She couldn’t find a way out. The hill leading up to the main road simply wasn’t there anymore, replaced by a yawning chasm with an endless abyss at the bottom, and she lost Jacques. He hadn’t been there when she woke up that morning. The linens she slept in had turned to rotten cloth; the wood of the inn they stayed in was rotten and diseased; flies covered virtually everything, and there was the persistent scent of decay and rot everywhere.