Slave Sisters

(13) Slave Sisters

Here you go ^.^

~

11th October, 1804

Eventually, yet unexpectedly, Mr Wicker turned to glance at the gap through to the opened door. My eyes widened as he noticed me. In the blink of an eye the suitcase that sat on the table was shut and he was stood, walking to the door. I hurriedly took a step back and looked down along the hallway. Should I run back down the stairs, but still face a chance of him catching up with me?

Before I could think about it any longer the library door was pushed back dragging a rush of wind with it. In all honestly, felt vulnerable as I stared up at Mr Wicker. He was most certainly a very tall man, whose height could startle you at least a little.

Maybe the reason I had not exactly noticed his height were since whenever I noticed him, he usually always appeared to be sitting down in a chair.

I could recognise the anger shown in the man’s dark eyes. That was the second thing that frightened me about him; it made me wonder if he had ever shared a happy moment with another person, most definitely including Mrs Wicker.

“You,” he whispered, jabbing a finger at my right shoulder. I stumbled back a step, or two, in shock, before quickly regaining my composure. “What are you doing here, slave?”

My gaze stayed on the floor, too afraid to stare up at his threatening eyes. “I j-jus wanted to clean,” I quietly stuttered, playing with my trembling fingers behind my back. Looking up for another time, I saw a snarl planted on his lips.

It seemed as if he believed me for a moment, although his expression still did not change. As I was about to bid him a goodnight, Mr Wicker continued on. “What did you see, slave?” he questioned coldly, very slightly shifting his eyes into thin slits. My mouth hung – a tad – open, yet no words came out. “Well?”

I blinked, “N-nothin’. Only a suitcase, but dat’s it.” With the amount of anger radiating from the man, I was sure that I would return to bed injured – if I could manage to make it back. I closed my eyes in order of trying to stop any tears of fright escaping.

Once my eyes had opened again, Mr Wicker appeared to look somewhat calm. “Go . . . Leave, now. I do not want to see you again tonight.” Nodding, I turned around and forced for my feet to move; regardless of the fact that it felt as if his stare burned into my back, not once did I turn around.

16h October, 1804

Five days later, and I had still had the memory including Mr Wicker strong in my mind. None of it truly made sense to me; I understood that the Wicker family were wealthy, yet were it normal for a man to hold a box full of money? From my own feelings, I was sure that the answer was certainly a ‘not at all’.

Ever since that night, as the man had ‘learned’ from his mistake with me, anything that happened in the room only took place behind closed doors. Every single evening till early hours Mr Wicker had been present in the library – not that I had let my curiosity get the best of me to check, but I just knew.

During the week following the incident, I had made to keep watchful of the Wickers’ actions in the household; why was it that everyone else acted normally and with ease – why had the wife of Mr Wicker not been expressing her curiosity toward her husband, if she held any?

By now I should have gotten used to the Wicker family, although I just could not; they were different to any family I had ever known in my entire life. Being the youngest of the family, was it not expected that little Jane have a strong bond with both her mother and father? Or that Victor, as well, held a different type of bond with his father – a fatherly bond?

Why was the Wicker family so hard to make out?

After having stood up from my spot on the floor, I grabbed the bucket still full of bubbly water and the scrubbing brush. Making my way out of the living room, I walked back into the kitchen, returning the brush to its place in the cupboard, and continued on to the garden with the bucket.

It was not the most wonderful weather outside today, yet thankfully no raindrops had yet fallen from the enormous grey mists up above. A small sigh escaped my lips as I tilted the bucket to a certain angle, allowing for its contents to pour onto the grass.

Before I entered back into the house, a cough reached my attention. Quickly, my head whipped back, and I frowned at who the person turned out to be. “Jane?” I questioned, not expecting it. She stood in the top corner of the garden, looking from the sky to me “Why are yer out ‘ere? It’s bad weather . . . come into da kitchen.” Willingly, she followed me back inside.

Once after having closed the door that led to outside, I placed the bucket in the same place as the scrubbing brush. “Yer body mus’ be freezin’,” I ensured, rubbing up and down her arms to bring in heat to them; despite my hands not desirably being warm either, my technique did work. Examining the girl for any injuries or damages, I realised that she seemed just fine.

“I like the cold weather,” she admitted, smiling up at me. In surprise I placed a hand to my jutted hip, wondering if the cold weather had made her act this way. As if she could understand my thoughts, she quietly giggled. “Tamara, I am fine, I promise.”

At that moment an idea popped into my head, and I leaned my hands against the countertop. “Does yer father like cold weather . . ?”

~

Okay . . . this was chapter was shorter than I expected it to be, but I promise that the next is longer. What is your opinion on this chapter? Too fast-paced, or too slow? Do you think that everything happening so far is alright? Again, tell me what you think in the comments below! I am always willing to improve, and your feedback will help. Also, remember to vote if you like :D Thank you