Every other enslaved person on that platform had mastered the heartbreaking choreography of survival: head bowed, shoulders slumped, gaze fixed firmly on the floorboards. Josiah did not dance to their tune. When the auctioneer roughly yanked his chin up, Josiah’s eyes swept across the crowd of wealthy buyers like a physical challenge. It was the look of a man who had stared into the abyss, weighed the cost of his soul, and decided that death was a far better companion than surrender.
And then, his eyes locked onto the woman in the black veil.
He stared directly at Elodie. She felt the impact of his gaze like a physical blow to the chest, a fist of ice squeezing her heart. For two years, men had cowered and broken before her. Yet here was a man in chains, standing on an auction block, looking at her as if she were the one who ought to be lowering her eyes. He seemed to pierce straight through the black lace, through the armor of her venomous rage, and see the terrified, broken girl hiding within.
“Starting bid at $800,” the auctioneer droned.
“One thousand,” Elodie’s voice sliced through the humid air before she even realized she had spoken. The crowd gasped; Gaspard stared at her in utter disbelief. One thousand dollars was an astronomical, irrational sum for a single field hand, especially one with a well-documented history of rebellion. But Elodie didn’t care about the money or the tobacco. She was consumed by a manic need to own him, to break him, to force him to lower his eyes and learn the same agonizing lesson she had carved into the backs of every other man at Thornfield.
“Sold to the lady in black,” the auctioneer declared.
Leave a Comment