“Alette.” Now my name is an angry growl. “Come greet Mr. Clay and give him a hug.”
I don’t want to. Touching Mr. Clay makes me feel sick. But I could never disobey my grandfather. I could never willingly upset him.
I step across the hay-strewn floor with feet that feel made of lead until I reach Mr. Clay. He yanks me into his arms and presses me fully against him as he hugs me. His hands wander over my back, and pain explodes from the touch, but then his hands move to my butt. Every muscle in my body tenses, and I fight the urge to pull away and slap him. If I slap my grandfather’s friend, I have no idea what my grandfather will do to me, but I know it’ll be bad.
After a moment, he lets me go. Smiling, he looks me up and down again. “You’ve grown, Alette. You’re what…?”
“Twenty-three,” I finish for him, feeling numb.
“Twenty-three.” He licks his lips. “Too old to still be unmarried.”
Maybe I am. I just can’t seem to care about it. But the thought swims away. Everything goes silent in my mind. Silent in my body. It’s a thing I do sometimes. I go somewhere else. Here, nothing can hurt me. Nothing can touch me.
A hand closes around my wrist and pulls, bringing me back to the present. “Alette, let’s take Mr. Clay into the house and get him some tea.”
“Yes,” I tell him automatically. The answer is always yes.
“Did you have to whip her again?” Mr. Clay asks.
“Not too hard,” my grandfather rushes out.
Mr. Clay laughs. “Don’t worry, I don’t mind. It’s easier to break something that’s already broken.”
I walk with shaking legs back to the cabin as the two older men follow, talking and laughing, but I don’t hear their words. I’m somewhere else. In town with my dad. Playing cards with Marta as the sun sets. Laughing with the village children.
As I pass Mr. Clay’s horse, I see Stephen, his young farmhand, sitting on a rock while holding onto the horse’s reins. He stiffens when the two men walk past, a familiar look of fear passing across his face. Our eyes connect, and I wink at him.I check behind me to make sure the men didn’t see me, then fishing into my pants pocket, I veer just a little off and slip the little carved horse I’d made for him into his hand. He smiles, and I rush away.
I open the door to the cabin, and the two men walk in. I take their hats and hang them up. My grandmother, who was at the table, stands. She’s wearing a simple brown dress made out of a rough material, one of the few fabrics that we could afford. Her gray hair has been swept up into a knot, and her wrinkled hands grip the back of her chair as she smiles, too widely, at Mr. Clay.
“Mr. Clay,” she greets. “Welcome.”
I sweep around all of them and start the water for the tea boiling over the fire, stirring up the embers in the fireplace and adding another log to really get the fire going. They sit at the table and begin talking, but I go to the special place in my mind again. I go to the village, my only safe space now, and picture everything about it. The people. The places that are so different from this lonely farm. There, I feel… something different. Something warm and wonderful, and not at all like the cold, jagged feeling I’ve had here ever since my dad died.
“The tea!” my grandmother snaps.
I jump a little, unsure of how long I’d been in my mind. I add the tea leaves to a sieve and pour hot water through it into each of the cups, add a little milk, then serve each mug to the three people at the table. But even before I set the mugs down, I get a crawling sensation on my skin. They’re watching me. Staring. Smiling.
“To be honest, I’d wanted someone younger,” Mr. Clay says slowly.
“With how small she is, she looks younger,” my grandmother tells him hurriedly.
“She could easily pass for fourteen,” my grandfather says, eagerness in his voice.
“Is she smart?” Mr. Clay asks, stirring his tea.
“Not so smart as to be a problem for you,” my grandmother says, smiling widely.
“And her temperament?”
“As obedient as an old dog,” my grandfather answers proudly.
I don’t like what they’re talking about.Not that what I think matters.
I step back and sit near the fire, afraid to be further noticed by them. Afraid to make a mistake. Tomorrow I get to go to the village. My grandparents are too old for the trip now, so it’s just been me these last few years. I pretend that it’s just like all my other chores. If they saw that I enjoyed it, they’d find a way to ruin the trip for me too. All I have to do is stay out of their way until then, and I get that feeling again, the one I love, at the village, with the people I care about. That warmth. That happiness.
They all stand from the table, and Mr. Clay and my grandfather shake hands. My grandfather says, “It’s a deal then. Three chickens, two pigs, and a cow.”
“A deal,” Mr. Clay says, and his dark gaze sweeps to me again, a flicker of something like delight in his eyes. “I’ll be back in seven days to collect her when she gets back from the village.”
