Thanksgiving Guests

It had been over thirty years since Emily had last seen the old man.

Mr. Clay had seemed an old man then, too – all of twenty-five. Emily had just turned eighteen, and his had been the first to offer to buy her. Her father, who had become her owner with the ratification of the Nineteenth Amendment, had turned down Mr. Clay’s offer, and had kept her for a few more years before selling her to Master Gerald Kramer. But that first offer was not the sort of thing a woman would forget.

That had been in February of 1921. Now it was November in 1952, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Emily was in a crowd of women, waiting to board the delivery van with their last-minute groceries. Other women were being picked up at the grocery store by their masters, but none were driving themselves home. Federal law required women to wear slave collars and to have the Mark of Sheba tattooed on the back of their left hands, but left it up to the States as to whether they were allowed to drive or not. Michigan was one of the States that prohibited slave-women drivers.

That was when Emily saw Mr. Clay, leaving the neighboring hardware store with a sack full of whatever he had purchased there. He saw her too, and his eyes widened, but he didn’t have a chance to say anything before Emily climbed into the van. A keyboy shut the door after checking to make sure all the grocery bags were loaded, and the van departed.

On arriving home, Emily saw Mr. Clay get out of his parked car. He had followed her, it seemed. As she unlocked her hobble-heels with the key chained by the door, Emily heard the doorbell ring and wondered how she would explain this situation to Master Gerald. As it turned out, however, Master Gerald explained the situation to her.

“This is my Emily, Tim,” he said. “Emily, this is Mr. Timothy Clay. He’s the handyman of our section at Rockford Chemical, and he’s come to replace the thermostat in the oven.”

“Oh,” Emily said. “Thank you, master. And thank you, Mr. Clay. The oven came with one of those new psi-timers-and-thermostats, but the psi part never really worked right. I do have to be in the kitchen to put the groceries away, but I hope I won’t get in your way.”

“I’m sure it won’t be a problem, Missie Emily.” Mr. Clay still had that faint southern accent. “Anyway, it’s the least I can do.”

“I’ve invited him to Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow,” Master Gerald said. “He doesn’t have anyone, and the section has sort of adopted him.”

“You’ll be welcome, Mr. Clay,” Emily said. She kept her eyes from straying to the owner’s ring on his hand. That had been a fad of the twenties, and it was rare to see one today, even among older masters. Emily wasn’t a bond witch – she wore the plain collar of a house slave – but her Rhine score was high enough to sense that the woman Mr. Clay had owned was missing, somehow. Emily pretending ignorance, asked brightly, “Will you be bringing someone, Mr. Clay?”

“I’m afraid not,” Mr. Clay answered. “Go ahead and put your groceries away, Emily. I’ll take a look at the oven, and if I need to I can wait before I start taking it apart.”

Mr. Clay finished half an hour later, and had Emily test the timer and thermostat. She sent mental probes out to check and set the clock, to set and check the oven temperature, and to set the timer. Everything worked smoothly.

“It was just a matter of replacing a few parts that had gone bad,” Mr. Clay said as he put on his coat. “Or that had always been bad, I suspect. Tomorrow at noon, then?”

“Noon will be fine,” Master Gerald said.

After Mr. Clay had left, Emily said, “Master, I have a confession to make.”

“We can talk, then.” Master Gerald nodded toward the living room, and Emily followed him there.

They were both fifty, but Emily looked fifteen years younger than her master, thanks to the psychosomatic beauty cream she regularly used. She was tall for a woman, less than two inches below her master’s height, even in her bare feet. Her blond hair had a decided tendency to curl, and her face featured a sharp little nose and light brown eyes – attractive enough, if falling well short of classic beauty.

In the living room, Master Gerald brought out two hanks of clothesline from under the side table and began to tie Emily, hand and foot. He was a well-built man, running only a little to fat, neither short nor tall, with black hair now going gray and a nose that dominated his square face.

As her master rendered her helpless, Emily confessed. She spoke of having met Mr. Clay back in 1921, and how he had offered to purchase her from her father. Her father had turned down the offer, but Mr. Clay had made a great impression on her. She had been only eighteen, Demancipation had been ratified less than a year before, and it had been the first offer ever made to buy her. “There were three or four more offers after that, master,” Emily said, “but I don’t remember them nearly as well. Except for yours, of course.”

