Moses looks at him like he’s the one who’s touched in the head now. “I know that.”
“No, you don’t,” says Gilbert, who worries that Moses will crack in half if he sees what Elliott Price is fixing to do to his mama. “Your mama is going to keep Cecily’s secret until her dying breath, if that’s what it comes to.”
Moses looks indignant. “I can, too.”
SALLY
The carriage has barely rolledto a stop in front of the Prices’ home when Sally and Maria hear a sharp scream.
Sally doesn’t bother waiting on the driver to open their door. Instead, she clambers out of the carriage, then tries her best to hurry Maria along.
They hear more shouting, and this time Sally can tell it’s coming from the yard.
“Can you walk?” she asks Maria, and when the girl nods, Sally steers her—slowly—down a brick path and around the side of the house, where a small group of slaves has gathered.
In the center of the yard, a tall, thin Negro woman, who can’t be much older than Sally, has been bound by the wrists and tied to a post. She kneels in the dirt, with her hands above her head, and from far away, it looks almost as if she’s praying. Maybe she is.
Only a few feet away from her stands Elliott, lashing the ground with a long leather whip and screaming at the onlookers who have gathered at the perimeter of the yard. “Come closer! I want you all to see this.”
“Elliott!” says Maria, who is gripping Sally’s arm so hard, she’s bound to leave a mark. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Is this about Cecily?”
Elliott doesn’t answer her, just shouts at the crowd. “Pay attention! Because if any of you know where Cecily’s gone off to, and you keep it to yourself, you’ll be the next one tied up to this post.”
Sally sees the look of confusion on the people’s faces. All they know is that Cecily is dead.
“Elliott,” Maria says. She sounds calm, but Sally can tell she’s shaking. “Della is not going to be able to tell you anything.”
“Is Della her mother?” Sally asks Maria quietly.
“Yes.”
Elliott circles the post. “You going to tell me where she is, Della?”
“I told you already,” the woman says stoically, “she dead.”
“And I told you, I need the truth.”
“You won’t hear it.”
Elliott lays the whip across Della’s back, and Sally winces.
“Maria,” she says softly. “Should you get your parents?”
The girl nods, lets go of Sally’s arm, and begins to back away. When she is several feet behind Sally, she turns unsteadily and teeters toward the house.
“Shall we try this again?” Elliott asks.
Della doesn’t answer.
“Where is Cecily?”
No response.
The whip licks her back once more, but she does not cry out in pain. Instead, she lifts her head, looks at Elliott over her shoulder, and says, “This is how you treat a grieving mother?”
