Tara woke with a start. The cart must have hit a bump in the road. She shifted uncomfortably on the thin blanket between her and the hard planks of wood carrying her through the countryside and pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders. Around her, the furnishings that had filled her home rattled and creaked and she could only hope that everything had been tied down securely. Although not tied down herself, the steel collar around her neck clearly marked her as much a possession as the trunks of china and linens with which she shared the cart. But belonging to whom? Tara closed her eyes and tried not to think of her uncertain future ahead.
In her dream, Tara saw herself as a young girl, bathing with her mother in the cool lake not far from the Master's estate. She had traced the scars on her mother's body many times and knew the story of her escape by night, pregnant and alone, by heart.
"It was a brave thing you did, mother," she had insisted many times. "The right thing!"
"No, Tara," her mother had replied time and again. "Running away is a shameful thing for a slave to do, no matter how cruel the Master may be."
Tara knew nothing of the cruelty her mother spoke of. When she conjured her childhood, she remembered only days spent in the sun, playing with the children of the villagers and running free. Her Master had been an old man for as long as she could remember, but he had a kind face and sometimes when he returned from trips to the city, he would bring her little gifts - a doll, a dress with a lace hem. She could recall trips to the market where she had seen slaves being auctioned off in the square. Sobbing and struggling, the naked bodies for sale to the highest bidder had held a strange fascination for Tara. Her mother, with collar carefully hidden from prying eyes beneath her shawl, had always hurried her away.
"Disgraceful," she had muttered. "We're just lucky it isn't us."
Tara had never seen any real connection between herself and the slaves at the market until her eighteenth birthday. A fine robe in a rich crimson arrived for her and joining some twenty other girls in their robes, Tara had spent the following weeks beginning her slave training. It was the first time Tara had ever been to the city and as she listened to the excited chatter of the other girls in the expansive home of the Village Slave Mistress, it was also the first time she realized how very little she knew of the world. Snippets of conversations came back to her in fragmented dreams - talk of lavish parties and castles across the sea. And then there were the lessons in the correct positions to assume, the correct words to say,
"Every Master's tastes are different," the Slave Mistress had said. "It's your job to discover them and mold yourself to be all that he desires. He may whip you mercilessly, punish you unfairly, use you until you are sore and give you to men you find vile. All of this you must accept gracefully. Learn to delight in the marks he leaves on your body. You must be open always, pleasing in sight, smell, sound, taste and touch to your Master, and ready to serve him in whatever way he requires. This is who you are and who you must be."
Tara was a dutiful student, although the Mistress had little time for the likes of her. With her gawky limbs, pert breasts, freckled skin and mop of blonde curls (cut short by her own hand much to her mother's dismay), Tara was not exactly the kind of slave on which fortunes were spent or wars were waged. She had none of the exotic beauty or natural charm possessed by other girls. In those first weeks, she had often wondered if she was truly meant to be a slave at all. Plus, there were constant whispers about her - that her mother was a runaway, that her Master was an eccentric with no other slaves other than the one he had stolen.
"Training that girl is a waste." Creeping past the Slave Mistress' room one night, Tara had heard her speaking to an unseen guest and instinctively known they were talking about her.
"Sir Thomas is an old man now and I hear he is unwell. He rarely comes to the city anymore. His son manages Blackmore Estate, while he hides away in that miserable cottage. The girl and her mother might as well be common housemaids."
Tara had never forgotten those words and back home with her mother, scrubbing the floors, she heard them ringing in her mind with renewed truth.
"We're barely slaves at all!" she had complained. "Why, we're... we're just common maids!"
Her complaints had earned her a stinging slap that had left a red imprint on her cheek.
"How dare you say such things?" her mother had seethed at her. "You have no idea how lucky we are. What do you imagine would have become of us if Sir Thomas hadn't taken us in? You should be grateful for what you have. My poor girl - I can't bear to think what will happen to you when we are gone."
