Lee interlude: Enter Gwen
Sep. 20th, 2008 11:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maculategiraffeMeh. I've been rewriting this one forever. It's one of those things where I keep "finishing" it, but then I go to do what I think is last-minute tweaking, and the more I tweak the more I realize it's too deeply flawed to fix by tweaking and I'm actually going to have to scrap almost everything I have and start over, so I've written it about five or six times. I'd better post it quick, now.
"Mr. Larssen," said the uniformed figure in the doorway, as the slave breaker helped Gwen to her feet. "You realize that if anything untoward should happen to this girl-- if she should become ill and die, or escape, while under your care-- it would seriously weaken your case against Lord Dunaev. Even if you couldn't have prevented it. And if there were any hint of—negligence—well, Lord Dunaev can afford the best legal assistance. You’ll be watched, closely. Not just by the press corps."
Mr. Larssen looked at the officer for a moment before he said, "Yes, I realize all that."
“Just making sure,” the woman said.
Gwen guessed that meant Mr. Larssen couldn’t kill her without really inconveniencing himself.
Well, that was nice for her.
In the back seat of the police car, Gwen watched the slave breaker's profile in the front as trees scurried by the car windows on their purposeful way to somewhere. The man looked exhausted, she thought; his face was pale, and the furrows in his brow looked permanent. The eye she could see wasn't the swollen, distorted one in the middle of the bruise on his face; it was just distant and worried. There was gray in his hair; he was probably older than her master, but he looked gentler, and Gwen had liked his voice, quiet and helpful and reasonable. Of course, he might have a temper that wouldn't show until later-- or he might just be trying to get her off her guard. You couldn't rule that out, certainly not this soon.
On the way to the car, he'd asked her whether she had any injuries that needed tending (she'd told him no; she had a few bruises and welts, but nothing worth mentioning) and how long she'd belonged to Lord Dunaev (she'd estimated a month, though she really wasn't sure; it wasn't as though keeping track of the days was particularly high on her list of priorities) and how old she was (definitely seventeen).
"Do you have anything you want to ask me?" he'd asked then, as he motioned her into the back seat of the police car.
Gwen had a lot of things she wanted to ask him, but most of them weren't matters of survival or safety, just considerable curiosity. She'd tried, while he closed the door and got in the front seat himself, to think of important questions that were both likely to get truthful answers and unlikely to get her in trouble.
"How should I address you, sir?" she asked when he looked back expectantly at her.
"'Sir' is fine," said Mr. Larssen. "You should call my wife 'ma'am,' and my slaves by their names. The other person you're likely to run into at my house is Fox, the free woman who cooks for us and prefers slaves to call her by her name rather than a title."
Gwen liked that answer, which gave her more information than she'd actually requested but not more than it would be helpful for her to know. She considered for a moment.
"How long, for sure, before my master's out of jail?" she asked.
"Until tomorrow morning," Mr. Larssen answered. "It isn't at all likely he'll be out that soon, but that's the longest we can be absolutely sure he'll be in there. More realistically, I'd guess a few days before he's out, a week or so before he starts agitating for you back-- if he does. He may decide it's better to lay low and not start any more trouble than he's already in. Because your master is noted for his prudence and good sense in the face of adversity."
Gwen didn't consider it politic for a slave to smile at sarcastic remarks about her master, although she rather liked that Mr. Larssen made them. He'd been right that her heart wasn't broken at the news of her master's arrest; the first thing he'd done after buying her was beat her fairly badly for no particular reason, and though he hadn't done it again and she'd found she could generally avoid punishment by trying hard enough, it hadn't exactly endeared him to her. She hadn't been fond of the mistress who'd sold her to him either, but she'd done okay with them both, all things considered. She wasn't too worried about this Mr. Larssen.
“Gwen,” he said eventually, and she snapped to attention, lowering her eyes deferentially and murmuring, “Sir.”
