Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The morning light rose off the Meridian Sea in a vibrant wash of reds and golds.
Verna woke before the household bell as she always did after an auction.
Sleep was restless on those nights; hate for the slavers perched on her shoulders like a black crow.
She lay still, listening to wind whispering beyond her window and the distant thrum of the press house coming to life.
The soft footfalls of the women beginning their daily chores echoed through the stone corridors.
Without calling for assistance, she dressed in a simple gown dyed the colour of crushed grapes, then pinned her braided hair up high. Lastly, she fastened the silver ring onto her finger, knowing the women thought it was a decoration and Verna had never corrected them.
When she stepped onto the upper portico, she gazed at the vineyards stretched into the distance. The trellises were planted in lines that followed the curve of the land, the vines on them thick with heavily laden bunches of ripened grapes. The harvest of the early fruit had already begun.
At this hour, the leaves were still wet with dew, and each row marked by an irrigation channel caught the light. Between the rows, women moved in twos and threes as they snipped away dead parts of the vines with small shears. Verna watched them briefly before she turned away.
Today was not for the vines, it was for the girls.
She crossed the portico and descended the broad internal stairs toward the east wing.
The house had been expanded over the generations, the additions closely matched to the original structure.
The thick stone walls held the cool of the night inside them long after daylight arrived.
Arches opened into a small courtyard filled with pools of lily pads, mosaics in blue and gold, and statues of half-eroded gods that the Empire no longer worshipped but were still kept for tradition’s sake.
One of the household women nodded respectfully to her and went on without fuss. There was no bowing in her halls or lowering of eyes in her presence.
Outside the east wing rooms, Dara waited with a cup of watered wine in her hands. "You slept, Lady?" she asked.
"A little." Verna took the cup, drank, then handed it back. "How are they?"
The weathered lines of Dara’s face softened at the question. "Scared, and the youngest wet the bed in the night. They ate what they could, then stared at the door like it might bite."
Verna quashed down the wave of distress at the words, and asked quietly, "And Kalen?"
Dara’s eyes sharpened at the name. "She lies on the bed quietly enough. She didn’t ask for water, but I took it to her anyway. She eyes the guard like a hawk watches a mouse."
Verna almost smiled, and stopped herself. Kalen wouldn’t be as easily handled as the other girls. "Leave her be for now. She will eat and drink when she’s hungry enough."
"As you wish."
Verna reached for the latch of the door to the first room, then paused. It never got any easier. She knocked softly and opened it without waiting.
The room was plain, with no gilding or opulent drapery that might feel like another form of ownership.
A thick wool rug covered the stone floor for warmth.
The two beds were wide, made up with clean linen and a woven blanket dyed pale green.
A wash basin sat on a stand near the window, with soap and a jug of water.
In the corner was a wardrobe that held clothing of all sizes.
The four girls huddled together on the bed as if the mattress were a raft and the world around them an ocean.
They were cleaner than they had been last night; the maids had washed them and combed their hair. Now free of the dirt and grime, their bruises showed through. The youngest, barely more than a child, clutched the sleeve of the older girl beside her, eyes huge in her thin face.
When Verna stepped in, all four went rigid. They had learned to anticipate cruelty.
Verna stopped a few paces from the bed and lowered herself to sit on the edge of the bench beneath the window. She kept her hands visible, palms open so they could see she held no whip.
"You’re safe here," she said in a firm voice. "No one will touch you without your permission, or sell you or take you from this estate."
They stared at her. Silence stretched until the eldest swallowed and whispered, "Why." Her voice was croaky, as if she’d spent hours crying.
Because I can’t bear it, Verna thought. Because I saw you on that block and something in me refused to leave you behind. Because the Empire is rotten and I have no power to change it, only coin enough to pull a few lives out of the horror.
But she chose words that they could understand. "Because what happened to you was wrong. And because you deserve a place to be safe."
The youngest started to tremble. Tears silently slipped down her cheeks. The second girl, maybe sixteen, put an arm around her with a protectiveness that looked too old for her age.
Verna kept her gaze gently on them. "Dara will bring you food in a moment. Eat as much as you want. If you feel sick, that’s normal. Today, I’ll show you the estate, but only if you want to come. If you would rather stay here, you may."
The eldest blinked, as if she’d misheard. "We can… say no, Mistress?"
"Of course," Verna replied. "You can say no to anyone here, including me."
Dara appeared in the doorway with a tray loaded with bread, fruit, cheese, and a small dish of olives. Behind her came another woman with a steaming bowl of porridge and honey. The girls stared at the food like it wasn’t real.
"Eat," Dara said softly. "No one will take it away."
Verna rose and looked down at them with compassion. "I’ll wait outside. If you decide to come, meet me in the courtyard in half an hour. If you don’t, I’ll come back later and we’ll try again tomorrow."
She left before they could force themselves to express their thanks. Sometimes, gratitude could be another chain. She didn’t want them to be obliged to go with her.
