legendary.
Jacinda just never thought they could possibly be real.
The Weekday One Hundred 