“Did they kill each other?” Doro asked her, and the two little boys looked at him wide-eyed. If they were not young snakes, he would teach them to crawl. Clearly, he did not care what was said before them.
She ignored Doro. “Are you hungry now?” she asked the boys.
One nodded, a little shy. “I am!” the other said quickly.
“Come with me then,” she said. “Rita will give you bread and peach preserve.” She noticed that they did not look to Doro for permission to leave. They jumped up, followed her, and ran out to the kitchen when she pointed it out to them. Rita would not be pleased. It was enough, surely, to ask her to rush supper. But she would feed the children and perhaps send them to Luisa until Anyanwu called for them. Sighing, Anyanwu went back to Doro.
“You were always one to overprotect children,” he commented.
“I only allow them to be children for as long as they will,” she said. “They will grow up and learn of sorrow and evil quickly enough.”
“Tell me about Stephen and Joseph.”
She went to her desk, sat down, and wondered whether she could discuss this calmly with him. She had wept and cursed him so many times. But neither weeping nor cursing would move him.
“Why did you bring me a man without telling me what he could do?” she asked quietly.
“What did he do?”
Anyanwu told him, told him everything, and ended with the same falsely calm question. “Why did you bring me a man without telling me what he could do?”
“Call Margaret,” Doro said, ignoring her question. Margaret was the daughter who had married Joseph.
“Why?”
“Because when I brought Joseph here, he couldn’t do anything. Not anything. He was just good breeding stock with the potential to father useful children. He must have had a transition in spite of his age, and he must have had it here.”
“I would have known. I’m called here whenever anyone is sick. And there were no signs that he was approaching transition.”
“Get Margaret. Let’s talk to her.”
Anyanwu did not want to call the girl. Margaret had suffered more than anyone over the killings, had lost both the beautiful, worthless husband she had loved, and the younger brother she had adored. She had not even a child to console her. Joseph had not managed to make her pregnant. In the month since his and Stephen’s death, the girl had become gaunt and solemn. She had always been a lively girl who talked too much and laughed and kept people around her amused. Now, she hardly spoke at all. She was literally sick with grief. Recently, Helen had taken to sleeping with her and following her around during the day, helping her with her work or merely keeping her company. Anyanwu had watched this warily at first, thinking that Margaret might resent Helen as the cause of Joseph’s trouble?Margaret was not in the most rational of moods?but this was clearly not the case. “She’s getting better,” Helen told Anyanwu confidentially. “She was by herself too much before.” The little girl possessed an interesting combination of ruthlessness, kindness, and keen perception. Anyanwu hoped desperately Doro would never notice her. But the older girl was painfully vulnerable. And now, Doro meant to tear open wounds that had only just begun to heal.
“Let her alone for a while, Doro. This has hurt her more than it’s hurt anyone else.”
“Call her, Anyanwu, or I will.”
Loathing him, Anyanwu went to find Margaret. The girl did not work in the fields as some of Anyanwu’s children did, thus she was nearby. She was in the washhouse sweating and ironing a dress. Helen was with her, sprinkling and rolling other clothing.
“Leave that for a while,” Anyanwu told Margaret. “Come in with me.”
“What is it?” Margaret asked. She put one iron down to heat and, without thinking, picked up another.
“Doro,” Anyanwu said softly.
Margaret froze, holding the heavy iron motionless and upright in the air. Anyanwu took it from her hand and put it down on the bricks of the hearth far from the fire. She moved the other two irons away from where they were heating.
“Don’t try to iron anything,” she told Helen. “I have enough of a bill for cloth now.”
Helen said nothing, only watched as Anyanwu led Margaret away.
Outside the washhouse, Margaret began to tremble. “What does he want with me? Why can’t he leave us alone?”
“He will never leave us alone,” Anyanwu said flatly.
Margaret blinked, looked at Anyanwu. “What shall I do?”
“Answer his questions?all of them, even if they are personal and offensive. Answer and tell him the truth.”
“He scares me.”
“Good. There is very much to fear. Answer him and obey him. Leave any criticizing or disagreeing with him to me.”
There was silence until just before they reached the house. Then Margaret said, “We’re your weakness, aren’t we? You could outrun him for a hundred more years if not for us.”
“I’ve never been content without my own around me,” Anyanwu said. She met the girl’s light brown eyes. “Why do you think I have all these children? I could have husbands and wives and lovers into the next century and never have a child. Why should I have so many except that I want them and love them? If they were burdens too heavy for me, they would not be here. You would not be here.”