“I’m going to tell you something about where we’re going,” said Mr. Larssen. “My wife and I own several slaves at the moment. Greta belongs to my wife, Lee has the status of ‘trainee’—which means I’ll be reselling him for a profit—and my own boys are Bran, Yves, and Jer. Jer’s in the hospital right now, but I’m hoping he’ll be home soon. You’ll notice our slaves taking certain liberties with us that you wouldn’t be allowed with your master. That does not mean you are allowed the same liberties. You don’t belong to me, not even as a trainee—you still belong to Lord Dunaev. That means you should continue to behave in the way that Lord Dunaev would consider appropriate. Ordinarily I’m a retrainer, but that’s because ordinarily I resell. I won’t be retraining you—you should keep to your current training, so that if—if you have to come back here, the transition won’t be too difficult. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” said Gwen, as the car finally pulled up outside a house that seemed to be partially surrounded by a small crowd of people with cameras. Some of the people were sitting down on the ground, but they jumped up when they saw the car and started taking pictures of Gwen. Gwen looked back nervously at Mr. Larssen, who had his fingers at his forehead as if to massage away a headache.
"We'll keep a couple of officers here, just in case," said the police officer from the driver's seat. "Just until this all dies down. We'll take it in shifts. Shouldn't be any trouble for you-- just a little extra protection."
"Thank you," said Mr. Larssen, sounding extremely sincere, and the policewoman smiled at him.
"Do you need a ride to the hospital?" she asked. "To check on your slave? Your wife took your car, didn't she?"
"I don't want to impose on your good nature-- and the police department's," said Mr. Larssen, smiling back; he had a nice-looking smile. "I'll call a cab. Thank you so much, Officer--"
"Vinland," said the policewoman. "You're welcome. Thank you for your cooperation."
Mr. Larssen opened the door for Gwen, who was trying not to wonder too much why Mr. Larssen's slave was in the hospital, and put an unexpected arm around her, walking her through the gap in the crowd that was being held open by two police officers. Gwen kept her eyes down as he led her in the front door, removed his arm from around her, and locked the door securely behind them.
"Are you hungry?" he asked, making her feel immediately faint with the hunger she'd managed to keep at the back of her mind until he mentioned it.
"Only if it please you, sir," she said carefully.
"Yes, well, it doesn't, particularly," he said, "but I'm guessing that means we should get you some food. Hello, l—Yves," he added, as someone came hurrying down the stairs; stealing a glance upwards, Gwen caught a glimpse of a tall, fair man in a green slave tunic. "Heard anything from the hospital?"
"Not yet, master," said the man's voice. "Is this--?"
"This is Gwen," said Mr. Larssen again. "Gwen, this is my slave Yves. You may look up. Gwen is one of Lord Dunaev's personal effects and has been confiscated by the law by the time being."
Gwen looked up into Yves' handsome, blue-eyed face, which was smiling at her in a way that seemed friendly, although you never knew.
"Hi, Gwen," he said. "Welcome. Master, Lee is really upset-- he's blaming himself for Jer getting hurt. And Bran's-- I think they're both in shock, really, from what happened earlier. Lee worse than Bran, and Bran's been trying to hold it together to comfort Lee. I've been doing what I can, but-- they need you."
Mr. Larssen nodded.
"Can you get Gwen something to eat, while I go up there?" he asked. "Or-- where's Greta?"
"On the phone with Valor," Yves answered, nodding towards a passageway into the rest of the house, from which Gwen could hear, faintly and intermittently, a woman's voice. "Who's a bit of a celebrity on campus at the moment, apparently. She called a little while ago-- Greta is catching her up on what's been going on around here. Are you going to the hospital?"
"Yes," said Mr. Larssen. "I need to stay with Jer-- Alix can come home and take charge of Gwen. But first let me check on the boys, and you get Gwen something to eat."
He stepped closer to Yves and said something in his ear that Gwen couldn’t hear. Yves frowned, glanced at Gwen, and said, not very happily, “Yes, master.”
In the kitchen, Yves gestured to Gwen to sit down at the table while he poured her a glass of water, then started slicing a loaf of bread and spreading it thickly with some kind of paste. He put the sandwich on a plate when it was finished and put it in front of Gwen.
