Seeing the glance, their new owner’s face broke into another smile. But this one was not thin at all, and seemed to have some actual humor in it.
“Be at ease. I have no intention of adding any new scars to the collection. It is simply information which I must have.”
The smile disappeared and the question was asked again. This time, with firm command. “Which scars?”
Hesitantly, the younger sister lifted her left leg and pointed to a scar on her knee. “I got this one falling out of a tree. My father was furious with me.”
Their owner nodded. “He would know of it, then? Good. Are there any other such? Did he beat you afterward? And, if so, are there any marks?”
The sisters looked at each other. Then, back at their owner.
“He never beat us,” whispered the older. “Not once.”
“Our mother did,” added the younger sister. She was beginning to relax a bit. Enough that she managed a little chuckle. “Very often. But not very hard. I can’t remember even being bruised.”
The man shook his head. “What kind of silly way is that to raise children? Especially girls?” But the question was obviously rhetorical. The smile was back on his face, and for the first time the sisters detected the whimsical humor which seemed to reside somewhere inside the soul of their new owner.
He stepped up to the older sister and touched her cheek with his forefinger. “That is the worst scar. It almost disfigures your face. How did you get it?”
“From the brothel-keeper.”
The man’s eyes widened slightly. “Stupid,” he mused. “Bad for business.”
“He was very angry with me. I—” She shuddered, remembering. “The new customer had—unusual demands. I refused—”
“Ah.” With a light finger, he traced the scar from the ear to the corner of her mouth.
“I think he forgot he was wearing that huge ring when he slapped me.”
“Ah. Yes, I remember the ring. Probably the same one he was wearing when we conducted our transaction. A large ruby, set in silver?”
She nodded.
“Excellent,” he said. “Easy for you to remember, then.”
He turned to the younger sister. Placing one hand on her shoulder, he rotated her partway around. With the forefinger of his other hand, he traced the faint lines across her back.
“These are your worst. How?”
She explained. It was a similar story, except the individual involved had been the chief pimp instead of the brothel-keeper, and the instrument had been a whip rather than a ring.
“Ah. Yes, I believe I met him also. Rather short, squat. The little finger of his left hand is missing?”
The two sisters nodded. He returned the nods with a curt one of his own. “Excellent, also.”
He stepped back a pace or two. “Can either of you write?”
The sisters were now utterly confused. This man was the weirdest customer they had ever encountered. But—
So far, at least, he did not seem dangerous. The younger sister spoke first. “Not very well.”
“Our father taught us a bit,” added the older sister. “But it’s been a long time. Several years.”
Both of the sisters, for the first time, found it almost impossible to maintain their poise. Memories of their father were flooding back. Their eyes were moist.
The man averted his gaze, for a moment. The sisters took advantage of the opportunity to quickly pinch the tears away. It would not do to offend their new owner.
They heard him snort softly. “Taught his daughters! Scandalous, what it is.” Another soft snort. Again, the sisters thought to detect that strange whimsical humor. “But what else would you expect from—”
He broke off abruptly and looked back at them.
“In a few days, you will write a letter. As best you can.” Seeing the uncertainty in their faces, he waved his hand idly. “I am not concerned if the handwriting is poor. All the better, in fact.”
His eyes moved to the pallet, and then to the baby asleep to one side. “It will be crowded, with the four of us.” Again, the thin smile. “But there’s no help for it, I’m afraid. Appearances must be maintained.”