A Mischief in the Woodwork - By Harper Alexander Page 0,28

Winifred Sebastian had seen it. I recalled the tower she had witnessed as it crumbled to the ground.

Tanen considered me, and seemed to decide it wasn't worth speaking of these things to me. I was not a very sympathetic ear.

With more determination, I raked my eyes back down to the pages in my grasp. I had been stuck on the very same sentence for far too long.

Was I being entirely too insensitive? This man had lost things, I reminded myself. What had I lost? In essence, nothing. I had gained freedom because of the devastation. It occurred to me that I was perhaps unfairly void of empathy for the plight that these times meant for others.

It humbled me for a moment, and then I realized I had neglected that same sentence yet again. It hovered on the page before me, unable to anchor me. And it was then that I... said Winifred Sebastian.

Then that you what? I demanded, and drilled on without patience for the tentative words, wishing they would speak up instead of letting my attention wander.

Presently, Letta called out that breakfast was ready. I turned to poke the fire and tucked away the diary while I was at it, and then rose to join the others in the kitchen. Tanen, having risen and donned his coat with a sense of finality, or formality (or both), followed me in.

Letta had already dished up two bowls. I reached for the empty stack of broken old crockery and began serving some to be taken up to the Masters. Tanen paused in the doorway, waiting as we served. Letta glanced up at his idle posture, and nudged a bowl toward him, indicating he ought to start. I slopped the swollen oats into a bowl and set it on the counter to start another.

Tanen came forth as urged, and reached for a bowl. His fingers passed the entity Letta had indicated, and went right for a bowl I had served instead. I caught this, and watched with suspicion out of the corner of my eye. It was a farther reach for him to take one of the bowls I had served. It went against logic, as well as what had been indicated.

But not against prejudice.

My hackles burned. I felt like slapping his hand. Like biting his hand. The next spoonful of oats slopped hard into the bowl in my grasp.

Still acting ignorantly discreet, Tanen moved gracefully from the scene. My eyes burned into his back.

Letta seemed not to have noticed.

It was hard to muster the self control to resist marching in there and demanding what he thought he was accomplishing by avoiding Letta's offering. She had gone to the trouble of insisting he stay for breakfast, and he returned the decency by exercising prejudice? She had still picked the oats with her hands, I wanted to tell him. She had still cooked it with her hands. Not even the Masters would pull such a stunt as he had, and anyone who kept a slave obviously thought themselves superior. But it was her job, as a slave, to sustain them. To serve them food. They thought themselves superior, but did not avoid her like a plague of death.

My stomach churned with anger. The sludge of oats in my bowl lost its appeal, never mind that I was hungry. With an effort, I continued serving without any climactic outburst, and willed myself to carefully lay the bowl aside and go for another.

Dashsund appeared then, sidling into the kitchen. His hand went gently to my shoulder as he moved past me. His tenderness struck a chord in me, and I softened for that moment, touched by that casual but meaningful contact. But then the upset feeling returned as I got out the tray and banged it a little harder than necessary on the counter to be loaded. An eye or two glanced up at the rattle, but I offered no explanation, and they did not ask.

“Where's Henry?” I forced out instead, to divert attention.

“Mending the back shutters,” Dashsund replied.

I nodded, stiffly, and then whisked the laden tray off the counter to spirit it upstairs.

It was tempting, as I traversed the living room, to dump the contents quite 'accidentally' into Tanen's muscled lap.

“Make ready to leave,” I bade curtly, and whisked up the hem of my skirt to ascend the stairs.

At the end of the hallway, I quieted my footsteps and put my ear to the door for a moment before delivering breakfast. Every now and then