The baby inside her moved, as if it were doing a tumbling act. Surely one baby couldn't make that much disturbance. Some people would say that it was her responsibility, but she did not feel that—it had been forced onto her, into her, and it was not hers at all. It was an abomination, as the men claimed she was.
Was she then her own responsibility? Her mouth soured. Not enough to make a lifetime as these men's slave tolerable, or even bearable. She had spent too many hours already planning how she could escape life, if not them, once they lowered their guard. Eventually they would.
But . . . what if there were a chance, however slim, to keep Hazel and the little girls from her own fate? Somewhere, she was sure, her father was searching. Fleet was searching. It might be years; it might be too many years . . . but it might not. Hazel was compliant not entirely from fear, but also from hope, the hope that some help might come—if she had not had some hope, she would never have dared share her name, and her ship's name, with Brun. So she, Charlotte Brunhilde Meager, could fix her mind on Hazel and the little girls—on saving them.
She did not let herself think again about how unlikely success was. Instead, she began thinking what information she needed, and how to get it. And she quit trying to catch Hazel's eye, quit trying to entice her into communication. The last thing she wanted now was trouble for Hazel.
Only a few days later, the men came for both of them, and the little ones. Brun almost panicked—had they realized Hazel had talked to her? That she had written her own name on Hazel's arm? But they were led along the corridors, farther than Brun had ever gone. Her bare feet were sore; her pregnancy made her awkward at the hatches. To her surprise, the men were patient, waiting while she lifted one leg then the other. They helped her down a slanting surface . . . to a space that opened out around her. She looked, her eyes unaccustomed to the distances after those months in the compartment. The docking bay of a space station, it looked like. All around were men, only men . . . she and Hazel and the two little girls were the only females. The men guided her, gently enough, to a hoverchair. With Hazel walking beside her, the men pushed her chair a long distance. Chair and all, she was moved through another docking bay into a shuttle. Only five men now. At their command, Hazel strapped the children into seats, and herself into another. The men locked the hoverchair down.
When the shuttle hatch opened, Brun smelled what could only be a planet. Fresh air . . . growing things . . . animals . . . hope rose in her again. Planets were big; if she could once get loose, she could find a way to hide, and then to escape. But right now she could barely stand in this gravity, and the heat almost took her breath away.
The men moved her hoverchair from the shuttle, through a low-ceilinged boxlike building, and then into a wheeled vehicle, also large and boxlike, where they locked the chair down again. It had no windows in back, but up front she could see out . . . until a partition rose to cut off her vision. Panic choked her—she was alone in that back compartment; Hazel—the only person she knew—hadn't come with her. Hazel wouldn't know where she was, no one would know, she was going to be lost forever.
Hazel watched under lowered lids as they took the pregnant woman away in a groundcar. She still wasn't sure of the woman's name, even though the woman had traced it into her arm. Could "Brun" be right? What kind of name was that? A nickname for something, most likely, but they had not dared talk enough to make sure. Her yellow hair shone in the sun of this planet, much longer than it had been when Hazel had first seen her.
"I'm taking the children," one of the men with her said. The others nodded, and moved away.
"Come along, Girlie," he said. Hazel followed him, a little breathless with the unaccustomed exercise and the oppressive heat, Brandy holding one hand and Stassi the other. She wondered where the boys were—she hadn't seen them for a long time. She wondered even more about Stinky, and pushed that thought aside too.
The man led them through a gate and across a wide paved space so hot her feet burned. The little girls began to whimper. The man turned. "Here," he said. "I'll carry them." He scooped them up; they stiffened, turning their faces to Hazel's, but they didn't cry out. "Only a little farther," he said. Hazel stepped as lightly as she could. He stopped at last, beside a row of groundcars. A strip of something soft lay there. "Stand on that," he told her. Hazel stepped onto it—and it was cool beneath her feet. She let her breath out in a sigh. He put the little girls down and they each grabbed a hand.
He punched something on a control panel set on a post, and one of the groundcars popped its doors. The man got in, fiddled with the controls, then put his head back out. "All of you, into the back," he said. Hazel pushed the little girls into the back of the groundcar—it was soft inside, with cool air coming out of vents. After she climbed in, the door closed without her touching it. She noticed that there were no door handles on the inside, either.
"I'm taking you home, for now," the man said. The car moved off. Hazel looked out the windows . . . but they were frosted, so she couldn't see. Between the back seat and the front, a dark panel had risen so that she couldn't see out the front, either. The car moved smoothly, though, with no sudden jerks. After some time, the car stopped, and the man opened the door from the outside.
"Come along now," he said. "And be good."
They were on a wide paved street between stone buildings perhaps two stories tall, with a park of some kind just down the block. Hazel caught a glimpse of bright flowers arranged in some sort of pattern, but dared not take a real look. Instead, she followed the man across a stone-flagged walk to the entrance of the nearest building, a heavy carved door opened by a shorter man wearing white trousers and overshirt.
Her escort led them into the house, down a hall, into a large room with big windows opening on a garden. "Wait here," he told Hazel, pointing to a place near the door. She stood, holding the little girls to her. He walked across the room, and sat in a chair that faced the door. A girl about Hazel's age, wearing a plain brown dress, scurried into the room, carrying a tray with a pitcher of some liquid and a tall mug. Hazel noticed that she kept her eyes lowered, moving with quick short steps that didn't stretch her ankle-length skirt. Hazel did not dare to watch her all the way to the man's chair, but she heard the gurgle of liquid, the tinkle of a spoon in a glass, stirring. The girl left, her busy feet slipping hurriedly past Hazel. Did she look at Hazel? The littles were looking at her; Hazel squeezed their shoulders in warning.