“I haven’t forgotten either,” Master Gerald said. “You’re always around to remind me, after all. Which brings me to Mr. Clay. I’ve know him for years, at work, but I don’t think he realized that I owned you until today. That must have been a shock for him, especially since… You’ve seen that ownership ring he wears?”

“Yes master.” Emily was now completely tied. She tested her bonds as usual, and as usual she found them secure.

Master Gerald touched Emily’s collar and Mark of Sheba, making her aware of them, too. He said, “Clay bought and sold four or five women during the Twenties and Thirties, one after the other. So maybe your father was wise in turning down his offer for you. He sold the last of his American women when Rockland sent him the England. He didn’t want to risk her by taking her with him. He was doing some sort of war work, of course, and Clay says that it’s still hush-hush.” Master Gerald paused to see if Emily was listening. Emily nodded, and Master Gerald went on.

“He purchased an English woman while he was there. Her name is Rose – same as our daughter’s name – and that’s who the ownership ring is for. He dotes on her.” Master Gerald paused, and Emily could sense him gathering his nerve. “He dotes on her,” he repeated, “but just over a week ago she… went missing.”

“How horrible, master!” Emily exclaimed. “She didn’t run away, did she?”

Women did run away from their masters on occasion, mostly on a whim and without any expectation of actually getting away. Almost always, they’d return on their own in a few days, if the police didn’t pick them up first.

“She fell in with bad companions,” Master Gerald said, answering the question by avoiding it. “A trio of Southern Abolitionists, two men and a woman. The FBI arrested them less than three days later. But the FBI hasn’t returned Rosie to Clay. At first they said that they needed to question her, which made sense, but now they say that she’s asking for the Right of Sale.”

Women needed to be owned by men. Emily knew that she did, and that all her women-friends did too. That meant being bought and sold. But a woman had a right to demand that her master sell her. It was intended as a last resort, against an intolerable master, and it was mostly used that way. But not this time, Emily sensed. This time, Mr. Clay’s Rosie was being pressured for some reason.

“What can I do to help, master?” Emily asked.

“Not much, except to make encouraging noises,” Master Gerald said. “Clay is upset about it, of course, and at work we’re all rooting for him. We’re also thinking that Clay should go shopping right away, if he can’t have his Rosie back. So just follow my lead.”

“I understand, master. I’ll be good.”

Shortly after ten on Thanksgiving morning, Milton Kramer arrived with his Jacqueline Sarah. Mister Milton and Sarah, Emily reminded herself once again as she smiled and welcomed them. Her son was a grown man now, and his ladyslave didn’t care for ‘Jacqueline.’ Emily approved of the modern custom of giving girls two first names to choose from, to make up for their not having last names.

Master Gerald shook hands with his son and returned a half bow to Sarah’s formal chained-curtsy.

“Careful there,” Master Gerald added.

Sarah was showing four months pregnant, and Mr. Milton hovered over his house slave as she unlocked her hobble-heels.

“After today, I’m doing that for you,” Mr. Milton told her.

Women normally unlocked their own hobble-heels, using a ‘house’ or ‘slave’ key. Locking them back on again required a different key, one used by a man or at least under a man’s close supervision.

“Yes master,” Sarah said. “After today.”

Sarah’s tone was patient, but her eyes shone as she looked up at her master, silently begging a hug and a kiss. He indulged her, with an exaggerated and slightly awkward gentleness.

Mr. Milton was taller than Master Gerald, with brown hair rather than black. He otherwise looked like a younger edition of his father, as the two of them went to the living room.

Sarah was shorter than Emily, but still as tall as most women. She had auburn hair, gray eyes, and a cheerful round face that gave everyone the impression of a peasant woman. Sarah claimed that this impression was much more due to her psychic aura than to her physical appearance.

The two women padded to the kitchen. Emily slipped her domestic hobbles back on. Sarah remained barefoot. Domestic hobbles were women’s house shoes, connected by a simple cord and lacking any sort of lock. This made them easy to don and remove, giving slave women a choice, at home, between going barefoot and having their steps shortened.

“Have you decided on names?” Emily asked.

Sarah shook her head. “It’s still too soon.” Then, “What was that?”

The oven timer had gone off while Sarah was speaking. Neither woman had heard the audible ding, but both had sensed the psi-alarm.

