Under The Willow Root
Chapter 3

“Are you really sure that a floor can’t also be a ceiling?”--M.C. Escher

The city is beautiful. Even though each building we pass brings me closer to enslavement, I can't help but marvel. Everywhere I look there are elegant archways and delicately curved rooftops, all in pale pinkish stone. Flowers and vines spill from windowsills, and it seems like every other block we pass through a courtyard decorated with marble statues and fountains.

People bustle about in colorful costumes, conducting business and laughing with friends. There are street performers everywhere. There's dancing, singing, acrobatics—there's even a puppet show. I don't remember much about the other towns we passed through, but I'm sure they were nothing like this. This is amazing.

I notice that ours is the only wagon in sight. Everyone else goes along on foot or born aloft on litters carried by slaves. The sight brings me right back down to earth. That's what I'm here for, I remind myself. All this beauty is for other people to enjoy, not me. I close my eyes rather than look at any more pretty things that will almost certainly never be mine.

We continue along what seems to be the central avenue. There's a slight incline which becomes more pronounced as we move deeper into the city. I remember how it had looked from above, how the city seemed to climb up the side of the mountain. The people around us now aren't bustling so much as gently puffing. For a moment I console myself with the thought that at least I don't have to climb the hill myself. Small blessings. Miniscule, even, but I'll take what I can get at this point. Then I see another litter go by carried by panting slaves and even that small consolation turns sour.

We come to a stop outside a plain wooden door and the guards let us out, herding us into the building. I realize the men's wagon is gone and wonder when that happened. And then I'm through the door and all thought evaporates as the smell of freshly baked bread hits me full in the face. For half a second, nobody moves, then all six of us throw ourselves forward at the small pile of bread set on a table in the corner. The guards don't stand a chance against us, and they don't try. They just stand back and laugh as we fall on the platter of bread like a pack of starving hyenas.

I don't know who starts it, but suddenly I replace myself in the middle of an all-out brawl as we all try to grab as much of the bread as we can. An elbow smashes into my diaphragm and I bend over, wheezing, only to have my eyebrow split open by someone's sharp, bony knee. I look up, furious, and see Pouter smirking at me as she tries to push another girl aside.

With a growl, I yank her back by her hair and take her place, straining to reach past the three girls in front of me. Pouter jabs me in the lower back with something—a fist or a knee, I can't tell—and I gasp in pain. She spins me around and rakes her fingers down the side of my face, drawing blood. Her nails bite so deep it feels like she's ripping my face off. Before I can return the favor, the guards pull us apart and take away what little bread is left.

It's all over in less than two minutes, but the damage is done. I glare at Pouter, who looks disgustingly pleased with herself. One girl has a little blood trickling from her nose and another has a puffy lip, but no one else is as badly off as I am. Blood pours from my split eyebrow. I think it might need stitches. The cuts on my face sting and I try not to think about what might have been under Pouter's fingernails.

The sudden exertion after spending so many weeks barely moving is too much for me. My heart races and I gasp for breath, the air whistling in my throat. My knees tremble, and blood rushes from my head. I think I might collapse. I think of how close I was to eating real food and I let myself fall to my knees.

The man in red (as I still think of him despite the fact that he's now in purple) storms in, yelling something at the guards. He sees my face and all but screams. The red man yells at the guard for several minutes, waving his hands around and getting right up in the guy’s face. The guard scowls but says nothing. He waits it out with a muscle ticking in his jaw until the man in red flounces out, then snarls something at a young woman who enters from another door. She sets down the bucket of water in her hands and scurries away.

When she returns, there are two more women with her, both carrying buckets. They each take a girl and wash the worst of the dirt off, then take them away. When one returns and reaches for me, a guard barks at her and she goes to someone else. I look after them, confused and alarmed. I don't know where the others are going, but they're getting a little cleaner at least. Why do I have to stay? It looks like I'm being punished for fighting, but what about Pouter? I can't believe they're letting her get away with it. I gingerly touch the cuts on my face, glaring resentfully at Pouter's retreating back.

