At the suppers, Cornhair was one of the girls who served kana. She served humbly, keeping her head, for the most part, down. She felt it would not be well to meet the eyes of one of these women, women so different from herself, free women. She did not wish to invite the lash. The girls who served were not allowed to speak to one another. Cornhair had not even realized that there were other slaves about until the evening of her first day in the house, when she was brought forth from her cell to assist in the serving. The serving slaves, Cornhair felt, like herself, were uneasy. Timid, questioning glances had been exchanged. They might not speak, of course. “They know little more than I of these things,” Cornhair thought to herself. “They do not know, no more than I, why they are here. There are no men here. What, then, is our purpose here? I wonder if they are separated from one another when not serving. Are they, as I, put in cells, alone?” One thing that made Cornhair even more uneasy was that she sensed, from time to time, the eyes of one or another of the free women on her. She saw some smile. There was a comment. Had it had anything to do with her? She heard a tiny bit of laughter more than once, of which she feared she might be the subject.
She put her hand lightly to the collar on her neck. It had been referred to as a temporary collar. She was not sure what that might mean. Certainly it was fastened on her neck quite as effectively as any other collar. “Perhaps,” she thought, “it is temporary because I am to be given to some man, perhaps an uncle or brother, who will then put me in his own collar.”
As Cornhair had ruminated on these matters, her original curiosity as to the purpose of this gathering or meeting returned. Why had it been convened? What was its purpose? Too, in serving, even at the first supper, she had noted something else which seemed puzzling to her, perhaps an odd coincidence, or at least, surely, something unexpected. There seemed no older women in the household, at least none amongst those she had seen. The several free women in the household, or, at least, those she had seen, were all rather young.
“Cornhair!”
Cornhair looked up, frightened.
“Put down your decanter, Cornhair,” called Lady Delia, “and come here, dear, and stand before the table of favor.”
That would be the table behind which sat Lady Delia, Lady Virginia, and several others, several of whom Cornhair had first seen when her hood had been removed. It had a place of honor, at the head of the room. Cornhair supposed that the individuals at that table might have some special status. Perhaps they were officers, of a sort, ones who stood high in this gathering, this organization, or sisterhood, whatever might be its purpose.
“Shame on you, Cornhair,” laughed Lady Delia. “Do not disappoint us! You are a slave. Stand as a slave! Tall, soft, at ease, gracefully, desirably, proudly! Be attractive. Do not be ashamed of your sex! Be proud of it, love it, want it! Be excruciatingly, unapologetically female.”
“Please, Mistress!” wept Cornhair.
“It is permissible, you are a slave,” said Lady Delia.
“Please, Mistress,” begged Cornhair.
“Do you know you are in a collar?” asked Lady Delia.
“Yes, Mistress!” said Cornhair.
She now knew that only too well.
“Must you be lashed before you show us you know it?” asked Lady Delia.
“No, Mistress!” cried Cornhair.
“Suppose we were men and you wanted us to buy you!”
“Yes, Mistress,” wept Cornhair.
“That is why she did not sell from the shelf, or from the block,” said Lady Virginia. “That is why we had her for only five darins.”
“I see,” said a woman, “a slave, but a poor slave.”
“Yes,” said Lady Virginia.
“But she is pretty,” said a woman.
“Yes,” said another.
“Do you hear me, Cornhair?” asked Lady Delia.
“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.
“You are a slave,” said Lady Delia. “It is what you are! Do not be ashamed of it. Be proud! How could you be more female? Feel your bondage, feel it in every fiber of your lovely, desirable body. Feel your need, let it suffuse you, let it heat you; let it torture you; feel it in every particle of your body, in every drop of your blood. You need to be owned, and to serve. You need to be handled, and mastered. You are a helpless, worthless slave, only that! Now, pathetic, delicious, worthless slave, let your body beg to be bought!”
Several of the women about the tables gasped, and others cried out in rage.
“Turn, turn slowly, slave!” said Lady Delia. Then she cried out, “Will she do?”
“Yes, yes,” cried several of the women, eagerly. A circuit of polite applause rippled about the room. Some women struck their utensils, or knuckles, on the table, in a gentle, refined tattoo of approval.
“You may return to your serving, Cornhair,” said Lady Delia.
“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair. “Thank you, Mistress.”
Things then muchly returned to normal.
But Cornhair was troubled.
“I fear I am becoming a slave,” thought Cornhair. “What am I? I know there is a collar on my neck. Am I a slave? But this goes far beyond the collar! What is the collar but a symbol, a confirmation? I fear I am becoming a slave, a true slave.”
Cornhair, in the warmth, standing in the sand, where she had been told to stand, felt someone close to her.
She heard, overhead, or about, the snapping of canvas, almost as though a banner, or flag, might be torn by the wind.
“That is odd,” she thought. “I hear wind, but I do not feel it. Surely on my arms, or legs, I should feel it, but I do not.”
“Steady, dear,” said a voice, a woman’s voice.
She felt the leash and the leash collar removed. Then she felt her hands being untied.
“Keep your hands at your sides,” she was told.
The leash and the leash collar, and the cords, were apparently handed to someone. There were at least two then on the sand near her.
“Hold still, dear,” she was told.
To her amazement, she felt the collar grasped and a small key thrust into the lock at the back of her neck. She felt the back of the collar press against the back of her neck, and the key turn in the lock. Then the collar was opened, and removed.
“Why,” she wondered, “had another collar not been locked on her before the first was removed?”
“Mistress?” she asked.
She had the sense then that the collar had been given to the second person. She waited, expecting a new collar. She was, after all, a slave.
“What, dear?” asked the female voice.
“I have no collar,” whispered Cornhair.
“That frightens you, does it not?” asked the voice.
“I am a slave,” said Cornhair. She was surprised that she had said this as simply, as naturally, as she had.
“Do not concern yourself,” said the voice.
“Am I to be freed?” asked Cornhair.
“No,” said the woman. “And if I were to lift the hem of your bit of cloth, here, on the left side, your brand would be clearly visible. Have no fear, my dear, you are nicely marked.”
“I do not understand,” said Cornhair, frightened in the hood, her hands at her sides.
“For what is to be done to you,” said the woman, “it is important that you be a slave. You must be a slave.”
“I do not understand,” said Cornhair.
“You will understand, shortly,” said the woman.
“What is to be done to me?” asked Cornhair.