“It’s the oven,” Emily said. “We need to take out the pecan pie and put the turkey in.”

Once the pie was on the cooling rack and the turkey in the oven, Emily sent a mental probe to set the timer again, and to turn up the volume of the audible ding. Mr. Clay had left it at the lowest volume, and Emily hadn’t checked.

Emily and Sarah had just started peeling potatoes when the doorbell rang. Emily slipped out of her domestic hobbles again and hurried to answer. Master Gerald arrived just behind her, with Mr. Milton behind him.

“Rose!” Emily greeted her daughter. “Come on in!”

“Yes,” Master Gerald confirmed this. “Come in and be welcome. You are family, after all.”

“Thank you, sir.” Rose dropped a chained-curtsy to her father and stepped into her mother’s embrace. “Hello, Momma.”

Amber Rose was a petite waif of a woman, skinny and no more than an inch over five feet. She had the black hair of her father, worn long as was appropriate for a slave woman, and a beautiful face with large brown eyes. Like Emily and Sarah, she wore the plain steel collar of a house slave rather than the ornamented one of a bond witch. Unlike the other two women, she currently had an institutional master rather than a personal one.

Sarah came up as Rose finished shedding her hobble-heels. After the two had exchanged greetings, Mr. Milton said, “Sarah, you need to be belled now.”

“Yes, master.” Sarah followed her owner into the living room, while Emily and Rose padded to the kitchen.

Emily slipped on her domestic hobbles again. She preferred to accept going hobbled in the kitchen, in exchange for protection from the cold floor. Rose preferred the opposite. So did Sarah, even before her pregnancy and doubly so now. She joined them a minute later, barefoot and jingling from the belled bracelets and anklets her master had locked on.

“Now there’s a merry sound,” Emily said.

Sarah held up her arms to display her bracelets. They had tiny bells that chimed faintly as she turned her hands, palms-in to palms-out, and back again. “They’re tuned to match the anklet-bells,” she said, “and I hope they don’t get in the way. If they do, I can beg Master Milton to unlock them, and just wear the anklets.”

Like Rose, Sarah had her slave number tattooed on the back of her left hand, next to the Mark of Sheba. Emily didn’t, and she felt both wistful about it and glad that Master Gerald didn’t insist on having it added. It was like having two first names; a thing mostly for the younger slave women born after Demancipation.

And in any case Emily had memorized her slave number: SQB-223-844.

“Are those bells because you’re expecting?” Rose asked as the three returned to peeling the potatoes and setting up the pot to boil them. “I noticed that you had a lengthened chain on your hobble-heels,” she added.

“That’s right,” Sarah said. “Master Milton and I are following the advice of Dr. Parker for my pregnancy. Loosened hobbles, no tie-ups, and these as a substitute” – she jingled her ankle-bells – “until after the baby arrives.”

“Have you started thinking about names, yet?” Rose asked.

“It’s too soon for that,” Sarah said.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Emily said, “but it’s not too soon to start thinking.”

Sarah gave Emily a look and changed the subject. “How are you doing, Rose? I expected you to be unsettled.”

“I am unsettled,” Rose said. “I didn’t expect…” She took a deep breath. “Sometimes good news is more unsettling than bad news.” She offered a wry smile. “So I’m grateful that Forrest’s gave me compassionate permission to be here today. It helps.”

“Do you have to go back tonight, or tomorrow morning?” Sarah asked.

“I can go back tomorrow morning if I call tonight,” Rose said. “That is…” She looked at her mother.

“Of course you can stay tonight,” Emily said. “Master Gerald and I already talked it over, and your old room is waiting for you.” She set the pot of water for the potatoes on a back burner and turned the knob to ‘psi.’

“Thank you, Momma,” Rose said. Then, “Oh! You have it fixed now!” She sent a mental probe to the stove, igniting the back burner and then turning it down and off again.

“Just yesterday,” Emily said. She sent her own mental probe to set the timer.

“Should we start the giblet gravy now?” Sarah asked.

“Yes, please,” Emily answered. “I’ll get the acorn squash ready to go into the oven. Then we can bring out the relish tray and take a break.”

Emily had just brought out the relish tray when Mr. Clay arrived. Master Gerald introduced the three youngsters, Mr. Milton shook hands, and Sarah and Rose both offered chained-curtsies.