It's not for fighting, I realize. I'm being punished because my face got messed up. Angry tears mix with the blood on my face as I sit quivering on the ground with my arms around my knees. I want to rest my face on them but my eyebrow is split on the one side and Pouter's scratches are on the other side. I prop my chin on my knees instead, staring gloomily at the opposite wall, waiting for something to happen.

After a while, the man in red returns, accompanied by a middle aged lady carrying some kind of bladed device. It looks a little like scissors. One of the guards hauls me up by my arm and drags me over to the lady, who seizes me by the hair and briskly chops it all off so close to the scalp that the scissors seem to get as much skin as hair.

Too stunned to move, I don't struggle but hang limply in the guard's grasp and then fall to the floor in a heap when he releases me. Dazedly, I tilt my head back and forth as I watch the lady hand the man in red a few coins before hurrying away. The unaccustomed lightness is unsettling, and my head hurts from having the lady haul me around by the hair. Blood from the cuts on my scalp trickles down my neck, tickling and itching. I wipe the blood away and then stare at my hand, wondering what I can wipe it on. I smear the blood over the pristine tile floor, rubbing it in spitefully.

The man in red returns and barks something. It isn't until one of the guards pokes me roughly with his boot that I realize the man is talking to me. He points at a door in the back of the room. It's not the door the others went through. He barks at me again and jabs his finger at me and then the door. I get painfully to my feet and move stiffly to the door, which doesn't budge when I push on it. With a noise of exasperation, the man in red reaches past me to slide the door open and then pushes me through.

I stumble out into a walled garden where the other girls sit on fancy marble benches. I gape at them, shame and jealousy lodging in my chest like a ball of ice. Their skin has been scrubbed clean and their hair is shiny and brushed. Their nails have been trimmed and buffed. I even catch a faint whiff of perfume, barely detectable over my own eye-watering stink.

And they have clothes. They wear cream-colored robes of soft, flowing material tied off with sashes to show off trim waists. On their feet are some kind of slippers or socks. Pouter grins broadly and practically bounces, beside herself with glee. She shakes back her mane of blond hair and crosses her legs with an obscenely smug look on her face. The others look on with horror and pity, shaking their heads sadly. I don't know which is worse. I avert my eyes and swallow, trying to ease the lump in my throat.

The man in red hustles me to the back of the garden and pushes me into a shed, where I assume I'm supposed to stay. I don't mind. I welcome the chance to escape the sight of the other girls. I huddle against the wall, crying silently. After seeing the others all clean and fresh and clothed, I can fully appreciate how truly disgusting I am. I'm so dirty I have rashes in the creases of my elbows, my armpits, everywhere skin touches skin. I smell like a septic tank.

None of it is anything I haven’t been living with for weeks already, but at least before it wasn’t just me. Now I'm all alone in my filth and nakedness, and I'm covered in blood and almost completely bald except for a few moss-like tufts that escaped the lady's shears. I probably look like some kind of awful swamp goblin, and the others look like angels. The unfairness of it all is physically painful.

While I sniffle and wallow in self-pity, I peer through a crack in the door of the shed. Elegantly dressed people begin to trickle into the garden, chatting with each other and admiring the girls. The auction, if that's what this is, looks like it will be very different from the other ones we witnessed. The auctions in the outlying towns certainly didn't include finger food. Slaves dressed much like the girls up for sale set out trays of fruit and little pastries in a pavilion at the rear of the garden. They all have that peculiar blank gaze that I've come to expect. I wonder how long it will take for us to look like that.

One by one, the girls are paraded around the little pond in the center of the garden and then the bidding begins. Each one is sold, some to ladies on their own, some to couples, and one to a lecherous-looking old man. Unfortunately, it isn't Pouter. She is bought by a grand old lady weighed down by a ridiculous number of jewels hanging from her neck and ears and fingers. Figures, I think sourly.

