Free Slave Wife by Frances Gaines Bennett

shoes, she was staring at her reflection. He unlocked the shackles and helped her dress. When Michael returned she was seated at the table, her hands in her lap.
    Before he sat, he loomed over her. She so wanted to escape, to jump to her feet and run, as his long, beautiful fingers moved toward her chin. Yet not a hair on her head wavered – at least she’d learned this lesson perfectly – when his rigid fingers dug into her jaw, tilting her face upwards. Michael examined her face minutely and she held her breath, waiting for the sword to fall, slicing her open.
    Instead, his eyes brightened and his lips curved upward into a celestial smile. “Excellent,” he intoned … and she filled with warmth, her fears gone, replaced by adoration. He sat, without abandoning the radiant smile. “I’m pleased that you’ve made some,” the judgmental emphasis was clear, “progress.”
    His face became serious, intense but not frightening. She looked up at him, controlling any trace of her growing curiosity. He reached across the table and lifted her hand. His heat poured through her limbs to her heart, soothing her fears, soothing her pain. Stunned, she watched him lift the hand to his lips, felt his full lips touch her palm. With love? Could it be?
    He gazed into her eyes and spoke to her. His words were full and rich with sound and meaning, and with something she’d not heard before. Sorrow? Remorse? “Do you see that I’ve done this all for you? Do you understand how perfect you can be, how much I want you to fulfil your potential,” he paused, and the silence seemed to her interminable, “how much I love you?”
    Unshed tears hung in her enraptured eyes. Her heart melted into a spreading pool of ardour. She loved him so much, so wanted to please him. She swore to herself she would try harder. Then he would be happy with her and her life would be wonderful.
    He sat back and looked at his classical blue-faced watch. “Well, I guess it’s too late for dinner.”
    One solitary tear dropped unheeded to the lace tablecloth. Unaccountably her gaze shifted toward the armoire, perhaps because its door had not been properly closed – an unusual and no doubt punishable offence. Through an opening of several inches her clothing was visible. Suddenly she realized what was different. The wedding gown was no longer there.
     
    “It’s not that bad,” that’s what Mei continually told herself. Most of the time she simply lay curled in what she knew to be a small cage – she’d explored all around herself with her hands, which were bound together and loosely attached to the bottom bars – in a dank, darkened room. At first she’d been unable to get comfortable on the hard, uneven bars. But after many days without movement the aches and stiffness in her limbs had numbed to gruelling nothingness.
    The elegant voice had warned her she would die if she removed the hood. Mei spent many hours thinking about it. But every time her fingers touched the fabric edge fear stopped her. What if someone came in while it was off? Or if she replaced it incorrectly? Did she want to die? And after awhile, she was no longer capable of caring.
    Someone who did not speak extracted her to be cleaned immediately prior to the large man’s – she knew he was a man though he seemed like a hideous beast – visits. Few words were ever spoken to her. Once, when she was first taken, she could no longer remember how long ago, with her bladder full to bursting, she’d begged the elegant voice, “Please, may I go to the bathroom?”
    The voice had replied only one word, “Go.”
    Mei felt below her and realized the cage sat on a large drain. No water or paper was ever given her but at least she could make her waste drain away. Twice a day a metal plate of food and a water bottle were put into the cage. She had to lower her head to her hands to get the food into her mouth. She tried not to think about her smell, her filth. And most of all she tried not to