“My, how formal.” Mr. Clay made a shallow bow in response. “Jacqueline Sarah and Amber Rose. Sarah and Rose. I must say that I approve of giving girls two first names to choose from.”

“Twice the reason to start thinking about names.” Emily seized the chance to drop a broad hint.

“Momma,” Mr. Milton said, putting a protective arm around his slave Sarah. “It’s still too soon for that.”

Rose changed the subject, asking, “Did you regret losing your family name, Momma?”

“No,” Emily said at once. “Yes,” she had to admit. “What I miss more is losing my middle name. I was ‘Emily Vera Hines’ before Demancipation, and then just ‘Emily’ afterwards.

“I didn’t know that women had middle names, back then,” Mr. Milton said.

“Most of us didn’t,” Emily said. “Shearing the few of us who did was a quaint and foolish custom of that time. Although there were compensations, even back then.” She touched her slave collar. “I was a fractious young woman, and this really helped.”

“And you were found by someone,” Mr. Clay said.

Emily nodded. “It took a few years, but I was found by someone. That’s something for me to be thankful for, on Thanksgiving.” She smiled at Master Gerald.

“I found someone too,” Mr. Clay said. He twisted his ownership ring. “We had ten good years.”

“And you’ll have ten or twenty more good years to come,” Master Gerald said heartily.

“Maybe,” Mr. Clay said. “I suppose I’ll need to pay a visit to Forrest’s in any case.”

“You should,” Master Gerald said, “whether it’s to claim or to buy.”

Emily remembered to make an encouraging noise.

Mr. Milton changed the subject this time. “We should have cocktails to go with the tray. Maybe a pitcher of Bloody Marys?”

“Good idea,” Master Gerald said. Emily smiled and nodded. Bloody Marys before dinner were a Thanksgiving tradition for Master Gerald and Emily, and their twenty-something children now shared it.

“I’ll make it.” Rose said, standing.

Mr. Clay stood as well. “I will be happy to assist.”

Emily tried to keep an ear on both Mr. Clay and Master Gerald. Mr. Clay must have sensed Rose’s unsettled… not sadness, but wistfulness. He flirted and jested, and managed to win a smile or two, but Rose wasn’t yet ready to tell him about her old master. In the living room, Master Gerald was telling Mr. Milton and Sarah about Rose – Mr. Clay’s Rosie – and the ownership ring.

A psi-alarm went off, just a few seconds before the audible ding. It was time to baste the turkey.

“I’ll get that,” Sarah said, rising. Her bells jingled as she headed into the kitchen.

Mr. Milton called after her, “As long as you don’t slip on any domestic hobbles!”

“I won’t, master!” Sarah called back over her shoulder.

Now Rose and Mr. Clay brought out the pitcher and the cocktail glasses. Sarah returned just in time to receive the last Bloody Mary. She took the glass and sat beside her Master Milton. Emily sat beside Master Gerald, of course, which left Rose to sit on the ottoman by Mr. Clay’s armchair.

Master Gerald raised his glass. “Cheers!”

“Cheers!”

“And to Tim Clay.” Master Gerald raised his glass again. “Tonight he is part of the family. Think of him as an adopted uncle or something.”

Everyone drank again.

“A Dutch uncle,” Mr. Milton said. “Uncle Tim.” He looked over at his sister. “Eh, Rose?”

“Yes!” Rose said.

Emily glanced over to Master Gerald. He nodded approval, as if he were expecting it. She remembered her instructions to make approving noises. “Certainly. Certainly.” Not that she disagreed. “Welcome to our family, Mr. Tim. Uncle Tim?”

“Uncle Tim,” Master Gerald confirmed.

“So I’m a dirty old man, is it?” Uncle Tim split an exaggerated leer among the three women, earning three feminine giggles in response, along with a pair of chuckles from the two men. “Thank you,” he said, his tone and expression turned serious again.

“I should fill in Uncle Tim,” Rose said. “I can sense his curiosity, even if he is too polite to ask questions.”

Uncle Tim blushed.

Mr. Milton said, “Well, I wouldn’t mind hearing it all again. I’m sure I missed some parts, and I’d like you to tell me that you’re looking forward to a happy ending.”