When everyone is gone, I wait for someone to come get me, but nobody does. I consider pounding on the door in case they've forgotten that I'm there, then decide that I probably don't want to draw attention to myself. I curl up on the floor of the shed with a sigh, feeling almost content. For the first time in weeks—I think at this point it’s even been months—I'm alone. I don't know what the morning will bring, but for now there's no one scaring me or hurting me, and I'm grateful for it.

I dream of music, a tune that feels vaguely familiar though I can’t place it. I don't move a muscle, but I can feel myself dancing. I can feel it my head. I can't see. It's like the whole world is made up of melody and rhythm and tension. I want to get up and dance for real, not just in my head, but I don't have a body. All I have is the music.

When I wake, I keep my eyes closed and try to hold on to my dream, but the music is shattered by the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path. My eyes fly open and I scramble to my feet, pressing myself against the back of the shed. The man in red (now in blue) opens the door and pulls me out. He fastens a rope around my neck but leaves my hands free, which seems silly until I remember that there's nowhere to run.

The man in red tugs the rope and sets off with me stumbling behind. The rope seems more for guidance than restraint. We leave the auction house behind and head downhill. I note with some satisfaction that the man in red isn't important enough to warrant a litter. That satisfaction fades as the brisk walk through the streets makes my breath come fast and my head spin. My heart is hammering against my chest so fast I'm afraid I might actually have a heart attack.

The one positive I can replace in my struggle to survive our little stroll is that it distracts me from the disapproving stares of the general populace. They cast irritated glances at the man in red, as if he's doing something crass but not rude enough to warrant any open objection—like dragging a beaten and starving girl naked through the streets is a minor social faux pas. I look at the people on the street and see no compassion or even pity. They look at me like I'm something distasteful and turn away with wrinkled noses in the air.

When we finally stop, I slump, gasping, against a pillar carved with intricate designs. My head swims, making the designs on the pillar seem to wiggle and dance before my eyes. If I had anything at all in my stomach, I'm sure I would throw up. The rope tightens on my neck and I push myself upright with difficulty. The man in red leads me into an alley and thrusts me into a small side door which leads to some kind of store room. He shuts the door behind me, and I'm left in darkness.

A brief manual inspection of the boxes and shelves reveals only old vases and crockery. No food. I sigh. Food was obviously too much to hope for. But clothes, maybe...? No. No clothes. There are, however, some dusty sheets shoved in a corner. I gather them up and arrange them into a little nest. By the time I'm done, it's almost cozy. I settle down to wait for the next atrocity to be endured, staring fixedly at the crack of light under the door.

The man in red appears after several hours and shoos me out into the alleyway where a fat, jolly looking man waits with a skeptical expression. The new man strokes his curled, oiled beard with sausage-like fingers adorned with gold and silver rings. He resembles nothing so much as pig draped in velvet. His flamboyant dress and slimy gaze are completely at odds with the round, rosy cheeks which at first glance gave him the appearance of cheeriness.

The man in red talks rapidly to the fat man, gesturing earnestly. He doesn't seem to be doing a good job of selling the guy on me. He seems almost apologetic. On top of everything else, it stings. Is it my fault that I’m bald and bleeding and crusted with filth? No, it is not. Asshole.

The fat man reaches out and pinches my breast. I stiffen, eyes wide. The fat man looks doubtful and says something to the man in red, flicking a hand at me dismissively. I think about what the fat man must be looking for and cringe, feeling sick and faint. These people can do whatever they want to me and no one will lift a finger to stop them. For a moment I almost consider making a break for it, but the memory of the man who tried to run is still horribly vivid.

The men's haggling is interrupted by a soft voice like windchimes. A lovely woman with black hair and bright hazel eyes peers curiously around the corner. When she sees me, her eyes widen and she marches forward, saying something in a forceful tone and gesturing to me imperiously. The man in red bobs his head in a kind of bow and touches his knuckles to his lips, all the while speaking to the lady in a tone bordering on a whine.

The lady’s lip curls in disgust. She snaps out an order of some kind and takes my filthy hand in one of her own. She leads me out of the alley and into the street where several slaves wait with a litter. She ignores it and tows me gently along for several blocks before ushering me through a door that leads to what looks like a large shower stall—sans the actual shower. Instead there are buckets lined along the wall and little pots of sweet smelling powders and liquids.

