Page 7 of Inkpot Gods

“Yes, ma’am,” says Floretta.

“How old are you?”

“Seven,” says Floretta.

“Do you know your letters? Your numbers? Can you do simple sums?”

“I can read well enough to sound out the scripture, and do simple maths with sufficient ease to relieve some of the household pressure on my guardian,” says Floretta, with careful politeness. “Am I needed to handle the household accounts?”

“Good Lord above, girl, no,” says Deborah, sounding shocked. “You are a child. You will be expected to comport yourself as a child does, to attend your lessons and mind your manners. Do as you’re told and we’ll have no problems.”

Floretta frowns. “Is there to be no time for…” She trails off. She doesn’t know how describe the life she’s lived up until this point, or how she’s spent the majority of her days. Does Boston even know the value of wildflowers, or the need for wandering in the woods between lessons and chores? Do wildflowers grow in Boston?

She has never felt so small, or so alone.

“The master is a good man. He will see to it that you’re fed and clothed, and elevated to the heights to which your birth entitles you. Don’t look so glum, girl. You’ve landed in a fortunate position here, and whoever—whatever—you were before, you’re Mr. Baker’s ward now. Appreciate what you have, and forget what you haven’t. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Floretta nods and says nothing.

It doesn’t feel as if there’s anything left to say.

Miss Cottingsly seems too old by half for the title she carries; Floretta has never seen a “miss” old enough to be her grandmother before. The woman’s face is seamed with wrinkles, and her hair is white as cotton and cut short enough to curl in on itself, like a lamb’s wool. She wears a simple dress and a white apron, perfectly tied around her admirably thick waist.

She looks at Floretta as Floretta looks at her, taking in the child’s measure with a quick, calculated motion of her head, eyes slightly narrowed as she considers the job in front of her. The girl’s hair will need to be cut and styled, her face washed, and her dress replaced by something more suitable, yes, yes, but these are the superficial aspects of what must be done.

Everything about the child screams “provincial.” She is a creature of forest and fen, the mud under her fingers so deeply engrained that it may as well be a part of her, immutable. There are wildflowers in her eyes. It will need to change, every bit of it, before she can be a respectable daughter of a respectable household.

And Mr. Baker keeps a respectable household. The woman he calls Miss Cottingsly could no more explain his profession or the source of his funds than she could the movement of the heavens; she is a simple soul, employed for her discretion as much as for her skills, and she has never once inquired after things that are not hers to know. He pays her wages, provides a roof above her head, and so she allows him all the secrets he desires. She was well trained in the household she served before this one. She knows how to practice discretion.

“Stand up straight, girl,” she says, and her voice is as matronly as her appearance, and utterly devoid of warmth. “I want to see you.”

Floretta is exhausted. In any kind household, she would already have been shown to her room—a room which Deborah is no doubt frantically preparing, having dropped her charge with her superior and run off to fulfill her employer’s commands. But this is not a kind household, and so she fights to stand straight when her body yearns to droop in place, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin while she silently recites the scripture to herself, commanding obedience, biddability, all the other things she has been ordered, over and over again, to be. She must be without flaw. If she is perfect, perhaps she’ll be sent home. Perhaps they’ll see that her guardian up until this point has been the right one to make her the best possible person she can be, and they’ll let her go. She’ll remember her uncle, and his grand, cold house, in her prayers for the rest of her life, if only they’ll let her leave.

So she stands rigid and unblinking as Miss Cottingsly looks her over, a small frown tugging at the corners of the older woman’s mouth, and when Deborah comes back into the kitchen, she finds child and matron staring at each other, locked in a silent battle of wills.

“Ma’am?” asks Deborah.

Miss Cottingsly jerks upright. “Don’t sneak up on me, girl,” she half-snaps. “Is the room prepared?”

“Yes, ma’am. Do you have her measurements?”

“All that I need,” says Miss Cottingsly. “I’ll have to contact the seamstress in the morning. It’s too late in the day to do it now. Still, she’ll have a whole new wardrobe by the end of the week. I’ll consult with the master as to my budget.”

“He said—”

“I’ll have him say it to me himself, rather than risk the consequences of any misunderstanding.”

“Yes, ma’am,” says Deborah, wilting slightly. “I’m sure you know best.”

“I always do.” Miss Cottingsly returns her attention to Floretta. “I’m sure you’re thinking of running away, urchin that you are. Think you can return to the dirty farm that produced you.”

“I wasn’t raised on a farm,” says Floretta. “My guardian was a priest. He taught me everything I needed to know. I can milk a cow if I need to, but we didn’t have any of our own. We survived on the good grace of the village folk, and they saw to us.”

“You’ll not need anyone’s good graces here, girl, save for your uncle’s, and he must have those for you in plenty, or he’d never have claimed you,” says Miss Cottingsly. “See to it that you give him no cause for regret.”

“Yes, ma’am,” says Floretta, voice going very small.

Then Deborah’s hand is on her shoulder, and she’s being led out of the kitchen and back down the hall to the stairs. When she glances into the room where she last saw her uncle, he isn’t there; the space is empty and dark, a void waiting to be filled with light.