The broken mirror is a sad and lopsided thing, but she treasures it even so. She doesn't think they mind that she takes it out and looks at herself and tries to arrange her hair in some semblance of order, that she shares it around those slaves who are not yet too dejected to care about their appearance.
She is learning so much, and she loves every moment of her life, from the early morning call to the weight of the chains to the sweet exhaustion of honest labour that calls her to her very own patch of floor as though it was the softest bed with the finest eiderdown. She loved washing up and getting her old clothes back to walk the festival. Maybe they will take her to another, if she is good, if she works uncomplainingly and does not falter in her love.
The bruises have practically faded, the bruises and the cuts that she was sure were going to leave her scars - an interesting war wound to talk about! - and she tries not to form memories of those times. For now, she tells herself, for now she is still learning, for now every day holds new wonders - for now she is content.