"Eat up," he said. "If you're as hungry as Bran was when he first got here, you need it."
"Thank you," she said, and hesitated. "May I use my hands?"
"Yes," said Yves, with an odd look. "You may."
Gwen lost no time devouring the sandwich, which tasted much better than she'd expected; when her plate was empty, Yves came to take it from her. That made her a little nervous; surely anyone as obviously favored by their master as Yves must feel some resentment at being ordered to serve someone like Gwen, who didn't even really belong here. Best to make a placating move early on, she thought, since even if he wasn't interested, establishing that she was willing would also establish that she knew her place relative to him, and that was never a bad thing.
"Thank you, Yves," she said, softly and huskily and very gratefully, and deliberately let her hand press lingeringly against his arm as he leaned over her.
He noticed, and smiled at her, but it wasn't a gratified or lecherous smile; it looked, if anything, rather sad.
"Word to the wise," he said over his shoulder, on his way to the sink with her plate. "If you were a trainee you’d be welcome to try that stuff on the master—if you didn’t mind getting an earful of constructive feedback on your technique. But as things stand now, just don't try it, especially not with with us slaves. It won't work, and the master won’t like it. He wouldn't punish you for making a pass at one of us, not the first time, but he'd be irritated. And it's in everybody's best interest to keep the master from getting irritated, isn't it?"
Gwen nodded, genuinely grateful for his friendly, matter-of-fact tone-- she'd never been rejected so kindly before-- and for the advice, which should definitely come in handy. Yves came back over and patted her shoulder in an avuncular sort of way.
"Besides," he said, "you don't need to seduce me. Nobody here has any reason to resent you. Are you still hungry?"
Gwen hesitated. "When will I get the chance to eat again?"
"We usually eat dinner around seven,” Yves answered. “You’ll eat then, too. And our master doesn’t take away food as a punishment.”
"I think I've had enough for now, then," Gwen said. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," said Yves. "Do you have any other questions I can answer?"
Gwen considered. She didn't entirely trust Yves-- it didn't pay to trust people too quickly-- but he'd been really decent about the pass she'd made, and if he'd wanted to get nasty, that would have been a perfect opportunity. He didn't have to offer to answer her questions, so he must not mind answering them, and she really was anxious to know--
"Why is Jer in the hospital?" she asked.
"That's such a good question," said Yves, "and the answer is such a long story. Let’s see. Two months ago or so, my master bought Lee from your master. Lee was in such bad shape that my master's daughter Valor, who's an abolitionist--"
"The slave breakers' daughter is an abolitionist?" Gwen interrupted, too surprised to be cautious.
"Yes," said Yves. "That's another long story. Anyway, she called in a couple of friends to write an exposé on how badly some slaves are treated, using your master as an example of the worst abuses. The article came out this morning, and your master must have seen it--"
(Gwen was fairly sure she’d seen him see it.)
"And apparently it made him so angry that he decided to come over to my master's house and kill somebody," Yves continued. "In front of the entire nation's worth of press correspondents. So Lee, who is basically the sweetest and least sensible kid ever, decided to be a hero and get himself killed for the cameras. As I understand it, he was mostly interested in saving the hypothetical kid Dunaev might go home and kill instead. Which would be you, by the way."
"Lee got killed?" Gwen asked, bewildered.
"No, no, no," said Yves. "Lee ran out there to get himself killed, but Jer jumped in to save him and took the kicking your master meant for Lee. Except Jer is tougher than boot leather, so he didn't get killed either, just hurt badly enough to put him in the hospital."
"Oh," said Gwen, not really understanding why Jer had "jumped in," but registering that Jer did have reason to resent her, since she was obliquely responsible for his injuries. She'd have to watch out for him, if she was still here when he got out of the hospital.
Yves was about to say something else when there was a noise in the doorway and Mr. Larssen came back in, his arm around a small, slender, dark-haired young man in the household's green tunic; standing just behind him was another green-clad young man, this one tall and long-limbed, with curly light-brown hair and striking gray eyes.
