Not merciful silence. Not respectful silence. The kind of silence that meant no one wanted to be seen wanting you.
Someone coughed. A baby fussed. A man scratched his beard and looked away, as if even considering her might stain him.
“Come now,” the auctioneer coaxed, forcing cheer into his voice. “Surely someone needs a strong pair of hands.”
Still nothing.
His cheeks flushed. “Seventy-five cents.”
A few snickers. A fan snapped open like a slap.
“Fifty.”
Lark felt her face heat, but she didn’t cry. In the workhouse, tears were currency. If you spent them in public, people assumed you had more.
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