Free Waiting for the Queen by Joanna Higgins Page B

allowed to come to our cabin. Perhaps she does not want to, ever again.
    On the way back, I circle past Estelle’s hut and hide a packet of dried apples, dried venison, and a candle in a patch of yellowing fern. ’Tis our usual spot. Estelle’s hut looks the same, merely a heap of pine boughs woven into a lattice of poles. But at least we have been able to smuggle them foodas well as some oiled cloth for walls and the earthen floor. And Alain, Estelle’s brother, has made them pallets for beds. He used scraps of wood the joiners secretly put aside for him. It is saddening to think of him out in the middle of the night, searching for these bits of wood, with no other light than that of the moon. All the nobles and all the workers, including the French ones, have cabins now. Only the slaves do not. Seeing their hut these days always makes me worry about the approaching winter. Mr. Rouleau may not know how cold it can get here. When he does, he might relent.
    Well, at least we have made them boots, John and I. And that is to the good.

Eugenie
    Sylvette looks dressed for a ball, with her white jacket tied around with pink, blue, and yellow ribbons. I hold her blue-ribbon leash as we walk to the river. It is good to be walking unfettered by Florentine’s presence. Good not to have to think of witty rejoinders. And on a day of sunlight and near warmth! Yesterday’s snow has melted, and the river rushes on, brown and high, yet today’s sunlight dresses it with light, and all seems more hopeful.
    But every so often I look over my shoulder and to either side for wild animals, though I cannot believe that they would just charge into our clearing. There is too much noise from the carpentry, the joiners working on new maisons— another hopeful sign—and on La Grande Maison , too.
    I remove my gloves and find a stick to throw for Sylvette. For this I must release the blue ribbon. It always makes me worry that she might just rush off into the woods, on the scent of something. And then that will be the end of her.
    â€œSylvette, stay close now, ma petite . Here is your stick.”
    I toss it nearby and she runs, in her ribbons and jacket—a comical sight. I toss the stick again and again. The third time she catches it in midair, but lets it fall from her mouth. Then she begins barking.
    I turn, fearing Florentine’s presence. But it is the petty despot Rouleau, with the slave girl Estelle. They are farther along the landing and walking down to the water. She carriessomething while he loudly berates her. “Who do you think you are, accepting such gifts? I have told you before. You are to accept nothing from those people! They are meddlers. They cause only trouble. While you—you have gotten sly, haven’t you? Hiding things from us. Secretive! And who knows? Even plotting, maybe!”
    â€œ Non , monsieur, we—”
    â€œDare not contradict me!”
    Sylvette is shivering and growling as I carry her up the landing, away from them. Still Rouleau has not seen us. At the top of the landing I look back. Rouleau and the girl are at the water’s edge. He has her throw something into the water and then shouts that she hasn’t thrown it far enough. Sylvette squirms to be free. She longs to chase whatever it is. I hold her tightly.
    Rouleau takes something else from the girl and heaves it into the center of the rapid river. It immediately sinks. She hands him another object. He throws it and it, too, sinks. The next time something arcs over the river, I shade my eyes and look carefully. A boot! They are throwing boots into the water. Why in heaven’s name are they doing that? Four have gone in. Then another, another, and finally still two others. Then the arm that has been heaving the boots out over the water flies toward the girl, striking her on the head. She falls to one knee on the stones. He raises his arm again.
    â€œMonsieur Rouleau,” I call, as I move