Some women hurry in with buckets of hot water, and one of them takes a sponge from a nearby table while the others take the empty buckets away. The lady with the sponge dips it into the water and quickly wipes away the topmost layer of grime from my body. The hot water feels heavenly, but having someone scrub me all over—and it really is all over—is uncomfortable and intrusive.

When the worst of of the grime is gone, I'm led through another door to what looks like a small swimming pool. The lady carefully cleans the cuts on my face and scalp and then pushes me into the pool, which I replace is filled with warm water. One of the women gently rubs powdery soap into what little remains of my hair, then pushes my head under. The woman kneels beside the pool to give me a good scrub with a long handled brush. When I'm clean, she and the other women sit me down on a stool in yet another room and go to work on my hands and feet, trimming and cleaning my nails and rubbing lotion into my dry, cracked skin.

I even get waxed. In my previous life, I once heard some older girls complain about bikini waxes and how much they hurt. Now I replace out for myself that yes, it really is that painful, and horribly awkward to boot. Very hands-on, to say the least. But it's worth it, because they also do my legs and armpits, even my arms. When they're done, they rub a soothing balm into my skin that smells like lavender. They brush my teeth with a kind of bristly cloth, and I almost feel like my old self again.

It's wonderful. I decide that being clean is even better than being fed. I try to smile at the lady to show my thanks and stop, wincing in pain as the movement creases the cuts on my face. The lady frowns and turns to say something to a woman that I hadn't noticed before. The woman is dressed almost as richly as my rescuer, but in plain, subdued colors. I look at her eyes and see a hint of the blankness I've come to associate with slavery. It's not as pronounced as it was in the others I saw, but it's there. The woman nods and leaves the room.

One of the spa ladies gently dries me with a towel and another brings me a robe like the one the other girls wore and the little slipper shoes. They help me put it on and wrap it around me in an intricate pattern that I don't quite follow. When they're done, I feel comfortably secure, like I'm wearing a harness or a seat belt. The shoes are comfortable too, though they don't provide much in the way of support.

The well-dressed slave returns with a little pot of ointment, which she spreads on my cuts. There must be some kind of painkiller in it, because the sting and throb instantly lessen. I see the spa ladies look at each other with raised eyebrows, perhaps surprised that the rich lady would show such care. I'm surprised, too. I can't believe my luck.

My new mistress looks me over, tapping her lips thoughtfully with a perfectly manicured finger, then snaps an order at one of the spa ladies, who hurries away and returns with a length of light, gauzy fabric. She drapes it over my head and wraps it around like a shawl. My mistress smiles and nods approvingly and turns to the door. The other lady slave and I follow, climbing into the waiting litter after our mistress. I wince as the slaves lift the litter, feeling embarrassed and uncomfortable at being carried around on people's backs. Then I remember the alternative represented by the fat, oily man and feel only relief.

We continue uphill until we approach what at first looks like a solid cliff face. Then we get closer and I see that there's actually a great gash in the side of the mountain framed by enormous stone statues—or I guess carvings would be the more accurate term. They're set into the side of the mountain itself and depict wild, flowering trees and vines. Like everything else I've seen here, they're beautiful. The craftsmanship and detail are unbelievable.

As we pass through the gorge, I see that the walls are carved with people and animals as well as flowers and trees. Most are of dancing girls and young lovers, but some show families or old couples sitting hand in hand. One in particular catches my eye. It's an old woman holding a baby. It looks nothing like Baba Nadia, and I was a toddler when my mother died, but the image still makes my throat close and my eyes sting.

There's a faint but strange sound echoing in the gorge, and it takes me a minute to identify it as rushing water. The gorge soon widens into a ravine, and I see that the sound comes from a tall, narrow waterfall at the other end. A palace—I can't think of any other term for it—is built on either side of the waterfall and connected by elegant bridges from which people can admire the cascade. It’s beautiful, but I can’t see any stream or river. Where does the water go?

