My heart burns.
I don’t have a story or a shanty in me tonight.
I cannot bear to think how distraught Mama and Papa must be. I should never have confronted Andrew. Sometimes I feel I can do nothing right.
I get down on my knees to pray. I remember a benediction from Reverend Lee.
I sign, “Our Lord, there is nothing in this life that is a surprise to You. You see our daily struggles and give us strength to endure through the power of Your Spirit. Create in us clean hearts and help us to remember that our strength comes from You alone. Amen.”
By my rough estimation, it’s been at least three weeks since I was stolen from my rightful place in Chilmark, almost two weeks traveling and eight days of monotonous chores at the inn.
I miss Mama’s cranberry muffins. The way she spoons the batter so that each muffin contains the same amount of fruit. I miss waking up and going to the kitchen in my mobcap and shawl to see what Mama’s baking. I close my eyes for a moment and imagine her looking up from kneading dough in the warm light of the hearth.
If I ever complained about helping Mama with chores, strike me down.
Most of the time, I am kept in the kitchen. The smells from boiled beef and cabbage permeate my clothing and hair. Living on an island and eating fresh shellfish and cod daily, I never knew why people complained of a fishy odor until I tasted one of the landlady’s fish pies. She keeps it sitting too long. The rolls she bakes daily mitigate the smell. I call her Mrs. Muffins. Despite the charming name, I cringe every time she raises her hand. I never know what will set her off. Does she imagine she can unblock my ears by boxing them?
Ever since we arrived in Boston, I haven’t been able to make up a story. Dreams no longer bother my sleep. I am too exhausted from housework. I remember nothing in the morning. Is this how Helen and Sally feel working in homes like the Skiffes? How do they keep up good cheer?
I haven’t washed my gown and shift since I arrived, and my stench offends even me. I am grateful my room does not contain a looking glass.
When I’m not in the kitchen, I dust. Due to the open fires, dust is everywhere. I use a chamois cloth, and then shake it out. When the cloth is too dirty, I put it in the laundry bag. When we have a pile of dirty cloths and bedsheets, we wash them. The chores never end.
Today when I finish dusting, Mrs. Muffins has me bring Andrew a mug of warm rum. As usual, he is in the parlor writing, a sealed jar of Chilmark water next to him on the table. He looks me up and down with cruel disgust.
My fears that he would examine my person have not come to pass. Was I brought as a live specimen for his correspondent? Who is this person? When will he appear?
When Andrew drops some of his papers and I stoop to pick them up, he kicks my backside. Bruises already bloom on my arms and ribs from the pinches and jabs he subjects me to whenever he moves past.
In the kitchen, while we wash bedsheets, Mrs. Muffins hands me the bucket for more hot water. I watch her mouth to understand the words for “hot” and “water.” I can almost recognize them. Then she starts talking about something unrelated, and I’m lost again. She talks constantly.
I remember seeing Ezra Brewer standing on top of a cliff on a windy day, signing with broad strokes to fishermen on the beach below. He asked them how many fish they’d caught. It is so easy to understand each other with signs.
When Mrs. Muffins wants me out of the way—to go out on errands, or if I’ve accidentally burned a tray of rolls—she locks me in my room for hours.
I had hoped Mama, Papa, and Ezra Brewer would have rescued me by this time.
What if they never find me? If only I could steal rag paper, a quill pen, and ink from Andrew’s room, I could implore Mrs. Muffins for help. But I fear she is loyal to Andrew. I’ve noticed she keeps her ledger close by at all times, going over her accounts. Or else she locks it in a desk in the parlor. It would be near impossible to lay my hands on it. The boarder Mr. Squints may be my only hope.
When I have a moment free from chores, I watch him around a corner. He catches my eye and nods in a friendly fashion. He seems curious. At first, Andrew doesn’t notice that Mr. Squints is genial toward me. I know that this will not last long. And Mrs. Muffins keeps me so busy with chores, I have nary a moment to myself to try to figure out how to communicate with him. If I seem distressed, will he try to help me? Or will he go to Andrew or Mrs. Muffins out of good but mistaken will?
I must discover his intentions.
Serving porridge and rolls with tea one morning, I linger in the dining room. The space is cramped, six chairs at a round table and a sideboard loaded with chipped dishes and cups. A grimy etching of the harbor hangs on the wall. I take my time finding a trivet to lay under the teapot.
I feel a low din. When I look up, I see Andrew laughing. He has two tin plates in his hands. I guess he banged them together to mock my deafness.
I quickly glance at Mr. Squints. He looks at Andrew with visible disgust. When he meets my eyes, his face reddens.
He knows I am deaf, and he
