Museum quality.
Everything here is museum quality.
The carpet beneath my feet is so thick it swallows sound.
The walls are papered in something that looks hand-painted.
Sconces hold actual candles, their flames flickering as we pass.
Everything here is designed to muffle, to soften, to make this grotesque thing seem refined.
Music drifts from somewhere ahead even louder than before.
I catch fragments of men's conversations as we get closer.
"—heard the market's been slow this quarter?—"
"—Fiji in March, you should join us?—"
"—the '82 Margaux, excellent choice?—"
They're talking about wine and vacations and business.
Like this is normal.
Like in an hour they won't be purchasing human beings.
Margaret stops us outside a set of double doors.
Through the crack, I can see a massive room transformed into a theater.
Rows of chairs face a raised platform.
Red velvet seats.
A podium stands center stage, empty for now, waiting.
The chairs are filling.
Men in tuxedos.
Some standing in clusters, drinks in hand.
Others already seated, programs in their laps.
Programs like this is a Broadway show.
I wonder if the program lists us.
Number fourteen: Eden Finch.
Tonight's performance: degradation and despair.
"Remember," Margaret says, looking at each of us in turn. Her eyes linger on number thirteen, who's still shaking. "This is a privilege. These men are offering you opportunities most girls would kill for. Room, board, security, luxury. All you have to do is be pleasant."
Pleasant. As if that's all slavery requires.
Number nine—a tall girl with dark skin and cornrows—lets out a sound that might be a laugh or might be a sob.
