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  “Glasses,” she said, showing them two wineglasses.

  “Classes,” they repeated.

  “Knives, forks, spoons,” she said, laying them down on the table.

  They babbled the words in panic; she had gone too fast. One of the little children started to cry. Miss Cole was still standing at the foot of the table, her color high, her breath coming quickly.

  “That one,” she said abruptly, pointing to Mehuru. “The man with the marks on his face. He understands the most. He is watching.”

  The meaningless repetition of words died away into silence. “Find out his name,” she demanded. “You can teach him; then he can explain to the others in their own tongue.”

  Frances turned toward Mehuru. She could smell his fear like smoke.

  She put her hand on the base of her throat. “Frances,” she said. “Frances.”

  Then she pointed at him. Mehuru gulped.

  “France-sess,” he repeated. He felt as if he had a thrashing animal trapped in his brain. What did she mean now, “France-sess”? Was that the word for woman? Or for throat? Was it the word for thirst? Or for the scared thumping of his heart that he felt as he put his hand there, mirroring her action?

  “Not you! You fool! Her!” Miss Cole said irritably, watching him gesture to himself and say “Frances.” His dark eyes snapped toward her as if he were waiting for an attack but did not know which woman would spring first.

  “I am Frances,” the young one said quickly. She pointed to the older woman. “Miss Cole.” Mehuru noted the dislike in her voice. She pointed at the white man with the whip who had thrown water over them and laughed when the woman was assaulted. “John Bates,” she said.

  Mehuru nodded; he understood: They were names. He had four names. He gave her his public name, which anyone could use without summoning his soul or harming him. He put his hand on his chest and looked her in the eyes. “Mehuru,” he said.

  Frances’s black eyes gazed at him and widened. She leaned forward a little closer, as if to hear him better. She put her hand to her throat and felt beneath her fingers her own rapid pulse.

  “Frances,” she said again. Then she reached out across the table and put her hand on Mehuru’s chest. He could feel the light touch of her fingers tremble as she touched him.

  “Mehuru,” she said.

  Her small, white, childlike face looked into his. “Mehuru?” she asked, seeking confirmation. She could feel the warmth of his chest through the thin linen shirt. She could smell the scent of his newly washed skin. The tattoos on his face were fine, delicate lines of blue. The skin beneath his eyes was faintly blue, too, with fatigue and sorrow. His eyelids slanted upward, his eyes met hers. He was as wary as a trapped animal.

  “Mehuru,” she said lingeringly.

  A ripple of fear ran through them all. A new depth of terror went through them like hot wind through the grasslands. They heard the tone of a woman speaking to her beloved.

  Mehuru heard it, too. He lowered his eyes to avoid her penetrating, horrible gaze.

  “Mehuru,” he said obediently. “France-sess.”

  Miss Cole was exultant. She would have kept them all day in the shadowy parlor, learning new lessons. But Frances refused.

  “They’ll be getting tired,” she objected. “And I am weary. We’ve done enough for today.”

  Miss Cole nodded unwillingly. “Bates, you must keep them chained in their groups so we do not muddle them up,” she ordered. “Bring these particular ones to do another lesson tomorrow.”

  Frances bowed her head. Mehuru held himself with weary alertness. The two white women were talking together, but their voices were cold with dislike. The older one had the sharp tone of command, but the younger one had power, too. The man at the door called Johnbates was their servant. Mehuru had given orders in his own world, and he knew the tilt of a head which was ready to bow. Johnbates might be dangerous, but he was only a cipher for the women.

  “Take them back to the cellar,” Miss Cole said to John.

  Mehuru shot a swift look at Frances and met her slanty, dark eyes. Her skin colored, and Mehuru stared, fascinated, as a deep red blush rose up from the white fichu at Frances’s throat to color her whole face. “Red as frangipani,” Mehuru thought. “Red as a tongue.”

  Frances cleared her throat. “They should not go back in the cellar, where it is so cold and dark and dirty,” she said. “Not now they are washed and have clothes on.”

  Miss Cole was looking out the window, relishing her sense of achievement. “What?”

  “We should teach them to keep clean,” Frances said. She found herself tapping some secret reserve of female cunning, the skill that says one thing while thinking another. “Now we have washed them, and dressed them, they should not go back into a dirty cave in the dark.”

  Miss Cole turned from the window in surprise. “Why not?” she asked.

  “Because they will only have to be washed again, and because they must learn how to keep clean, and sleep in beds, and wear proper clothes,” Frances reasoned. “They should have a light. They should have proper food on plates. They should have a clean floor and benches to sit on.”

  “But they’re slaves!” Miss Cole protested.

  Frances slyly bobbed her head. “I am sorry. I did not understand,” she lied. “I thought they were to be trained as servants.”

  Miss Cole opened her mouth to argue and then hesitated. Frances was right. It could not be too early to start training them in the standards of a proper Christian household. And they could clean the cave themselves.

  “You, Bates,” she said abruptly. “Take them back to the cave and get them to muck it out. Scrub it clean and put down some matting on the floor. Get some benches for them to sit on and put a lantern high on a hook for light.”

  “They should be unchained,” Frances added. She stretched out her hand toward Mehuru’s clenched fists, touched the manacle on his wrist. Mehuru froze as if some unknown animal were brushing against him.

  “Not yet, not yet,” Miss Cole said nervously. She looked around at the impassive black faces. “Not until they are a little more tame.”

  “I could give them some linen to go around the manacles,” John offered from the doorway. “That’d stop them bleeding into their shirts. Help with the smell, too. The sores get filled with pus if they wear irons for too long.”

  “That will do,” Miss Cole said, revolted. “Make whatever arrangements are necessary, Bates. Take these back and bring the others for their lesson this afternoon. And then bring these back tomorrow morning.”

  The driver nodded and stepped to one side. Mehuru watched him carefully, saw the little bow toward the old woman and the more shallow nod to the younger one. So the old one was the senior, as he had thought. He rose from his chair and saw the old one flinch back from his height and strength.

  The others followed him, on their feet and walking with their painful shuffle from the room. They crowded at the top of the stairs, finding the narrow wooden steps frightening. Mehuru touched his mind with the wisdom of Snake—“All skin sheds at last,”—and went down, like a ghostman, one foot after another, his body erect. The others followed his lead. Frances watched the top of Mehuru’s head until he was out of sight in the kitchen and she could hear the rising litany of complaint from the cook.

  “Now,” Miss Cole said coldly, masking her pleasure, “there is an hour left before noon. I suggest that you apply yourself to the housekeeping accounts.”

  Frances turned demurely. “Yes, Sarah,” she said.

  They went back together to the parlor. Miss Cole laid out the bills and the ledger and directed Frances to the pen in the standish. Frances nodded, sat down at the desk, and pulled the ledger toward her.

  Miss Cole drew up a chair at Frances’s elbow and watched the downward march of figures in the columns.

  “Very well.” She gathered her sewing basket and announced that she would leave Frances alone with the ledgers. “You will want to study the