“He told you about the third-floor room,” Dina said flatly.
Sarah nodded. “Dina, what is this? What does he want?”
The older woman stared into the embers for so long Sarah thought she would refuse to answer. When she finally spoke, her voice dropped to a near whisper.
“Mr. Thornwood ain’t like other masters,” Dina said. “Most white men are cruel ’cause they’re mad, or drunk, or just mean. But Mr. Thornwood, he studies it like a doctor. He takes girls—young ones, like you—and he works on ’em. Breaks ’em apart, piece by piece. Some he sells off after a few months.” She stopped, her jaw tightening.
“And the others?” Sarah pressed.
“Some don’t get sold,” Dina whispered. “They just stop bein’ here. No bill of sale. No grave out back. Just gone. And nobody’s allowed to ask. You don’t even say their names once they’re gone.”
The warmth seemed to leach entirely from the kitchen. Sarah felt a tightness seize her chest.
“How many?” she asked.
Dina shook her head slowly. “I been here six years. Seen eight, maybe nine girls go up there. Only two ever got hauled away on a wagon to be sold, far as I know.”
