Abigail squeezed his shoulder, hard.
“Don’t,” she whispered through a mouth that tasted of fear. “Don’t give them your fire. They’ll only use it to warm their hands.”
Jack’s eyes flicked to hers. “Mama—”
“I’m still your mama,” she cut in, soft but sharp. “That means I decide what we do. And we do not break in front of them.”
The auctioneer threw his arms wide. “What am I bid?”
Silence.
Not a holy silence. Not a respectful one.
A weighing silence.
Men glanced at each other. Boots scuffed. Someone cleared his throat as if the air itself was embarrassing.
Abigail felt something inside her crack open anyway, like a board splitting under too much weight. Not being wanted had its own sting. It told you you weren’t even useful enough to exploit.
Continue on the next page:
