Chains by Laurie Halse Anderson

said, setting a plate of fresh-baked strawberry tarts on the table.
    â€œShow her in,” Madam said.
    Becky waved at me to enter.
    Madam and an older woman sat at the table, but my eyes were drawn behind them, to my sister, dressed up as Madam’s pretty pet in a bleached linen shift, a navy-blue brocade short gown, and a full skirt patterned with lilacs. When she saw me, she clenched her hands together and bither lower lip. Her eyes were red and swollen with crying.
    My belly went funny and my mind raced. Why had she been crying? Was she sick? Scared? Did Madam hurt her?
    Becky poked me gently in the back. This was not the time for questions.
    I quickly dropped into a curtsy, bowing my head. When I stood up, the older woman, the lady aunt with all the money, gave me a shadow of a smile. She was smaller than Madam and wore a silk gown the color of a mourning dove and gray lace gloves. Her hair was curled high and powdered snow white. A necklace set with black stones shone from her neck. There were deep lines at the corners of her eyes and around her mouth, but I couldn’t tell if they were from laughing or from crying.
    She turned in her chair and looked at Ruth, then back at me. “And these two girls are the sisters?” she asked.
    Madam reached for a tart. “That’s what the man said.”
    The older woman sipped her tea. “What is your name, girl?” she asked me.
    â€œIsabel, ma’am,” I said. “Isabel Finch.”
    â€œRidiculous name,” Madam said. She opened her fan and waved it in front of her face. “You are called Sal Lockton now. It’s more suitable.”
    I forced myself to breathe in slow and regular instead of telling her that my name was not her affair. “Yes, ma’am.”
    She glanced at my feet. “And you must wear your shoes. This is a house, not a barn.”
    Ruth stepped out of her corner. “Isabel.”
    Madam snapped the fan shut and rapped it against the edge of the table, startling us all. “What did I tell you about silence?” she said roughly.
    Ruth raised one shaking finger to her mouth and said, “Shh.”
    â€œPrecisely.” Madam set the fan in her lap and reached for a piece of sugar with silver tongs. When she plopped it in the cup, the tea overflowed into the saucer.
    Ruth stood there like a carved statue, her finger still held to her lips. I took another breath, slower than the first, and tried not to think on the newly sharpened knives on the kitchen steps. Lady Seymour curled her fingers around the teacup, her gaze marking first Madam, then Ruth, then me. She said nothing.
    â€œWould you like Sal to serve you and Lady Seymour while I wait on the gentlemen?” Becky asked.
    â€œAbsolutely not. Show her the library and make sure the men are fed. And bring fresh tea. This has already gone cold.”
    We curtsied and left the parlor. Ruth’s sad eyes followed me to the door.
    Ten circles to the left, ten circles to the righty,
    all make the blade sharp and mighty.
    Back in the kitchen, Becky took a large silver tray off a high shelf in the pantry. “Hold this.” She loaded the tray with plates of cold sliced tongue, cheddar cheese, brown bread, and a bowl of pickles. I could not stop thinking about the way Ruth had jumped when Madam shouted, nor the tears in her eyes.
    Becky took down a second tray and set upon it four goblets, two bottles of claret wine, and a crock of mustard. She swung the kettle back over the fire to heat up more water, picked up the tray with the wine, and said, “Hop to.”
    I followed her to the front of the house. “But, what about my shoes?”
    â€œThe master won’t notice long as he gets his grub.” Beckybalanced the edge of the tray on her hip and knocked on the door on the right side of the front hall. When a deep voice answered, she opened it.
    Lockton looked up as we entered. “Oh, good. Sustenance,” he said,