“I wouldn’t mind hearing about a happy ending either,” Uncle Tim choked out.

“It’s still unsettled,” Rose said, “but I am looking forward to a happy ending.” She looked around at her audience and began her tale.

“The story starts back in May,” Rose said. “I belonged to Master Colby. Private Colby C. Hammond. He was reported ‘missing in action, presumed dead’ at the Hook. So ALBERT took ownership of me – not a man named Albert, but the office in charge of slave women who lost their army masters. It has one of those difficult acronyms that the government likes to give out. Anyway, I became the property of ALBERT, and they gave me six months of mourning. They don’t call it that; officially it’s a death benefit of ‘Remedial and Advanced Training’ that the Army pays for, but it’s really a mourning period before they put me up on the auction block.”

“Would they really have put you up for auction? A real auction?” Sarah asked. “I’ve heard that the army does some strange things.”

Rose shook her head. “No, that’s just a figure of speech. ALBERT transfers the ownership of their women to various slave dealers. Forrest’s Finest Females here in Benton Harbor, in my case, because that’s where Master Colby first purchased me. We then get sold normally, just like the other women at the dealerships. It’s called ‘being put up on the auction block,’ because that sounds more romantic, in a military sort of way.” Rose paused until Sarah nodded her understanding, and then went on.

“So I was due to be sent from the ALBERT center in Fort Wayne to Forrest’s on December 1st. Then the news came that Master Colby was still alive. That was last week, on the eighteenth, so Forrest’s sent someone to pick me up right away. The idea was that Master Colby would pick me up at Forrest’s, rather than at the ALBERT center. Although actually Master Colby reported in as alive all the way back on November 3rd, but there was a delay in getting word to ALBERT. An Army delay.” Rose drained her Bloody Mary and looked at the empty pitcher. “I should make another pitcher.”

Master Gerald waved a hand. Later.

“Yes, sir,” Rose said. “Anyway ALBERT decided that the simplest thing was to let Forrest’s go ahead and sell me, just as if Master Colby was really dead.”

Uncle Tim had stopped blushing. “So your Master Colby has to purchase you a second time?”

Everyone else nodded. Rose shook her head.

“No, Uncle Tim,” Rose said. “That’s where it gets complicated. It’s the part I haven’t told yet. I’m happy and thankful that Master Colby is alive after all, and I’m happy and grateful that Forrest’s has given me compassionate permission to be here this Thanksgiving, and I’m looking forward to being sold again and owned by a man rather than an institution, but” – Rose took a deep breath – “it won’t be to Master Colby. The North Koreans took him prisoner, which is why he was missing for so long. But then he escaped and made his way south with a group of refugees, and along the way he purchased a Korean woman.”

Silence. Then Emily heard herself ask, “Are you jealous, Rose?”

“No.” Rose shook her head firmly. “Myung-sook is a sweet woman. I met her when Master Colby came to Forrest’s to sign some paperwork as a just-in-case thing. We’ll be friends if we end up in the same neighborhood. But I do feel guilty. I want to be bought and owned by another man, and I feel guilty about that.”

Uncle Tim smiled. “I won’t say ‘don’t feel guilty’ because that doesn’t do any good. Instead I’ll offer to help make another pitcher of Bloody Marys.”

As Rose and Uncle Tim stepped away for that task, Emily decided that it was her turn to change the subject. She turned to where Mr. Milton and Sarah were sitting together on the couch. “Do you think you’ll be ready to pick names by January?”

“Emily,” Master Gerald said. “Let them be. Yes, it is our first grandchild, but let them be. They can answer that question after the new year.”

Mr. Milton and Sarah didn’t go so far as to say “Thank you,” to Master Gerald, but they did give him grateful looks. Emily briefly considered disobeying Master Gerald’s command and decided against it. Sometimes her deliberate disobedience amused him. Other times it didn’t – and this was one of the times it wouldn’t.

After the second round of Bloody Marys, the psi-alarm timer summoned the three women back to the kitchen for the last-hour flurry of preparations. Emily decided to set aside her domestic hobbles for once and join Rose and Sarah in going barefoot in the kitchen. A minute later she changed her mind and slipped her domestic hobbles back on. She really was a tenderfoot, she admitted to herself. Going barefoot in the living room with its big rug was fine, but not in the linoleum-floored kitchen.