Across the silent room, she could hear the man swallow. Then more footsteps, from outside the room, hurrying. Short light steps, short heavier ones, and someone running . . . as those legs flashed past her, bare to the knee, in sandals, Hazel realized it must be a boy.
"Daddy!" The boy's voice was still a shrill piping, but full of joy. "Youah home!"
"Pard!" The man's voice, for the first time that Hazel had heard it, expressed something softer than command. "Were you good? Did you take care of your mothah?"
"Yes,
sir
."
"That's my boy."
The others were passing her now. She saw the small bare feet of three girls, the slim skirts that hobbled their ankles, and—so astonishing she almost forgot and lifted her eyes—a woman's feet angled up on high pointed heels, beneath full skirts that rustled when she walked.
The girls rushed forward; the woman strode, her heels clicking on the floor. Hazel peeked through lowered lids . . . to see a child hardly bigger than Brandy throw herself at her father's lap, giggling. "Daddy!" she said . . . but softly. A larger girl, head down, moved up to nestle against his side. One still larger moved to his other side.
The man kissed each girl, murmuring something in a voice that made Hazel want to cry. Her father had made that soft voice for her, when she sat leaning against him, her head resting on his shoulder. A sob rose in her throat; she choked it back, and stared at the floor again. She could feel the littles trembling; they wanted a cuddle too; they would break away any moment now. She clutched at them harder.
"I brought you something," the man said. "Looky there." Hazel could feel, as if it were sunlight, their gazes on her and the littles. "Found them on a merchanter we captured. The girlie's a bit old, but biddable. Been no trouble. The two little uns . . . well, one of 'em's too talkative. We'll just have to see." He swallowed again. "You take 'em on back and get 'em settled. Girlie's a virgin all right. Doc checked."
The woman's shoes clicked, closer and closer. Hazel saw the wide skirt . . . a wife's skirt? . . . and then a firm hand on her shoulder, pushing. She obeyed, walking ahead of the woman, bringing the littles with her. She had no idea what was coming, but . . .
"You kin look at me," the woman said. "In here." Hazel looked up. The woman had a broad, peaceful-looking face, with a crown of gray-brown hair in a braid above it. She had big broad hands, and a big broad body. "Let's see you, honey . . . that's the ugliest dress I ever did see."
Hazel said nothing. She wasn't about to get into trouble if she could help it.
"Didn't your folks teach you anything about sewing?" the woman asked.
Hazel shook her head.
"You kin talk, too," the woman said. "As long as you keep it low. No hollerin'."
"I . . . don't know how to sew," Hazel said softly. Her voice felt stiff, it had been so long since she said a whole sentence.
"Well, you'll just have to learn. You can't go around lookin' like that. Not in this family."
Hazel bobbed her head. Brandy tugged on her hand.
"Hungry," she said.
The woman looked down at the littles, her face creased with something Hazel could not read. "These littl'uns yours?" she asked. "Sisters?"
"No," Hazel said.
"No,
ma'am
," the woman said sharply. "Didn't your folks teach you any manners?"
"No . . . ma'am," Hazel said.
"Well, I sure will," the woman said. "Now let me think. You littl'uns will fit into Marylou and Sallyann's things, but you, Girlie . . . and we have to find a name for you, too."
"My name's Hazel," Hazel said.
"Not anymore," the woman said. "Your old life is gone, and your old name with it. You put off the works of the devil and the devil's name. You will put on a godly name. When we find the right one."
In the next weeks, Hazel settled into a life as unlike that she'd known as the raider's ship had been. She slept in a room with ten other girls, all near or just past puberty but unmarried: the virgins' bower. Their room opened onto a tiny courtyard separated from the main garden by a stone screen and walled off from anything but their room. The room's other entrance was to a long corridor that led back to the main house without passing any other door.
"So we're safe," one of the other girls had explained the first evening. She had helped Hazel unroll her bedding onto a wooden bunk, helped her straighten the cover properly. These were all, she discovered, daughters of the man who had brought her here . . . daughters of four wives, who had produced all the other children in the house. Only the children of his first wife were permitted in the great room . . . and only when he summoned them. The others, when he wanted to see them, went to the second parlor.
"Y'all are the first outlanders in our household," one of the other girls said.
"Can't no one have outlanders unless they've got enough children to dilute the influence of y'all's heathen ways," another girl said.
"So we can teach you right from wrong," yet another said.
In short order, Hazel was clad in the same snug long skirt and long-sleeved top as the others. She learned to shuffle in quick steps . . . she learned how to navigate the corridors and rooms of the big house, that seemed to sprawl on forever. She learned to stand aside respectfully when the boys ran down the hall, to duck her chin so that even the little boys, looking up, did not meet her gaze.
Once a day, she was allowed to sit with Brandy and Stassi, if all her work was done. At first they ran to her and clung, silent, crying into her shoulder. But as the days passed, they adjusted to whatever their life was like. She had asked, but they found it hard to tell her . . . and no wonder. They had been hardly able to talk clearly when the ship was taken, and too many things had happened. They had eaten honeycakes, or they had new dresses, was all they could say. At least they were being fed and cared for, and they had a little time each day to play in the garden. She saw them with the other small girls, tossing back and forth weighted streamers of bright colors.
Her work was hard—the other girls her age were accomplished seamstresses, able to produce long, smooth straight seams. They all knew how to cut cloth and shape garments . . . now they were learning embroidery, cutwork, lacework, and other fine needlework. Hazel had to master plain knitting, crochet, and spend hours hemming bedsheets and bath towels. Besides sewing, she was taught cooking—to the wives' horror, she did not even know how to peel potatoes or chop carrots.
"Imagine!" said Secunda, the master's second wife. "Letting a poor girl grow up knowing so little. What did they expect you to do, child? Marry a man so rich and dissolute he would expect your servants to do everything?"