“Sorry, miss, but Mr. Grayson would like to see you.”
I climb off the bed and yawn, groggy and disoriented from myfirst real sleep in days. Cordie hands me my cane, and we go downstairstogether. She does not rush me as we walk across the foyer. Any interactionwith my father is undesirable, and even more so when he is intoxicated. Itsounds as though he has company—five males in all, at my count—discussing therecent drop in the value of silver.
Our butler is standing nearby and opens the study door.
“Ah, Hester,” my father murmurs. “Come here.”
Realizing that I left my spectacles in my bedroom, I pause atthe threshold, considering the best course of action to take. Should I returnand fetch them? Send Cordelia instead?
“As I said, gentlemen, she is slow-witted and disobedient.”
I lean against the door frame, stunned at my father’s words. Hedescribes me as slow-witted? On the day my mother is put in her tomb? This islow, even for him.
“There are treatments available,” a man replies. “To cureaberrant personalities.”
I do not know the person connected to the voice, but he is anidiot. I can tell that much already.
“Exactly, Doctor,” Father agrees. “That’s why I contacted you.”
The stranger moves to my side, and I catch a whiff of driedsweat and verbena cologne. I feel Cordelia’s body swing toward him. “What areyou doing?” she asks, voice strident.
My father backs away, smelling of hatred, like a vast pool ofcongealed blood. “Take her.”
Someone grabs me about the waist, and I cannot manage more thana few poorly aimed kicks. A cold metal band snaps around my right wrist,followed by another on the left. What are they? Handcuffs? No! Please get themoff! Cordelia begins arguing with my father.
“As of this moment,” he announces loudly, “you are fired, MissCollins. Pack your things and leave my house immediately.”
My fur cloak is slung over me—I believe it is the butler whodoes this—and the ribbons at my throat are quickly tied.
Father’s voice is flat and hard. “I’ve honored your mother’swishes, but now you’re going where you’ve always belonged.”
Is this a nightmare? It must be. Wake up, Hester. Wake up!
A cloth covers my face, held firmly in place by a beefy hand. Iscratch and pull at his arm, but I’m overwhelmed by a strange chemical odor. Mythoughts grow abstract, and I have the sensation of sinking further into thearms that hold me, of losing the will to fight.
“See here, what’s all this about?” Sim Harrow cries.
Help me, Sim. Don’t let them…
Dizzy and nauseous, I wake up on a smelly blanket. Afterlistening for a few seconds, I realize that I’m riding in the back of a wagon.My hand pushes against a canvas tarp, fastened over the top of the wagon’s bed.The violent bouncing of the vehicle matches the pounding in my skull, and Icannot sit up or move more than a few inches from side to side. More blanketsare spread across my body, nearly smothering me, but at least I won’t freeze todeath.
It sounds as though I am accompanied by two men—one is driving,the other riding shotgun. According to my traveling companions, I have sleptthe night away and it is midmorning. They are disgruntled that someone named Dr.Faust has taken a train while they are forced to plod along with me in the wagon.
“Will you be adding her to your harem, Roy?” the passengerasks, as though he is bored and making routine conversation.
He can’t be serious.
“I am, Titus,” the driver replies. “Never had a rich girl.”
“Won’t be much different than a poor one. They’re all the samewith your eyes closed. When’s it happening? I’d like to make myself scarce.”
Roy snaps the reins. “Be obliged if you would.”
The more they converse, the more I hate them.
“Let’s take a break in that canyon up ahead.” Titus coughs andblows mucus from his nose. “Food first?”
“Sure,” says Roy.
I shove the disgusting blankets away and turn on my side,searching for some kind of weapon. There must be something! If I didn’t givemyself to Tom, whom I love, I certainly won’t be despoiled by a patheticdeviant smelling of pickled onions. Of course, the two imbeciles pay noattention to my movements under the tarp. They continue to talk. About theirwives and children… the pitfalls of working for Faust… saloon rotgut versushome-brew. And Roy’s superstitious fear of his next birthday.
The wagon turns in a half circle and stops. Titus and Roy climbout, and I hear them shaking something. Heavy fabric? A wool blanket, perhaps?They collect their dinner pails and the tarp is untied and thrown back. I ampulled up by my elbows and then lifted from the wagon. The wind whistles andwhines against the mountains and smells of wet sage and mud. It makes my eyes water.I can’t detect any sounds of life or civilization nearby.
“Calm down,” Titus says. “Stop that kicking!”
Roy instantly takes charge of me. “Oh, she’ll cooperate. Won’tyou, honey?”
Like hell. I spit at his face.
He curses and drags me away by the hair. At first I’m shockedby the pain but the rage sets in a few seconds later. How dare this man hurtme? Fear churns in my gut and my scalp blazes, nevertheless I scratch, pound atRoy’s hand. Then I change tactics and make myself dead weight. Roy throws me tothe ground. As I kick at him, I scoot back over the snow and grass until I bumpinto a gnarled tree trunk. It’s dry and brittle—like an old juniper that’s seenhealthier days. Roy pins my legs with his knee, unhooks one of my cuffs andattaches it to a juniper branch.
“Ain’t no point in fighting,” he says, slapping at my boot as Ijab the tip at him. “Hear