The dark-haired one stepped out of the crook of his master's arm and towards Gwen, who sat still, not sure what she should do. He stared at her for what seemed like a long time, and then reached out and touched her hair, making her wonder if one of the “liberties” Mr. Larssen allowed his slaves, like one of the benefits that accrued to Lord Dunaev’s friends, would be free access to Gwen.
But the boy pulled back quickly and looked up at Mr. Larssen, who said, "Gwen, this is Lee, and this is Bran. Yves, would you call me a cab? Don't kick Greta off the phone, but if she wants to talk much longer, tell her she can call Val back in a couple of minutes. Gwen," he said, as Yves disappeared past him and Bran into the hall, "I'm sorry to leave you so soon, but once I get to the hospital, my wife can come home, and she can take charge of you. In the meantime, do as Yves tells you, and you'll be fine. No one will hurt you."
"Thank you, sir," Gwen answered, her eyes lowered to the floor again.
"Master," said the dark-haired boy softly, from beside Gwen, "when you go-- please--"
"Please what, sweetheart?" Mr. Larssen asked, his cool, matter-of-fact voice shifting into something warmer and sweeter.
"May I go with you?" Lee asked, and when Mr. Larssen hesitated, "Please, master-- I need--"
"You need to see him?" Mr. Larssen finished, looking thoughtful. "Okay, Lee. The hospital may not like it, but if they get really belligerent, I can always send you back home with Alix after you've visited with Jer a little."
Lee darted back to his master and flung his arms around him without invitation; some of the lines of worry and fatigue seemed to smooth themselves out of Mr. Larssen’s face as his arms went around the boy in return. Something happened in Gwen's chest at that, some dangerous quivering and loosening; she sucked in her breath, trying to make it stop.
"Master?" said a red-haired woman in a green tunic, coming in, and then, with a smile, "Hello, you must be Gwen. I'm Greta. Master, Valor wants to come home."
"I don't think that's a good idea," said Mr. Larssen, "do you?"
"No," said Greta. "I told her not to."
“Did she listen?” Mr. Larssen asked, still holding Lee close.
Valor, according to what Yves had said, was the master's daughter. That a slave should have told her what to do, and then blithely announced the fact to the master without even granting the young lady any title, was inexplicable enough; that the master didn’t strike or even reprimand her was utterly bizarre. But maybe it was because, as he’d said, she belonged to his wife; maybe there were different rules about that. Gwen's own master wasn't married, so she didn't really know.
"You never can tell with Val," said Greta.
Mr. Larssen didn't even blink at the nickname.
"No, you can't, can you?" he agreed.
Gwen was so puzzled about the way everyone here seemed to act around each other that she didn't notice Bran's approach until he was almost on her; when she did, her heart nearly stopped.
"Gwen, are you okay?" Bran asked her, reaching out to touch her arm. "You're really pale."
She didn't answer; she wished she dared shake off his touch, but she certainly couldn't afford any such disrespect towards Mr. Larssen’s slaves. Now Lee was peeling himself off of Mr. Larssen, coming towards her; he knelt down-- confusingly, and rather upsettingly-- at her feet, and peered up into her face with an anxious, affectionate expression. Gwen looked away.
“Boys,” said Mr. Larssen, rather sharply, and the hand left her arm immediately as Lee, still kneeling, looked up worriedly at his master. “Gwen, I realize your master only keeps one slave at a time, so what I told you about keeping to your training doesn’t exactly apply, but you’re doing fine. Bran and Lee both feel a certain kinship with you because they both once belonged to your master, so they’re trying to be friendly. Bran, Lee, remember what I told you-- until we know more about what’s going to happen, it’s best if you don’t get too close.”
“Master,” said Bran, in a soft, pleading voice, and Mr. Larssen closed his eyes for a moment, the black and purple bruise on his face standing out in ugly relief against the paleness of his face, before he said, “Let’s not discuss it right now, kid.”
"Master?" said Yves, coming back in. "The cab's on its way. I'm going to draw up a file for Gwen, if that's okay-- just basic information, height and weight and provenance and all—and I thought maybe I should phone Dr. Carey and ask her to come check Gwen over, just in case. I thought it would be a good idea to have the doctor able to testify in court, if nothing else. May I?"
"Yes, good idea,” said Mr. Larssen. “Lee, go put on your shoes. We need to make sure Jer is all right.”
"Mr. Larssen," said the uniformed figure in the doorway, as the slave breaker helped Gwen to her feet. "You realize that if anything untoward should happen to this girl-- if she should become ill and die, or escape, while under your care-- it would seriously weaken your case against Lord Dunaev. Even if you couldn't have prevented it. And if there were any hint of—negligence—well, Lord Dunaev can afford the best legal assistance. You’ll be watched, closely. Not just by the press corps."
Mr. Larssen looked at the officer for a moment before he said, "Yes, I realize all that."
“Just making sure,” the woman said.
Gwen guessed that meant Mr. Larssen couldn’t kill her without really inconveniencing himself.
Well, that was nice for her.
In the back seat of the police car, Gwen watched the slave breaker's profile in the front as trees scurried by the car windows on their purposeful way to somewhere. The man looked exhausted, she thought; his face was pale, and the furrows in his brow looked permanent. The eye she could see wasn't the swollen, distorted one in the middle of the bruise on his face; it was just distant and worried. There was gray in his hair; he was probably older than her master, but he looked gentler, and Gwen had liked his voice, quiet and helpful and reasonable. Of course, he might have a temper that wouldn't show until later-- or he might just be trying to get her off her guard. You couldn't rule that out, certainly not this soon.
On the way to the car, he'd asked her whether she had any injuries that needed tending (she'd told him no; she had a few bruises and welts, but nothing worth mentioning) and how long she'd belonged to Lord Dunaev (she'd estimated a month, though she really wasn't sure; it wasn't as though keeping track of the days was particularly high on her list of priorities) and how old she was (definitely seventeen).
"Do you have anything you want to ask me?" he'd asked then, as he motioned her into the back seat of the police car.
Gwen had a lot of things she wanted to ask him, but most of them weren't matters of survival or safety, just considerable curiosity. She'd tried, while he closed the door and got in the front seat himself, to think of important questions that were both likely to get truthful answers and unlikely to get her in trouble.
"How should I address you, sir?" she asked when he looked back expectantly at her.
"'Sir' is fine," said Mr. Larssen. "You should call my wife 'ma'am,' and my slaves by their names. The other person you're likely to run into at my house is Fox, the free woman who cooks for us and prefers slaves to call her by her name rather than a title."
Gwen liked that answer, which gave her more information than she'd actually requested but not more than it would be helpful for her to know. She considered for a moment.
"How long, for sure, before my master's out of jail?" she asked.
"Until tomorrow morning," Mr. Larssen answered. "It isn't at all likely he'll be out that soon, but that's the longest we can be absolutely sure he'll be in there. More realistically, I'd guess a few days before he's out, a week or so before he starts agitating for you back-- if he does. He may decide it's better to lay low and not start any more trouble than he's already in. Because your master is noted for his prudence and good sense in the face of adversity."
Gwen didn't consider it politic for a slave to smile at sarcastic remarks about her master, although she rather liked that Mr. Larssen made them. He'd been right that her heart wasn't broken at the news of her master's arrest; the first thing he'd done after buying her was beat her fairly badly for no particular reason, and though he hadn't done it again and she'd found she could generally avoid punishment by trying hard enough, it hadn't exactly endeared him to her. She hadn't been fond of the mistress who'd sold her to him either, but she'd done okay with them both, all things considered. She wasn't too worried about this Mr. Larssen.
“Gwen,” he said eventually, and she snapped to attention, lowering her eyes deferentially and murmuring, “Sir.”
“I’m going to tell you something about where we’re going,” said Mr. Larssen. “My wife and I own several slaves at the moment. Greta belongs to my wife, Lee has the status of ‘trainee’—which means I’ll be reselling him for a profit—and my own boys are Bran, Yves, and Jer. Jer’s in the hospital right now, but I’m hoping he’ll be home soon. You’ll notice our slaves taking certain liberties with us that you wouldn’t be allowed with your master. That does not mean you are allowed the same liberties. You don’t belong to me, not even as a trainee—you still belong to Lord Dunaev. That means you should continue to behave in the way that Lord Dunaev would consider appropriate. Ordinarily I’m a retrainer, but that’s because ordinarily I resell. I won’t be retraining you—you should keep to your current training, so that if—if you have to come back here, the transition won’t be too difficult. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” said Gwen, as the car finally pulled up outside a house that seemed to be partially surrounded by a small crowd of people with cameras. Some of the people were sitting down on the ground, but they jumped up when they saw the car and started taking pictures of Gwen. Gwen looked back nervously at Mr. Larssen, who had his fingers at his forehead as if to massage away a headache.
"We'll keep a couple of officers here, just in case," said the police officer from the driver's seat. "Just until this all dies down. We'll take it in shifts. Shouldn't be any trouble for you-- just a little extra protection."
"Thank you," said Mr. Larssen, sounding extremely sincere, and the policewoman smiled at him.
"Do you need a ride to the hospital?" she asked. "To check on your slave? Your wife took your car, didn't she?"
"I don't want to impose on your good nature-- and the police department's," said Mr. Larssen, smiling back; he had a nice-looking smile. "I'll call a cab. Thank you so much, Officer--"
"Vinland," said the policewoman. "You're welcome. Thank you for your cooperation."
Mr. Larssen opened the door for Gwen, who was trying not to wonder too much why Mr. Larssen's slave was in the hospital, and put an unexpected arm around her, walking her through the gap in the crowd that was being held open by two police officers. Gwen kept her eyes down as he led her in the front door, removed his arm from around her, and locked the door securely behind them.
"Are you hungry?" he asked, making her feel immediately faint with the hunger she'd managed to keep at the back of her mind until he mentioned it.
"Only if it please you, sir," she said carefully.
"Yes, well, it doesn't, particularly," he said, "but I'm guessing that means we should get you some food. Hello, l—Yves," he added, as someone came hurrying down the stairs; stealing a glance upwards, Gwen caught a glimpse of a tall, fair man in a green slave tunic. "Heard anything from the hospital?"
"Not yet, master," said the man's voice. "Is this--?"
"This is Gwen," said Mr. Larssen again. "Gwen, this is my slave Yves. You may look up. Gwen is one of Lord Dunaev's personal effects and has been confiscated by the law by the time being."
Gwen looked up into Yves' handsome, blue-eyed face, which was smiling at her in a way that seemed friendly, although you never knew.
"Hi, Gwen," he said. "Welcome. Master, Lee is really upset-- he's blaming himself for Jer getting hurt. And Bran's-- I think they're both in shock, really, from what happened earlier. Lee worse than Bran, and Bran's been trying to hold it together to comfort Lee. I've been doing what I can, but-- they need you."
Mr. Larssen nodded.
"Can you get Gwen something to eat, while I go up there?" he asked. "Or-- where's Greta?"
"On the phone with Valor," Yves answered, nodding towards a passageway into the rest of the house, from which Gwen could hear, faintly and intermittently, a woman's voice. "Who's a bit of a celebrity on campus at the moment, apparently. She called a little while ago-- Greta is catching her up on what's been going on around here. Are you going to the hospital?"
"Yes," said Mr. Larssen. "I need to stay with Jer-- Alix can come home and take charge of Gwen. But first let me check on the boys, and you get Gwen something to eat."
He stepped closer to Yves and said something in his ear that Gwen couldn’t hear. Yves frowned, glanced at Gwen, and said, not very happily, “Yes, master.”
In the kitchen, Yves gestured to Gwen to sit down at the table while he poured her a glass of water, then started slicing a loaf of bread and spreading it thickly with some kind of paste. He put the sandwich on a plate when it was finished and put it in front of Gwen.
"Eat up," he said. "If you're as hungry as Bran was when he first got here, you need it."
"Thank you," she said, and hesitated. "May I use my hands?"
"Yes," said Yves, with an odd look. "You may."