Between them, the three women got the turkey out of the oven and onto its platter. Rose mashed and seasoned the potatoes, Emily baked the acorn squash and the rolls, and Sarah prepared the peas-and-onions and transferred them their serving dish.

“I hope you made your cranberry salad,” Rose said.

That salad had become a family tradition on Thanksgiving. “Of course, dear,” Emily answered. “I made it last night. It’s in the ‘fridge.”

The turkey led the parade of food to the table. Master Gerald tied Emily to her chair – just her legs and lower body, signaling that, as the chief cook, she would not have any more work to do that evening. Sarah and Rose would serve and do the cleaning up.

Master Gerald carved and served the turkey, and then they all started to eat. Emily decided that a historical romance, set in Olde England, would describe the feast as ‘merry.’ They all joked and laughed, and carefully avoided any serious topic of conversation. Emily did have to bite her tongue a few times, against the temptation of asking about names for her grandchild to be. But only a few times, and she was proud of her success.

As Sarah served the pecan pie and Rose the pumpkin pie, Uncle Tim spoke wistfully about how pecan was his Rosie’s favorite pie. Sarah asked, “Did the Southern Abolitionists cut through her collar, Uncle Tim? Is that why the FBI doesn’t want to return her to you?”

Emily shuddered. She saw Rose touch her own collar. Slave collars protected women from the thick psychic atmosphere of modern times, and cutting through them was wanton cruelty.

“Actually, it’s the opposite,” Uncle Tim answered Sarah. “They didn’t cut through Rosie’s collar, and so the FBI suspects that the woman in their gang is secretly a commie-feminist.”

Everyone except Mr. Milton nodded understanding. Southern Abolitionists and Communist-feminists were bitter enemies, despite both claiming (for completely different reasons) that Demancipation wasn’t really necessary.

Mr. Milton said, “I thought it was only in bad novels that commie-feminist agents infiltrated Southern Abolitionist gangs.”

“It happens in real life too,” Uncle Tim said. “Not as often as in your bad novels, but it does happen.”

“What does happen, Uncle Tim?” Sarah asked. “To the woman, I mean, if she’s caught while being a commie-feminist agent?”

“What happens to female agents varies,” Uncle Tim said. “If they’re true believers, they usually get sent to Russia, in exchange for one of our agents. Back to Russia, I should say, because that’s where most of the true believers come from. For agents that are also ordinary criminals – and a fair number are – they get sent to prison as ordinary criminals. Mostly, though, they go through a year or more of rehabilitation and then get sold on the ordinary market. You’d think that the Russians would want to buy them out when that happens, but they’re paranoid and avoid doing so.” He smiled. “Smart of them. The FBI does cast a quiet eye on the men who buy those women.” His smile faded. “Agent Orland hinted that when they decide just what Teresa is – that’s the name of the woman – they’ll also call me to let me know if I will get my Rosie back. Or if I have to go shopping.”

Master Gerald said, “So this Teresa might be a real Southern Abolitionist after all? I thought the FBI only suspected her of being a commie-feminist.”

“Well, yes,” Uncle Tim said. “Agent Orland is only mostly certain that she’s a commie-feminist in disguise. If she turns out to be an actual female Southern Abolitionist true believer – and those are rarer than you’d think – what happens to her will pretty much be the same thing. Except they won’t be sending her to Russia.”

Once everyone had finished their pie, Sarah and Rose stood to clear away the plates and deal with the kitchen. Master Gerald untied Emily, and she embraced him. From the corner of her eye, Emily saw Mr. Milton shuffle, while Uncle Tim looked wistful and even more thoughtful than before.

Rose and Sarah returned from the kitchen, and they all adjourned to the living room.

“Maybe I should investigate the war-captive refugees from Korea,” Uncle Tim said in a half-joking tone. “I could teach one of them English – or it might be more restful for me if I didn’t.”

Sarah and Rose both giggled. Then Rose said, “There aren’t all that many here in the States, Uncle Tim. Just a few thousand at most. But those stories about refugee women in Korea, throwing themselves at the feet of American soldiers? They’re true, or at least some of them are. One of the things I did in the Fort Wayne center was help teach English to the Korean war captives there.” She added quickly, “They’re women, refugees, not prisoners-of-war, but they’re called ‘war captives’ because that sounds all military and barbaric and romantic. But the women in Fort Wayne were all properly purchased before being shipped here. More or less properly, anyway.”

