“Yes, Madam,” the girl responds, bows her head and leaves quickly.
Two women, who look more like housekeepers than slaves, come in behind her with a mop and broom and a dustpan and begin cleaning up the mess. The rest of us step out of the way. Already most of the guests have grown bored with the display and are returning to their conversations—seems the fake Francesca has disappeared from the room entirely, though I don’t recall seeing when that happened. I guess my little spat with Izabel threw me off worse than I thought. What the fuck is wrong with me? I’ve never broken character before, or been distracted enough that it could blow my cover.
“Apologize to Madam Ghita,” I tell Nora.
She turns toward Miz Ghita, who is looking down on her with those fierce vulture eyes, and Nora says, “Aya apologizes, Madam, for being so clumsy.”
Miz Ghita looks only at me now, saying nothing to Nora.
“I’m beginning to think, Mr. Augustin, that we do not have a girl suited to your needs, after all. Missing fingers, scars, the grace of a fawn learning to stand”—she glances at Nora with disgust, then looks back at me—“I hope this one will be punished accordingly.”
“I’ve only been Aya’s master for a couple of months,” I explain. “This is her first public showing, so I’m sure you can understand her incompetence. But yes, she’ll be punished accordingly later, that I can assure you.”
Believing me, and granting us some slack now that there’s an acceptable reason for the display, Miz Ghita nods at me slowly, glancing at Nora in a sidelong manner.
“The showing will be held in the ballroom in ten minutes,” Miz Ghita says. “It is expected to last one hour; after that I’ll take you to meet privately with the Madam.” She starts to walk away, but turns around and adds in a low voice so only the three of us can hear, “So far it seems you check out, Mr. Augustin, but you should know that if you’re a fraud, here for any reason other than what you claim, we will find out.”
I smile slimly, my eyebrows crumpling in my forehead. “Well, thank you for the warning,” I say. I laugh, brushing the whole thing off as ridiculous. “Does this kind of stuff happen around here a lot? You seem paranoid, Miz Ghita—no offense.”
Her weathered mouth remains tight; her harsh eyes never blink.
“The Madam’s time is more precious than my own,” she says, ignoring my question. “You’ll have thirty minutes to speak with her, so make them count.”
“I intend to do just that,” I say, and tip my head to her.
Ten minutes later we follow a large group of buyers down one expansive stretch of brightly lit hallway toward the ballroom; flanked by towering pillars on either side made of white marble trimmed in silver. White. There’s so much of it; any other time I’d find it too sterile, but the color suits the mansion, and the classic, sophisticated look the designer was going for: white-and-gray marble floors, white ceiling, white paint on the walls; even the flower arrangements in the arch windows lining the hallway have white petals. And when we enter the sizeable ballroom, the white still goes on forever, across the shiny marble floor, up the steps of a stage at one end of the room; the long flowing curtains on the windows are white and gray—OK, maybe it is too sterile; I’m starting to feel like I could go snow blind in this place.
Out ahead, placed in a half-circle, are dozens of white-and-silver chairs facing the stage; three rows of them. We’re all ushered toward the chairs by men in black suits and bow ties, urged to make ourselves comfortable. I and Trevor Chamberlain are asked to sit in the front row; I take a seat, putting my briefcase on the floor; Izabel sits on a chair of her own next to me; Nora sits on the floor at my feet, her knees bent and her legs tucked underneath her ass, her hands in her lap, her head lowered, her posture straight. No one sits with Mr. Chamberlain, but that’s why he’s here: to buy himself a girl. Just like myself and every other buyer here, men and women alike, a few others with their property also sitting at their feet just like Nora.
Izabel sits quietly at my side, also with her back straight and her hands folded on her lap, but she’s looking straight at the stage. This will be her first test—when the merchandise is brought out. I hope like hell she can hold it together. We’ll be watched by unseen eyes—we’re being watched right now—because we’re new and no one trusts us yet. Don’t recoil, Izzy; keep that composed face throughout the next hour and give them no reason to question you.
Izabel