Gwen lost no time devouring the sandwich, which tasted much better than she'd expected; when her plate was empty, Yves came to take it from her. That made her a little nervous; surely anyone as obviously favored by their master as Yves must feel some resentment at being ordered to serve someone like Gwen, who didn't even really belong here. Best to make a placating move early on, she thought, since even if he wasn't interested, establishing that she was willing would also establish that she knew her place relative to him, and that was never a bad thing.
"Thank you, Yves," she said, softly and huskily and very gratefully, and deliberately let her hand press lingeringly against his arm as he leaned over her.
He noticed, and smiled at her, but it wasn't a gratified or lecherous smile; it looked, if anything, rather sad.
"Word to the wise," he said over his shoulder, on his way to the sink with her plate. "If you were a trainee you’d be welcome to try that stuff on the master—if you didn’t mind getting an earful of constructive feedback on your technique. But as things stand now, just don't try it, especially not with with us slaves. It won't work, and the master won’t like it. He wouldn't punish you for making a pass at one of us, not the first time, but he'd be irritated. And it's in everybody's best interest to keep the master from getting irritated, isn't it?"
Gwen nodded, genuinely grateful for his friendly, matter-of-fact tone-- she'd never been rejected so kindly before-- and for the advice, which should definitely come in handy. Yves came back over and patted her shoulder in an avuncular sort of way.
"Besides," he said, "you don't need to seduce me. Nobody here has any reason to resent you. Are you still hungry?"
Gwen hesitated. "When will I get the chance to eat again?"
"We usually eat dinner around seven,” Yves answered. “You’ll eat then, too. And our master doesn’t take away food as a punishment.”
"I think I've had enough for now, then," Gwen said. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," said Yves. "Do you have any other questions I can answer?"
Gwen considered. She didn't entirely trust Yves-- it didn't pay to trust people too quickly-- but he'd been really decent about the pass she'd made, and if he'd wanted to get nasty, that would have been a perfect opportunity. He didn't have to offer to answer her questions, so he must not mind answering them, and she really was anxious to know--
"Why is Jer in the hospital?" she asked.
"That's such a good question," said Yves, "and the answer is such a long story. Let’s see. Two months ago or so, my master bought Lee from your master. Lee was in such bad shape that my master's daughter Valor, who's an abolitionist--"
"The slave breakers' daughter is an abolitionist?" Gwen interrupted, too surprised to be cautious.
"Yes," said Yves. "That's another long story. Anyway, she called in a couple of friends to write an exposé on how badly some slaves are treated, using your master as an example of the worst abuses. The article came out this morning, and your master must have seen it--"
(Gwen was fairly sure she’d seen him see it.)
"And apparently it made him so angry that he decided to come over to my master's house and kill somebody," Yves continued. "In front of the entire nation's worth of press correspondents. So Lee, who is basically the sweetest and least sensible kid ever, decided to be a hero and get himself killed for the cameras. As I understand it, he was mostly interested in saving the hypothetical kid Dunaev might go home and kill instead. Which would be you, by the way."
"Lee got killed?" Gwen asked, bewildered.
"No, no, no," said Yves. "Lee ran out there to get himself killed, but Jer jumped in to save him and took the kicking your master meant for Lee. Except Jer is tougher than boot leather, so he didn't get killed either, just hurt badly enough to put him in the hospital."
"Oh," said Gwen, not really understanding why Jer had "jumped in," but registering that Jer did have reason to resent her, since she was obliquely responsible for his injuries. She'd have to watch out for him, if she was still here when he got out of the hospital.
Yves was about to say something else when there was a noise in the doorway and Mr. Larssen came back in, his arm around a small, slender, dark-haired young man in the household's green tunic; standing just behind him was another green-clad young man, this one tall and long-limbed, with curly light-brown hair and striking gray eyes.
The dark-haired one stepped out of the crook of his master's arm and towards Gwen, who sat still, not sure what she should do. He stared at her for what seemed like a long time, and then reached out and touched her hair, making her wonder if one of the “liberties” Mr. Larssen allowed his slaves, like one of the benefits that accrued to Lord Dunaev’s friends, would be free access to Gwen.
