Chapter 2: The Price of a Meal

I thought of the gold bracelet on Emily’s wrist.

It glimmered in my mind, bright and untouchable. I imagined what it would feel like—cool and heavy, proof that I belonged somewhere, that I mattered. Maybe just for a second.

“Such a beautiful bracelet—if I wore it, it would be stained by my filthy blood.”

That thought echoed through me. I pressed my wrist to my chest, hiding the scars. No gold would ever look right on me. Not with these hands.

But if only I had a gold bracelet too!

I pictured myself walking into a bakery, trading it for a whole bag of sandwiches, maybe even a slice of pie. My mouth watered at the thought. I could almost taste it.

I could trade it for so many grilled cheese sandwiches.

Just thinking about it made my stomach hurt. Warm, gooey cheese, buttery bread—I could almost smell it. I hadn’t tasted anything like that in so long, I could barely remember what real food was.

Mom said grilled cheese was warm, soft, and delicious.

She told me about the diner on Main Street, where the bread was always golden and the cheese stretched for miles. I’d never been, but her stories felt like hope.

I licked my dry lips, forcing myself to stand even though my head spun and my legs shook.

My knees wobbled, but I pushed myself upright. The rain stung my cheeks, but hunger was worse than cold. I kept moving.

I hadn’t eaten in two days. I was so hungry. So hungry…

My vision swam. I had to blink hard to keep from falling over. My stomach twisted, cramping with every step.

Maybe the only way I could survive was to sell myself.

The thought made my skin crawl, but I couldn’t shake it. I’d heard stories—kids like me working for scraps, sometimes doing worse. Anything was better than dying out here.

I wanted to sell myself to the corner deli—just work for food—but as soon as I got to the door, the shopkeeper chased me away.

The bell barely finished ringing before he spotted me. “Hey! You can’t be in here—get out!” he barked, waving a greasy rag. I stumbled back, heart pounding in my chest.

“Where’d this little stray come from? Get out! You’ll scare off the customers.”

He spat the words like I was trash. I ducked my head and hurried away, trying not to cry while people stared through the glass.

Braving the rain, I wandered the streets in a daze, trying shop after shop, but no one wanted me—even when I said I’d work for just a meal.

I knocked on back doors, peeked into kitchens, offered to sweep or wash dishes. Most people just shook their heads or slammed the door. One lady tossed me a bruised apple, but it rolled into the gutter before I could grab it.

In the end…

I had nowhere left to go.

Only the Rosewood House didn’t drive me away.

The front door creaked open, and a woman in a silk robe looked me up and down. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t slam the door, either. That was something.

A woman who called herself Mrs. Larkin pinched my face and grinned with satisfaction.

Her fingers were cold, nails painted bright red. “Well, aren’t you a pretty little thing under all that grime,” she said, her voice syrupy. Her perfume was so thick it made my nose itch.

“Nice features. Don’t mind the sallow, skinny look. With some care, you might turn out to be a real beauty.”

She tilted my chin, sizing me up like a prize at the county fair. I tried not to squirm, but my stomach growled loud enough for her to hear.

She took out a sheet of paper covered in writing and told me to press my handprint on it.

The paper was thick, the writing fancy. She slid it across the table, then pushed an ink pad toward me.

She figured I couldn’t read, told me with a sly smile that it was just a slip—sign it, and I could eat all I wanted.

She smiled, sly and knowing. “Just a little paperwork, sweetheart. Sign here and you’ll never go hungry again.” I nodded, pretending not to understand a word.

But I knew every word. Mom had taught me to read when I was little, tracing letters on the backs of grocery bags.

My eyes scanned the page—"indenture," "binding," "no right to leave." My chest tightened. I felt a jolt of panic, but the smell of bread was so strong I could barely think.

It was a contract to sell myself…

The word caught in my throat. I’d heard stories about places like this, but I never thought I’d end up here.

At that point, what choice did I have but to sign?

My hand hovered over the paper, the ink pad staining my fingers red. I hesitated. My stomach twisted, but I was too tired to care.

Next to the contract was a plate of freshly baked rolls. Mrs. Larkin picked one up and tore it open—the smell hit me like a punch.

Steam curled up, warm and yeasty. My mouth watered so bad, I thought I might drool on the table.

“Sign quickly. Once you sign, you can eat the roll.”

She dangled the bread in front of me, eyes sharp. I reached for it, but she pulled it back until my hand pressed into the ink.

I stared at the bread, swallowing hard. My hand pressed into the red ink pad, and just as I was about to stamp it on the contract—

My fingers trembled, the world spinning. I could barely see straight. The bread was so close—

A big hand grabbed me. Hard.

The grip was iron, yanking me away from the table. I gasped, bread forgotten, as I was spun around. My heart leapt into my throat.

It was my uncle.

He loomed over me, eyes colder than the rain outside. His suit still perfect, his jaw set in a hard line.

He seized my hand, looking at me with eyes like ice.

His fingers dug into my wrist, making me wince. He looked at me like I was a stranger, not his own blood.

“Just as cheap as Lisa Redford. Even this dirty trick of playing hard to get is exactly the same. Pathetic.”

The words landed like fists. I shrank back, but he didn’t let go. My skin burned where he touched me.

“How could the Redford family produce someone like you? Selling yourself to a brothel—you even thought of that? Even lower than your mother.”

He spat the words, his voice rising. Mrs. Larkin shrank back, but didn’t dare interrupt.

“Come on, take me to your mother…”

He shook me until my teeth rattled.

My head lolled, vision blurring. I tried to pull away, but he squeezed harder. My stomach cramped, black spots dancing in front of my eyes.