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"Well, it's about time," Miss Emily snapped. She wore a dark gray shift with a high white collar and black, high-top leather shoes. In the daylight, her face looked even more pasty and sallow. Her thin lips were so colorless they reminded me of long, thin dead worms. She had Grandmother Cutler's gray eyes, all right, but set in her narrow face, they looked sly, evil, conniving. The line of face hair above her upper lip was more pronounced in the light, and I saw she had a curly strand of gray hair here and there under her chin as well.
"Without a window, I didn't know it was morning," I replied.
She pulled her shoulders back as if I had slapped her.
"Um," she said, nodding. "I shall put a clock in your room so you won't use not knowing the time as an excuse to get out of your chores."
"Chores?"
"Of course, chores. Did you think this was going to be some sort of free ride? Did you think we were all born to be your servants?"
"I don't mind chores," I said. "I . . ."
"Sit down and eat before it's all too cold," she commanded.
Charlotte moved instantly to her seat and lowered her head. I sat down across from her and Miss Emily took her seat.
"I . . ."
"Quiet," she snapped. She clasped her hands and dropped her gaze to the table. "For this and all our other blessings, Dear Lord we thank you. Amen."
"Amen," Charlotte said and raised her eyes to me. "Amen," I said.
"Eat," Miss Emily ordered. Charlotte began to scoop up her cereal, clutching her spoon awkwardly in her thick fingers. She looked like a little girl first learning how to eat by herself.
When I put my first spoonful of oatmeal in my mouth, I nearly gagged. It was not only bland; it was bitter. I had never tasted hot cereal so bad. Neither Charlotte nor Miss Emily seemed to notice or mind. I looked about hoping there was a jar of honey or a jar of sugar, but there was nothing.
"What's wrong?" Miss Emily asked quickly.
Having cooked and baked so often for my family when I lived with Daddy and Momma Longchamp, I knew seasoning and ingredients. It tasted as if she had added vinegar.
"Is there vinegar in this?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "I put vinegar in everything I make."
"Why?" I asked, astounded.
"To remind us of the bitterness we must endure for the sins of our fathers," she replied. "It will do you good to remember."
"But . . ."
"This is all there is to eat," she said, smiling. "If you don't eat it, you will have nothing and you need your nourishment if you want to deliver a healthy child. God help it," she added, raising her gaze toward the ceiling.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, willing the cereal to taste better than it did. An old lady on her deathbed would have had more appetite.
"When can I get my things back?" I asked. "I don't have a hairbrush, but I have a comb in my purse."
"You won't have any reason to make yourself pretty here," she said, loud, cold and flat, her eyes challenging mine. Swallowing, I felt fear raise the hair on my neck.
"But why did you take my purse?" I asked softly.
"Everything has t
o be purified," she replied and ate her oatmeal as if it were the most delicious thing in the world.
"Purified? I don't understand."
She paused, closed her eyes to indicate that I was being very stupid and very annoying, and then turned to me.
