Sarah did not grasp his meaning that first night. The words sounded academic, like an abstract lecture rather than a sentence passed upon her body and mind. She would come to understand soon enough.
That evening, Thornwood merely questioned her. Where had she been born? What did she recall of her mother? Had she ever learned letters? What specific duties had previous masters assigned to her? Sarah answered guardedly, trying to divine what responses might protect her, watching his face for cues. But Thornwood offered nothing. He recorded her answers in a small ledger with clinical detachment, occasionally nodding to himself.
After half an hour, he set down his pen.
“Return to the kitchen,” he said. “Tomorrow morning, move your pallet to the room at the end of the third floor. You will sleep there from now on. Dina will direct you.”
Sarah offered an automatic curtsy and backed out of the room. She hurried down the stairs, trembling, her thoughts struggling to find logic in the command. Why isolate her on the third floor? Senior domestics usually occupied rooms near the quarters or ground floor. She had barely been on the property two weeks.
In the kitchen, Dina sat by the dying hearth, hands resting heavily in her lap. She looked up at Sarah with profound sorrow.
