Danglars woke up, and immediately wished he hadn't.
His eyes opened to whitewashed stone walls and the musty smell of damp earth. For a man who spent every night wrapped in silk sheets and velvet curtains, who fell asleep to the gentle crackle of expensive firewood in his bedroom hearth, this was a nightmare made real.
Except it wasn't a nightmare. This was actually happening.
"Right," he muttered, his voice echoing slightly in the small cell. "I'm in the hands of bandits. Just like that Morcerf boy warned me about."
His first instinct, borrowed from the only adventure novel he'd ever bothered reading, was to check if he'd been stabbed or shot. He ran his hands over his body, patting himself down frantically.
"No blood. Good. But what about my money?"