The palace looks like it's built into the side of the mountain, just like the carvings. Smaller houses line the path running down the narrow valley, separated by little gardens or groves of dogwoods and birches but connected by covered walkways. Every house in the valley is connected, like the whole ravine is part of the palace.

My new mistress waves and calls out to people who are just as well dressed if not quite as beautiful as she is. They smile and either wave her on her way or stop to chat. Everywhere I look I can see slaves hovering in the background, always present but barely noticeable. This is where the rich people live, I realize. It's like a resort, complete with pool boys and gardeners and cooks and nannies and housekeepers and wait staff, except that the people who live here aren't on vacation.

I remember that all the people at Pouter's auction looked rich too, which means Pouter and the other girls might end up here as well. Despite my lingering jealousy and resentment over the treatment I received at the auction house, I hope they do. I wouldn't wish the oily man on any one of them--not even Pouter, gigantic bitch though she may be.

We continue almost to the waterfall, practically into the primary wings of the palace. The pathway to my new home is lined with lilac bushes. My mistress sweeps up to the door, which is opened from the inside by a slave whose sole purpose for all I know is to wait for someone to show up so he can open the door. The litter bearers disappear, presumably to put the creepy thing away, and the older lady leads me around the side of the house to a smaller door. I follow wearily, completely worn out by the day's events. I hesitate in the doorway, glancing around. For now, at least, this is my new home. I take a deep breath and cross the threshold.

“Sasha, calm down,” Emily pleads, hands held up in a defensive posture. “It’s okay. Everything is okay.”

“Get out!” I scream, and wonder why.

I don’t remember why I’m yelling or how I got here. I’m in my bedroom. There’s a jewelry box in my hand and my arm is cocked back as if I’m about to throw it.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Emily says firmly. “I’m here to help you.”

“No! You’re stealing! You’re stealing all the studio’s money.”

“Sasha, I’ve shown you the accounts,” Emily says, visibly trying to stay calm. “Nothing is missing.”

“You’re stealing,” I repeat.

“I promise I’m not.”

“You’re lying,” I snarl. “You-re--you’re--”

My arm sags and my lips become heavy. I make an ugly gurgling noise as the jewelry box slips from my fingers. I drop to my knees. Emily is at my side in an instant, cell phone in hand.

“Hold on, babe,” she says. “You’ll be alright.”

Will I? I still don’t understand.

My mistress's slave shoos me into a spacious kitchen where she sits me down on a low stool and someone else, a cook, hands me a cup of warm broth. It tastes wonderful. I hold it out when I'm done, hoping for more, but both women shake their heads. The cook pats her stomach meaningfully. I nod back vigorously, wiggling my soup cup. Yes, I'm hungry, I want to tell her. Please, please, give me more food. The cook shakes her head and grimaces as if in pain. I lower my cup, finally understanding. I'm not sure I agree, but I don't want to push my luck.

Instead, I get up and cross to a large table covered in flour and write my name with my finger. I point at it, and then at myself. Of course I realize they won't be able to read it, and I'm not surprised by the cook's puzzled expression. I'm completely unprepared, however, for the vicious slap that makes my ears ring and opens the cuts on the side of my face. The well dressed slave glares at me, sweeping her hand across the letters. She makes a slashing gesture at me, scowling furiously. I gape at her with my hand to my face, cowering.

The cook, who didn’t even blink when the slave woman attacked me, gestures to her and says a word that I suppose must be the slave’s name. She helpfully draws a shape in the flour and makes an accompanying gesture with both hands, fluttering her fingers with her thumbs linked. I look between them blankly and the cook whistles like a bird and flutters her hands again.

I whistle back and point inquiringly at the well dressed slave. The cook makes an odd gesture with her hand, but she's smiling so I guess it means yes. Bird. She points at the flour, and the wall, and my dress, all white. White bird...dove? The slave's name is Dove, or her name means dove. Or stork, or seagull, but Dove is prettier and works as well as anything.