“I’ve heard that a lot of refugees were desperate just to make it to South Korea,” Mr. Milton said.

Rose nodded to her brother. “That’s right, sir. They say that the Russians treat their women badly, but the North Koreans treat their women like wild animals.”

“That’s communist-feminism,” Sarah said. “It sounds very nice in theory and turns out to be horrible in practice.”

“Pretty horrible in theory, too,” Mr. Milton said, “if you look closely enough.”

“It’s because the men aren’t free either,” Uncle Tim said. “So the women suffer all the drawbacks and none of the advantages, either of being a ‘free female’ or a ladyslave. That’s been a problem for the Soviets. They need true-believers for their agents, but there aren’t very many of those. That means most of their female agents surrender after they’re caught. They’re ‘seduced by the gentle mastery of free men,’ as one of the women put it.”

“That’s a good way to put it, Uncle Tim,” Emily said. She wanted to change the subject and was casting about for a way to do so. “And I’ve heard that giving them new names is an important part of that seduction.” She looked at Sarah and Mr. Milton, but they were deliberately not taking the hint. Well, she had tried.

“I think that you need to experience ‘the gentle mastery of free men,’ Emily,” Master Gerald said. He had been listening without making any comments, and now he had several hanks of clothesline in his hands. He passed two hanks each to Mr. Milton and Uncle Tim, and gestured with one of his remaining ones.

Emily obediently crossed her wrists and ankles and let Master Gerald tie her, hand and foot. At the other end of the couch, Mr. Milton grimaced at the clothesline his father had handed him. After a minute’s thought, he tied long tethers to Sarah’s left wrist and ankle, securing the far ends to the leg of the couch for a very loose binding.

“I hope this doesn’t bust Dr. Parker’s prescription,” Mr. Milton said.

“It will be fine, master,” Sarah reassured her owner. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

Uncle Tim was also looking doubtfully at the clothesline handed him. “This won’t violate the rules of your ALBERT?” he asked Rose.

“No Uncle Tim. Anyway, it would now be the rules of Forrest’s Finest Females, and they allow customers to try out the ropes.” Rose opened her eyes wide and offered a burlesque of a pout. “Now if you undressed me before tying me, that would be going too far. I’m a proper ladyslave, I am, and I have my dignity to consider.” Rose finished with a sniff, and was applauded with chuckles all around.

Rose grinned as Uncle Tim bound her hand and foot, perching her on the ottoman while he settled back in his armchair. She squirmed for a moment, testing her bonds before relaxing with a sigh.

“I needed this,” Rose said. “I hadn’t realized how much I needed it. Thank you, Uncle Tim.”

“You’re welcome,” Uncle Tim said. “And if there is no objection, I’ll escort you back to the dealer’s tomorrow.” He pulled off his ownership ring and slipped it into his pocket. “It will be more dignified than the dealership sending someone to bring you in, and afterwards I can do a little shopping for myself.”

Master Gerald said, “You’re welcome to escort Rose, as far as I’m concerned. But don’t give in so easily about your own Rosie.”

“That’s right, Uncle Tim.” Emily nodded, remembering her instructions to make encouraging noises. “The FBI might call you with good news, and you’ll never know when the phone will ring.”

The phone rang.

Master Gerald started to rise, but Mr. Milton beat him to it. “I’ll get it, Dad.” Half a minute later he returned. “You were psychic, Momma. It’s for Uncle Tim,” he said. “It’s an FBI Agent Orland,” he told the older man.

Uncle Tim left, and Mr. Milton sat back down beside his Sarah. No one said anything. Emily snuggled against Master Gerald. Sarah pulled at the loose tethers on her wrist and ankle, making her bells ring. Rose squirmed on the ottoman.

After several minutes Uncle Tim returned, beaming. He was wearing his ownership ring again. “I have bad news,” he said cheerfully. “Agent Orland has just told me that my Rosie will be unavailable. She’s officially listed as ‘missing.’ However” – he grinned – “There will be a woman named Megan Jill waiting for me to pick her up tomorrow morning at Forrest’s. And she just happens” – the grin grew wider – “to have the same slave-number as Rosie.”

(End)