But the boy pulled back quickly and looked up at Mr. Larssen, who said, "Gwen, this is Lee, and this is Bran. Yves, would you call me a cab? Don't kick Greta off the phone, but if she wants to talk much longer, tell her she can call Val back in a couple of minutes. Gwen," he said, as Yves disappeared past him and Bran into the hall, "I'm sorry to leave you so soon, but once I get to the hospital, my wife can come home, and she can take charge of you. In the meantime, do as Yves tells you, and you'll be fine. No one will hurt you."
"Thank you, sir," Gwen answered, her eyes lowered to the floor again.
"Master," said the dark-haired boy softly, from beside Gwen, "when you go-- please--"
"Please what, sweetheart?" Mr. Larssen asked, his cool, matter-of-fact voice shifting into something warmer and sweeter.
"May I go with you?" Lee asked, and when Mr. Larssen hesitated, "Please, master-- I need--"
"You need to see him?" Mr. Larssen finished, looking thoughtful. "Okay, Lee. The hospital may not like it, but if they get really belligerent, I can always send you back home with Alix after you've visited with Jer a little."
Lee darted back to his master and flung his arms around him without invitation; some of the lines of worry and fatigue seemed to smooth themselves out of Mr. Larssen’s face as his arms went around the boy in return. Something happened in Gwen's chest at that, some dangerous quivering and loosening; she sucked in her breath, trying to make it stop.
"Master?" said a red-haired woman in a green tunic, coming in, and then, with a smile, "Hello, you must be Gwen. I'm Greta. Master, Valor wants to come home."
"I don't think that's a good idea," said Mr. Larssen, "do you?"
"No," said Greta. "I told her not to."
“Did she listen?” Mr. Larssen asked, still holding Lee close.
Valor, according to what Yves had said, was the master's daughter. That a slave should have told her what to do, and then blithely announced the fact to the master without even granting the young lady any title, was inexplicable enough; that the master didn’t strike or even reprimand her was utterly bizarre. But maybe it was because, as he’d said, she belonged to his wife; maybe there were different rules about that. Gwen's own master wasn't married, so she didn't really know.
"You never can tell with Val," said Greta.
Mr. Larssen didn't even blink at the nickname.
"No, you can't, can you?" he agreed.
Gwen was so puzzled about the way everyone here seemed to act around each other that she didn't notice Bran's approach until he was almost on her; when she did, her heart nearly stopped.
"Gwen, are you okay?" Bran asked her, reaching out to touch her arm. "You're really pale."
She didn't answer; she wished she dared shake off his touch, but she certainly couldn't afford any such disrespect towards Mr. Larssen’s slaves. Now Lee was peeling himself off of Mr. Larssen, coming towards her; he knelt down-- confusingly, and rather upsettingly-- at her feet, and peered up into her face with an anxious, affectionate expression. Gwen looked away.
“Boys,” said Mr. Larssen, rather sharply, and the hand left her arm immediately as Lee, still kneeling, looked up worriedly at his master. “Gwen, I realize your master only keeps one slave at a time, so what I told you about keeping to your training doesn’t exactly apply, but you’re doing fine. Bran and Lee both feel a certain kinship with you because they both once belonged to your master, so they’re trying to be friendly. Bran, Lee, remember what I told you-- until we know more about what’s going to happen, it’s best if you don’t get too close.”
“Master,” said Bran, in a soft, pleading voice, and Mr. Larssen closed his eyes for a moment, the black and purple bruise on his face standing out in ugly relief against the paleness of his face, before he said, “Let’s not discuss it right now, kid.”
"Master?" said Yves, coming back in. "The cab's on its way. I'm going to draw up a file for Gwen, if that's okay-- just basic information, height and weight and provenance and all—and I thought maybe I should phone Dr. Carey and ask her to come check Gwen over, just in case. I thought it would be a good idea to have the doctor able to testify in court, if nothing else. May I?"
"Yes, good idea,” said Mr. Larssen. “Lee, go put on your shoes. We need to make sure Jer is all right.”
