“Here, here.”

Master holds up his hand for quiet again. “I understand your concerns, but look at this plantation. We do not whip slaves, except for the gravest of crimes. We do not separate families, unless absolutely necessary. My slaves are clothed and fed sufficiently. They have their own homes, hell, some of them even have a garden. My slaves are happy. In return for being well cared for, they work diligently and amenably, with the proper respect, and my plantation is prosperous.” He waves his crystal glass full of expensive whiskey around the room, and their eyes shift from the framed oil paintings to the carved wooden moldings, to the marble fireplace I hunch beside, to me. I straighten up from the wall.

“This one’s Sarah. She can tell you herself how true that is.”

I tense up and almost drop the whiskey bottle. My eyes slip down, focusing just in front of my feet where the dark oak floor meets the Oriental rug. The edge of the rug throws a thin shadow on the wood and I try to put all my attention to that shadow, but I still feel the roomful of men staring at me.

“Sarah, tell these men what you think of working here.”

I look over at Master, who nods to me to start talking, and twelve men lean in to hear me tell them how much I love being a slave.

I can’t speak. I know what he wants to hear, but I can’t make myself say what I’m supposed to say.

“Go on. They won’t bite.” I hear the impatience under his soft words.

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Matthew.” Mister Gantly steps closer to me, crowding me, looking me up and down. “I might like to sink my teeth into this one.”

The men laugh.

I hate that Mister Gantly is close enough to hear my breathing change, coming out short and fast. I got the whiskey clutched up close to my chest and Master comes over, takes it out of my hands and sets it down on the fireplace mantle by his snuff box. Then he draws me forward, his grip clamped tight on my arm, and plants me in the middle of the room.

“As you can see, she’s well dressed and well fed,” he says.

He has me turn around so they can all get a good look at me, and it feels like being back on the auction block. I tremble and clutch my skirts to still my hands some.

“Sarah, are you beaten or harassed in any way here?”

“No, sir,” my voice scratches out hardly more than a whisper.

“Are we good to you? Do you have food to eat? A blanket for the winter?”

I swallow at the lump building in my throat. “Yes, sir.”

“And are you happy here?”

My heart’s beating so hard my ears pound with it. There’s only one answer allowed, so I say it, “Yes, sir.”

“Thank you, Sarah, you may go.”