Page 54 of Backwoods
No one was in the room, but Amiya heard the rattle and clatter of staff—not staff, prisoners, she reminded herself—working in the kitchen beyond a set of closed double doors. The air smelled of warm, delicious things.
Miss Lula pulled out a chair at the head of the table. “Sit, lady.”
“I feel as if I’m in the dining room at the Ritz-Carlton,” Amiya said.
Miss Lula’s gaze was dull, reflecting no recognition of what Amiya had said.How long has this woman been here?
Long enough to have no idea that the Ritz was a popular chain of luxury hotels, most likely, and Amiya found that deeply disturbing.
She settled onto the chair. Miss Lula put her hand on her shoulder and gave Amiya a squeeze that sent a hot current of pain down Amiya’s arm.
“Ouch, that hurts,” Amiya said.
“You’ll wait in here, lady, in this chair.” Miss Lula gave her a stern look. “I’ll go ask the staff to bring you some food.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Miss Lula, I promise.”For now, she thought.
Miss Lula nodded, took her hand off Amiya’s shoulder. While Amiya massaged her muscle where the woman had squeezed her, Miss Lula left the room via the double doors that led to the kitchen.
Amiya’s gaze tracked to the other doorway. It was ten feet to the entry hall. Perhaps another twenty feet to the front door. She could outrun the big, lumbering Miss Lula, probably even while wearing a pair of heels.
But there were others in the house, too, people she had not yet met. They might attempt to stop her. At this point, Amiya didn’t have a single ally who might help her escape.
He turned her over to the Overseer for punishment. We never saw her again.
She couldn’t afford to launch an ill-considered escape plan. The penalty for failure was too severe. She had to bide her time.
But she had to get out of here before they marked her. Instinctively, she understood that she had to avoid the brand, at all costs. The effect of the symbol on these captives might have been only psychological, but it was powerful. Despite all her learnings, she wasn’t immune to the effects of such things: shecould find herself living here like everyone else, with no hope of ever getting out, without so much as a memory of her life before.
I will not let that happen.
Across the dining room, the double doors swung open.
A slender, handsome young Black man entered, carrying a large white soup bowl from which fragrant steam rose. He wore tattered dark slacks and a white dress shirt with a faded maroon tie, his sleeves rolled up at the elbows.
His head was bald, which gave her a clear look at the “W” branded on his forehead.
“Good afternoon, lady,” he said, and smiled at her. His eyes were shy, but kind. “I brought you chicken soup.”
“Thank you.” She sat up straighter in the chair. “I’m Amiya. What’s your name?”
“Ossie.” He set down the bowl in front of her, unfolded a white napkin and a set of silverware: spoon, fork, and a knife sharp enough to slice a steak.
“Oh, like Ossie Davis,” she said, studiously avoiding staring at the knife. “The actor.”
“Uh, yeah.” He looked away from her.
She glanced into the bowl, saw chunks of chicken and vegetables swimming in broth. Her stomach ached with hunger.
“This looks delicious,” she said. “Are you one of the cooks here?”
“One of them, yeah.” He fidgeted with his tie and wouldn’t meet her gaze. “Oh, I’ll go get you some water. Be right back.”
The dress she wore had a small front pocket. Amiya slipped the knife inside, reassured by its coldness against her thigh. Whether Ossie had brought it to her by accident, she couldn’t be sure, but she was keen to take advantage of any opportunity to arm herself.
Amiya spread the napkin across her nap and examined the spoon. It was silver, and clean. The mansion might have been falling apart, but someone was washing dishes.
She took a sip of the soup. It was hot and tasty, and she had to check herself from lifting up the bowl in both hands and slurping it down like a beggar in a back alley.