In the courtyard, light poured down through the open space between the wings of the building, shining on the mosaic at the centre of the pavement.
It was a depiction of vines winding around a crescent moon, the grapes heavy and dark purple, the green leaves edged in gold tile.
A narrow channel of water ran along the courtyard’s edge, fed from an upper cistern.
As Verna waited on a bench seat by a small fountain, she watched the day begin. Women crossed the flagstones with baskets of linens, jars of oil, and armfuls of cut herbs.
After a time, soft footsteps came through the archway.
The four girls appeared, still clustered together. The eldest walked in front with her shoulders squared, though her mouth trembled. The youngest’s hand was clutched around her wrist as if she feared the other girl would disappear.
Verna didn’t smile too brightly. She nodded instead, acknowledging their courage without fuss. "Thank you for coming," she said. "I’ll give you a tour but if it becomes too much, we’ll turn back."
They followed her across the courtyard and out under the main portico. The sea spread wide beyond the columns and the girls slowed to gaze over it. The auction hall had been confined and foul, while here was wide open space.
"This is the main house," Verna said. "The east wing is where new arrivals stay. The west wing holds the infirmary and the rooms for women who need quiet."
She led them down a ramp that curved along the terrace rather than forcing them into stairs. As they descended, the estate revealed itself in layers. Below the house, they entered the first garden terrace. Gravel crunched underfoot and lavender bordered the garden beds.
"That building there," Verna pointed to a long, low structure with wide doors, "is the press house. We press olives for oil and grapes for wine. It has a strong sweet smell at harvest time."
The girls didn’t respond, but their eyes tracked where she pointed. Information, Verna knew, was a kind of safety, for when you understood a place it wasn’t frightening.
They passed a small shrine set into a wall niche: a figure of an old goddess with a bowl in her hands, her face worn smooth. Fresh flowers had been placed at her feet.
"We keep the old gods," Verna said quietly. "Not for the Empire, for ourselves. You don’t have to pray, but if you come from a land that worships gods, you may."
At the second terrace, the air changed. It grew cooler, damp with water. Ahead, the bathhouse looked like a temple, its entrance framed by pale columns. Steam drifted from an open vent.
"The baths," Verna said. "There are private rooms and communal pools. You will be able to wash whenever you wish. No one will be forced to bathe but we encourage everyone to stay clean."
The eldest girl’s eyes flicked toward the entrance, and a smile touched her lips. Verna knew then that it wouldn’t be long before they relaxed. She found the young were more resilient than the older women she bought here.
They continued down a path lined with cypress trees and at the next bend, the vineyards began in their ordered rows. Wooden posts stood in straight lines, and between them were the grape vines on the trellises.
The youngest stopped and stared. "So many," she whispered.
"Yes," Verna said. "That is how we make a living. Rich people pay more for wine than grain. The Empire drinks a lot while pretending it is civilised."
The second girl, darker than the rest, looked at her then. "You sell to nobles?"
Verna met her gaze. "I do. Some of the same men who sit in the slave hall drink my wine." She chuckled, though there was little humour in it. "I can’t stop them, but I can make them pay for it. We produce premium wines."
Verna led them toward a stone building half set into the hillside. Its walls were thick, its doors heavy with iron bands. The air around it smelled faintly of oak and sour wine. "This is the cellar where we keep the barrels."
She stepped inside first, letting them see she didn’t vanish into darkness. The cellar was cool enough to wish she had a coat to put on. Rows of barrels lined the walls; each marked with a year and a symbol burned into the wood.
"Wine rests here," Verna said. "It changes in the dark and becomes richer as it matures. We bottle it when it’s ready. Some of the women learn this work. It pays well if you choose to leave one day to find employment."
The eldest girl touched the doorframe as if checking it was real.
Verna turned to them. "You will have choices here. Not today, and not tomorrow, but when you are ready to leave."
They walked back into the light and went down a path along a narrow section of wall overlooking the cliffs. Verna didn’t rush them. She stood with them a moment and let the wind carry the scent of salt and freedom.
She turned to smile at the girls. "That’s enough for the day.
We’ll head back up for lunch. Dara will show you the kitchens and introduce you to the women who teach reading, stitching and the trades.
You won’t be expected to work yet but it’ll give you an idea of what you can do when you are stronger.
In the meantime, you will eat and rest."
The youngest looked up at her, her eyes rimmed red. "Do… do we call you Mistress?"
Verna felt something catch in her chest. "No. You can call me Lady."
They began the slow walk back up toward the house, their shoulders still tight but with a bounce in their steps now.
As they reached the upper terrace, Dara was waiting, arms folded, watching the girls with an expression that held a quiet protectiveness.
She would guard them in ways swords couldn’t.
Verna handed the girls over to her with a few murmured instructions, then paused at the edge of the courtyard.
There was still another new arrival in this house to see. One who would not be soothed by vineyards and sea air, one who would measure every kindness for the shape of the trap inside it.
Verna turned her gaze toward the west wing.
"Kalen next," she muttered to herself.