“You look like you’ve been dragged through the dirt,” he added. Mercifully, he looked away. He had thick arms and strong hands, these clenched now as he muttered. “Why does everyone look away and say nothing when they know what is happening?”

She said nothing.

After a moment, with a mighty sigh of frustration, he walked into the house.

She knew what was happening, no matter how much she stared at the smoke curling along the ceiling. Enough. She would not give that boy to Girish, not him and not the others.

In the compound of the Mei clan, slaves padded silently about their tasks. Compared with the misery of the brothel and the nightmare of the caravan, it was not a bad life as long as you did not ignite Father Mei’s legendary temper or get in the middle of a dispute between jealous wives or aggravate one of Grandmother’s petty grievances. As long as you ignored what Girish was, and what he did.

She went back to the servants’ court and washed her hands and feet and face. Afterward, in the kitchens, she brewed tea and padded with a cup and a tray to Father Mei’s office. No one noticed her as she slipped inside, head bowed, to stand by the door waiting to present the cup; she had lived in the clan for many months, and although they would never be used to her, she no longer startled them. He was making accounts, something he did with a stick marking a tablet, and after a bit he raised his eyes and frowned.

“What are you doing here?”

The door opened and his two wives hurried in, shut the door, and began to squabble.

“You just think the Gandi-li clan isn’t of great enough consequence for Mai.”

“I think the lad is more suitable for Ti, yes. If he can stand to hear her spout all day!”

“How dare you say Ti is worth less than Mai—!”

Father Mei slapped a hand on his desk. “Why have you barged in here to disturb my peace? I did not send for you. And who sent her in?”

The two wives turned, saw her, looked at each other in the way of enemies who have just become allies, and took a big step away.

He said, “What are you doing here, slave?”

She did not use her voice often. It was hard to find, and certainly it was easier to understand the words of the demon tongue when spoken by others than to get them to come out of her own mouth. “Father Mei. Pardon, I beg you. Master Girish is a bad man with a bad heart. He hurts children to make them cry. He ruts with them to make them cry—”

He rose, his expression hardening.

The younger wife hissed in fear and grasped her sister’s hand. Yet the older wife pressed her lips together, looking first at her husband and then at Girish’s slave.

“Do not speak of this again. You are a slave, and a demon. You do not have a voice.” Glancing at his elder wife, he frowned to see on her face an emotion he did not like. “Get out!” he commanded, and they fled the room, the door snicking shut behind them. In the room lay silence. Beyond the door, no footsteps pattered away, as if they had paused to listen.