Brun traced what she’d heard on the wall, fixing it in her mind, as she once would have repeated it aloud. Ranger Bowie. What an odd name. She didn’t remember the men using any name like that on the ship . . . had they even called each other by name?
The nondescript man in the checked shirt bellied up to the bar and ordered. Beside him, two men were talking about the Captain’s choice of policy.
“Well, we’re free men but I don’t see any call to stomp in an ant bed. It’s my right, but I’m not stupid enough—”
“You’re calling the Captain stupid?”
“I’m saying that taking outlander women for our own needs is one thing, but taking that one—and then bragging about it—is just asking for trouble.”
“It proves we’re strong.” That speaker turned to the man in the checked shirt. “And what’s your opinion, brother?”
He smiled. “I heard she had yellow hair.”
The first speaker snorted. “Everbody knows that. They’re hoping she’ll put her hair on her babes.”
Someone down the bar leaned forward. “You talkin’ about that gal from space? The yellow-haired slut? She had twins, did you hear? One redhead, one dark. Odds on, they’re double-fathered.”
“No!” The man in the checked shirt widened his eyes, the perfect picture of a country bumpkin in for one of the festivals.
“I’d bet on it. She won’t be out for another two months, though. They say the twins need her milk longer, being smaller.”
“Ah. I’d hoped.”
The other men looked at each other, sly grins twitching their mouths. This one probably had only one wife, and her homely as a tree.
“Well, who wouldn’t? Don’t get that many blondes, do we? Put your name on the list, is all I can say. They’re showing her now, if you want to see if it’s worth the tax.”
“Before I put down on the list, believe I will.”
“Crockett Street Nursery, then.”
He was not the only one who wanted to see the outworlder blonde mute, who had birthed twins. They’d been confirmed fraternal and double-fathered, which meant she might throw twins again. A woman who could drop two eggs at a time was even more desirable. He took his number, and when it was called pushed into the room with the others in that group.
At first he wasn’t sure. He had been shown pictures—moving and still—of Brun in childhood, adolescence, and adulthood. Closeups, distance shots, everything. He had thought nothing could disguise her. But the yellow-haired woman before him was not the same Brun—if it was Brun at all. Her slender strength was reshaped now—her body blurred and broadened with the children she’d carried, her breasts heavy with milk. She stood heavily, arms hanging by her sides. Her yellow hair was long, lank, nothing like the lively tousled curls in the pictures. Her blue eyes were duller, almost gray. But his practiced eye noted what was not concealed . . . the bone structure of her face, her shoulders, the exact shape of her fingers and toes. This had to be the woman he sought. He looked for the RE tattoo, but the short wrap such women were allowed during a showing covered the area where it might have been.
Two guards stood with her, their staves held to prevent the men from touching her.
“Devil’s own,” one of the men near him muttered.
“Satan’s snare,” said another. “Good thing they muted her.”
“Yup. But the babies look strong.” The babies were on display as well, naked cherubs in a playpen. They grinned toothlessly at the watching men.
“Not worth it to me,” said a black-haired man, and spat on the floor. “I’m not risking my soul for that.” He pushed past the others and walked out.
Another laughed. “There speaks a man without the tax. She was just as wicked afore he looked at her.”
“And it’s our duty to convert the heathen,” said another. “I reckon another couple of birthings’ll convert her.”
“What—you’ll bid for her wifing?”
“Might do. Might do worse.”
“Might do better . . .” They chatted on. Brun stared past them. Why didn’t she lower her gaze, he wondered, the way the other women did. Then he knew why . . . she was neither virgin nor wife, and the worst had happened already. What could they do to her now? He shivered, and the man next to him glanced over.
“What is it, brother?”
“Nothing.”
Hazel’s duties as a servant required her to go into the street each day with the garbage. When she had demonstrated that she would perform this task exactly as directed, looking neither to right nor left, even when unaccompanied, Prima decided to try her out as a market girl. She was still clumsy in her sewing; she would be more marketable for other skills. As near as she could tell, from what she dared let the girl tell her about the abominable behavior of those outworld heathens, the girl had been among merchants and traders all her life.
So, first in the company of Mellowtongue, Hazel went to the market to carry home those items which the garden did not produce. She was required to look at the ground two paces before her, and carry the basket at waist height, and speak to no one, not even if spoken to. Mellowtongue answered those inquiries which must be answered. Hazel performed exactly as ordered, on that and all the trips that followed.
The first time she was sent out alone, for just one item, she was watched, from a distance, by one of the other servant women, one too senior to be a market girl, but reliable in her gossip. She went directly to the correct stall, waited with head down until the stallkeeper called her house name, and held out the basket and payment without looking up. She was sent again, and then again, and then—in company with the head cook—learned to haggle respectfully with the stallkeepers.
She took nothing on herself; she pilfered no treats; she was submissive even to the unfair scolding of the cook on the matter of some wilted greens.
So, in a few months, she was sent regularly to market on market days. And there, by keeping her ears stretched to the fullest, she heard gossip about the yellow-haired outlander, the heathen woman who was in the maternity house . . . and then had birthed twins . . . and then nearly died of the birth sadness . . . and then moved to the nursery. Days later she heard which nursery. Days after that, one detail after another trickled into street talk. She said nothing; she asked no questions, and told no tales. When market girls from other houses tried to make friends, with quick murmurs, she ignored them.
She kept her eye on Brandy—now Prudence—and Stassi—now Serenity. Day by day, the little girls seemed to forget their former life. Quick, bouncy, darting Brandy was still more active—but she had transferred her passion for blocks and construction toys to sewing and weaving. Already she had made a stuffed doll for Stassi, and then a dress to put on it. She seemed to grasp easily the way that cloth could be shaped to fit bodies. She was fascinated by the movement of the great looms in the weaving shed, and had explained to Hazel (who could not figure out how they worked) how the rise and fall of rows of little rings would produce different patterns in the cloth. Both girls had friends their own age, and seemed far more attached to the women who cared for them than to Hazel.
Reluctantly, Hazel gave up the idea of including the littles in an escape. They were too small; they could not run and climb and fight. They would be obvious—no way to conceal the fact that they were children, and they had had no training in the boys’ world, so they could not pass as boys. Most of all—she could see that they were happy and secure, and that the women of the household liked them. Even Prima, inclined to be stiff with the other women’s children, had smiled at Brandy-Prudence, and stroked her dark curls. If she could get away—if she could get Brun away—the littles would not suffer for it. No one here blamed children for things like that. They would be cared for better than she could care for them—better, she suspected, than the Distressed Spacers’ Home would care for them if she did get them back to Familias space safely. And . . . they were happy. They had lost one family, one world—she could not tear them away from another.