It should have been an insult. A midwife was worth ten times that at least. A healer who could read was rarer still, like finding a silver spoon in a field.
Thomas waited for paddles.
Silence.
Men studied their boots, their cuffs, the ceiling beams, anything but the woman standing upright in chains. It wasn’t pity that kept their hands down. It was caution.
The auctioneer repeated the number, voice thinning.
Still nothing.
Thomas felt the room press in around him, a collective decision being made without words. He hadn’t heard the whispering the way regulars had. He hadn’t grown up with the county’s particular folklore. He was new, and new men mistook silence for opportunity.
He raised his paddle.
“Ten dollars to the gentleman in blue,” the auctioneer said too quickly, relief flashing across his face like sunlight on a knife. “Do I hear twelve?”
No one moved.