I point at the cook and she says her name, but doesn't make any attempt to pantomime its meaning as she did for Dove. Maybe her name isn't as easily translated. I point at myself, and they both make a kind of dismissive, flicking gesture. Unsure of what to make of this, I sit back down on the stool. I pick up my soup cup again and hold it up hopefully. This time the cook takes it and gives me a little more before Dove sweeps me out of the kitchen and leads me through a maze of corridors.

I scurry after her, panting, until she opens a door and gestures for me to enter. There are two beds and a vanity table with a mirror and little pots of perfume or cream. Dove unties my robe and takes it away, leaving me standing naked in the middle of the room. She steers me gently toward the bed and tucks me in, laying a hand on my forehead in a way that feels at once perfunctory and tender. With a sigh, I close my eyes and fall asleep.

“Sasha.”

“Mmf.”

“Come, kitten, you must wake up.”

“It's only five-ten,” I mumble, pressing my face into the pillow. “I have until fifteen.”

“It will take you five minutes to get out of bed,” Baba Nadia points out, flipping on the light.

“Babulya! Don't old people need sleep?”

“Not much, no. Out of bed, kotik.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Breakfast in ten minutes.”

“Mmm.”

Baba Nadia sighs and leaves, flicking the light on and off a few times on her way out. I reset the alarm on my phone to give myself an extra three minutes—like three minutes is going to make a difference—and pull the covers over my head. I'm just slipping back into the drowsy warmth of Snooze when I'm jerked out of sleep so suddenly I'm halfway to the door before I realize what woke me up.

“Baba Nadia!”

I sprint down the hall, desperately hoping that the awful crash I heard wasn't what I think it was. I pause for a fraction of a second at the top of the stairs, fear holding me immobile, until my grandmother's hair-raising moan of pain pulls me forward. I almost fall down the stairs in my haste and drop to my knees next to my grandmother. My hands flutter helplessly over her body, tracing her limp arm and horrifically crumpled and twisted leg without daring to actually touch her.

“Hold on,” I gasp. “I—I'll call--”

I lurch to my feet and run for the kitchen phone, cursing myself for leaving my phone next to my bed like an idiot. I dial 911 with shaking fingers and stammer an incoherent plea for help to the woman on the other end. I can barely put two words together, English and Russian spilling out in a flood of jumbled syllables. Somehow the woman—bless her—pieces it all together and assures me that an ambulance is on its way.

I sit with Baba Nadia for the eternity it takes for the ambulance to arrive, holding her hand and babbling complete nonsense while she tries and fails to hold back the most terrible noises I've ever heard. When the ambulance arrives, I barely make it into the truck. The ground jumps and spins beneath my feet, making me stumble.

I sit on the tiny seat with my head in my hands, trying to take deep breaths in through the nose and out through the mouth, just like Baba Nadia always said. She seems to be doing the same, or trying. I think they've given her some medicine. Her good hand waves feebly in the air and I take it gingerly, afraid I'll hurt her somehow.

“Don't worry, Sashka,” Baba Nadia whispers. “It's alright. I'm alright.”

My eyes open and I stare blankly at the ceiling, trying to place myself. It takes several minutes to remember that Baba Nadia has died, that the ambulance ride happened months ago. Tears stream from my eyes as I sit up, clutching the thin but soft blanket to my chest, and look around. I'm alone, and my robe from yesterday seems to have disappeared. I get up and wrap the blanket around myself before opening the door and peeking out into an empty hallway. After a brief hesitation, I set off in search of Dove, or better yet, the kitchen.

I don't replace Dove. Instead I replace some kind of servant who shouts at me until I run back the way I came. I try to replace my room again, but I must have taken a wrong turn because I'm hopelessly lost. I creep along, clutching my blanket and hiding behind corners whenever I hear footsteps. It would be funny if I weren't so scared and upset from my dream. I must look like a complete psycho.

Eventually Dove replaces me and drags me back to my--or I guess it’s our--room. I sit meekly on the bed, doing my best to project contrition. With a snort, Dove opens a trunk next to the bed and takes out a length of fabric that turns out to be a loosely fitted dress that falls to my ankles and leaves my forearms bare. It's plain compared to the embroidered silks and gauzy shawls my mistress wore, but I can tell my dress is made of quality material, and it's a very pretty if subdued gray-blue that matches my eyes. I sigh. Too bad I look like Gollum.

It feels wonderfully soft against my skin, but I feel like I'm missing something, even when Dove gives me a pair of slipper-shoes and a veil to cover my shaven head. Finally, I figure it out: I don't have any underwear. For a moment I almost want to ask for some, but then I consider the charades and miming that would require and decide it's way too embarrassing to be worth it. Instead, I remind myself to be grateful to have clothes of any kind.

Dove turns to the vanity and takes up one of the pots, which turns out to be the salve she put on my cuts yesterday. As she gently dabs the stuff on my face, I look into my own horrified eyes reflected in the mirror. Even aside from the nasty, jagged cuts, I look awful. My eyes are sunken with dark circles underneath, and my lips are dry and cracked. Blue and purple and black bruises seem to drip from the cut on my eyebrow down my temple and onto my protruding cheekbone. I lower my veil and gasp at the bald, grotesque stranger staring back at me. I look like an alien.

Dove replaces my veil and firmly turns me away from the mirror before finishing up with balm from a different pot for my lips, then leads me away through the halls. At first I think she's taking me to get some food, but as my surroundings begin to look fancier, I realize that's not the case. Dove finally knocks lightly on the door and slips in, tugging me after her.

The rich lady—my owner—looks up from her seat in front of an enormous mirror and smiles. She rises and takes my hands, spreading them out so she can look me over. She gently touches the bruises on my face and laughs, saying something to Dove. The rich lady points to herself and says her name. I frown and dart a quick glance at Dove. The lady realizes I can't talk, right? What does she want from me?

She says it again, slowly: “Ismeni.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dove make a gesture with her hand. I copy it, and Ismeni beams at me. She gazes thoughtfully at me for a few moments, then taps me on the chest and says another word. She touches my bruise, my eyelid, my dress. She shows me a sapphire pendant. She points at me, and goes through it all again. I look helplessly at Dove. I have no idea what I'm supposed to do.

Dove whistles and points to herself, then back at the sapphire, then at my dress, then at my face. Finally, it clicks: my mistress is naming me. My name is Blue? I think? For my matching attire, including my bruises, I suppose. Hah, hah. Like I need the reminder.

But no, I have a name. My name is...I'm Sasha. I shiver at the slight hesitation, the microsecond of doubt. I want to try to tell them somehow. I want to hear someone else say it. Then I remember how Dove hit me yesterday when I tried to write my name. I don't think they'd like it if I tried again. I'll just have to remember it myself. I'll tell myself over and over again, just like I did before. I won't forget.

Ismeni waves her hand and turns back to the mirror, clearly dismissing us. Dove touches her knuckles to her lips and bows her head. She pinches my side and I hastily copy her, then we leave. We start walking again. This time, I know we're going to the kitchen. I smell food long before we get there. It's much busier than it was yesterday, and it occurs to me to wonder what time it is. Everyone seems to be preparing for a big meal, but what's the big meal of the day here? Midday or evening?

Dove installs me in the corner with a stool and a cup of soup, then disappears. I look around nervously, greedily slurping down my meal as fast as I can in case someone tries to take it from me. No one seems at all interested in me or my food, but it's not a chance I'm willing to take. I finish the soup and watch everyone hustle around the kitchen, chattering animatedly at each other.

The food smells amazing. I notice, though, that it doesn't actually look that appetizing. It looks impressive, definitely, but not exactly inviting. The goal seems to be to disguise the fact that the animal to be eaten is dead. I watch as the cooks take a roasted bird off the spit and stick all the feathers back in and recreate the head and beak with wires and paper. To my starved gaze, it’s downright blasphemous. How can they stand to cover up something so clearly meant to be eaten as quickly as possible? Why in the world would they put unnecessary obstacles between that tender, juicy flesh and somebody's mouth?

