Mrs. Lenora Whitcomb closed the bedroom door and turned the key.
Isaiah Bell stood near the window, keeping his distance.
“Why did you send for me again?”
Lenora stared at him.
“You come when I tell you to come.”
Isaiah’s jaw tightened.
“Every night you say the same thing, and every morning you warn me not to speak.”
She stepped closer.
“Because silence is the only thing keeping you here.”
Isaiah looked toward the locked door.
“No, silence is what keeps you safe.”
Lenora’s expression changed.
For weeks, she had summoned him after dark and threatened to have him sold if he told anyone what happened inside that room.
Now Isaiah was no longer looking frightened.
He was watching her carefully.
“You think no one will believe me.”
Lenora folded her arms.
“They won’t.”
Isaiah took a slow breath.
“Then why are you the one who looks afraid?”
For the first time, she had no answer.
The room went quiet.
Outside, footsteps passed along the hallway.
Lenora looked toward the door.
Isaiah did not move.
Whatever had begun behind that locked bedroom door was no longer something she could control simply by threatening him.
And both of them knew one conversation could destroy the entire household.
The footsteps stopped outside the room.
A woman knocked twice, paused, and knocked once more.
Lenora’s fingers tightened around the key.
“Who is there?”
“Mrs. Whitcomb, the kitchen fire has been banked,” said a voice.
It belonged to Ruth, the woman responsible for the household’s evening meals.
Lenora had ordered Ruth to remain downstairs.
“I did not ask about the fire.”
“I know, ma’am.”
“Then go away.”
Ruth’s shoes moved only after a long silence.
Isaiah waited until the floorboards stopped complaining.
“She heard you lock it,” he said.
“She hears everything.”
“That is why you sent her away.”
Lenora crossed to a small table beside her bed.
A porcelain basin sat there with clean water and an untouched cloth.
She lifted the cloth and revealed a brass measuring weight no larger than a walnut.
The weight was stained dark along one edge.
Isaiah recognized it from the weighing house, where he had worked before being assigned to the mansion.
“Tell me why that is here,” Lenora demanded.
“You brought it here.”
“Tell me what you know about it.”
“I know the scale was broken on Tuesday.”
Lenora swallowed.
“The scale did not break.”
“Then someone made it lie.”
A gust pressed against the window.
Isaiah could see the courtyard below,
where a single lantern moved between the stable and the tobacco shed.
The lantern belonged to Abel, the night watchman, and its steady progress told Isaiah that the watch had not changed.
Lenora stepped close enough for him to smell the lavender she used to disguise sleeplessness.
“You will answer my questions before morning.”
“You have asked the wrong questions for twenty-three nights.”
She struck the table with her palm.
“You have no right to count my nights.”
“I count them because I need to know how many mornings my sister has left before you send her away.”
Lenora glanced toward the door again.
For a moment Isaiah thought she might call someone to punish him.
Instead, she picked up the brass weight.
“Your sister is safe as long as you are useful.”
Isaiah stared at the object in her hand.
“Then I should tell you what happened to the missing wagon.”
Lenora’s face drained of color.
Outside, Abel’s lantern stopped moving.