They go to work on arranging a bunch of little fishes in the shape of a larger fish surrounded by piles of pale golden rice. At another station, cheeses are stacked with fruit to create a tower complete with windows and turrets. Across the kitchen, someone injects cream and jam into little pastries with a squeeze-tube. I curl my fingers around the edges of the stool to keep myself from running across the room and diving into the vat of cream face-first.

Seeing the rabid look on my face as I take it all in, the cook from yesterday hurriedly shoves another cup of broth into my hands. This time I make a conscious effort to not pour it straight down my throat so I can appreciate the rich flavor and comforting heat. I expect to want more when I finish, but I don’t. I think my stomach must have shrunk with nothing to fill it for so many weeks. I just feel sleepy.

I nod off in the corner, jerking awake every few minutes as I feel myself start to fall off my stool. I’m dying to just curl up on the floor and go to sleep, but I don't want to risk getting my dress dirty in case I get slapped again. Instead I push the stool as far into the corner as it will go and lean back, hoping the walls will keep me upright. It's not comfortable, but it will have to do.

I lose track of time as I drift in semi-consciousness. Images pop into my mind's eye and out again so seamlessly that I can't tell what's real and what's memory and what's a dream. Sometimes I'm certain that I'm about to wake up in my bed at home, and sometimes I jerk awake and wonder what the shiny red wagons are and how they can go so fast. When that happens, I remind myself of my name and Baba Nadia's and that this isn't where I'm supposed to be. I'm supposed to be in the suburbs, where people drive cars and go to school and I can open up the fridge and get something to eat whenever I want.

But over and over again, I fall asleep and begin to doubt. Sometimes the kitchen and the bruises and scratches on my face seem real and that other place seems like the dream. Other times, I'm completely sure that I'm walking to class between Melanie and Tara, shaking off a daydream. Sometimes I don't know their names, though I recognize their faces. Sometimes I think I might be in a hospital.

Sometimes I can't remember my name.

I'm glad when Dove comes back to collect me. The walk back to our bedroom clears my head and I can recite my litany of facts as we walk. When we reach our bedroom, Dove takes my veil and puts it in the trunk, making sure I see where she's putting it. When she moves to take my dress off, I step back, shifting uneasily. I have to pee, but how can I ask? Now that I'm clean and clothed, I replace my sense of modesty has returned completely. I'll let my bladder pop like a water balloon before miming that.

I replace I don't need to worry. There are certain things in life that require no translation, and, as it turns out, the Pee-Pee Dance is one of them. Dove whisks me back down the hall and into a room with an honest-to-god toilet. Of course it doesn't look exactly like the toilets I grew up with, but that's clearly what it is. I glance at Dove, who doesn't look like she intends to go anywhere, then shrug and hike up my skirts.

When I'm done, I look around, half-expecting to replace toilet paper. Instead there's a bowl of water. Dove points at it and picks up a small towel from the basket at my feet. She points to the water, then at me, then at the towel in her hand. I get the idea but hesitate, hoping she'll turn her back to give me some privacy. She doesn't. With a sigh, I get to work, reminding myself that just days ago I was soiling myself where I stood.

Perspective.

I drop the dirty towel in a covered basket as directed by Dove and wash my hands in a sink with running water. The faucet opens with a little lever instead of a knob, but it's a real sink. I revel in it, thinking again of the long weeks spent living like a farm animal in a dirty stall. Washing my hands seems like an unbelievable luxury. I splash some water on my face for good measure, rubbing away oil and sweat from the hot kitchen.

We return to our bedroom and I take off my dress and put it in the trunk, folding it as neatly as I can. Dove takes it out and shows me how she wants me to do it, then shakes it out and hands it back to me to try again. After several failed attempts, I get it right and Dove lets me close the trunk and get in bed. Before I slip into the covers, Dove hands me a soft nightgown to wear. I crawl into bed feeling absurdly happy to have pajamas on top of a full belly and a real bed. I pull the covers up around my ears and tuck my knees against my chest and fall asleep without wondering what will happen when I wake up.