Jenny: To Roost

The Guttersnipe let the door fall on the latch behind her. The garden was full of silver moonlight, and it showed up the slave-girl's face very plainly. She glanced over at the swinging garden gate. "Don't worry about him," she told the girl, massaging the soft of her back as she did so. She was not sure she was going to be able to use that kidney for a while. "He won't spare you two glances. He'll give you a fright, though. He looks like the devil himself, especially when he's angry. I haven't seen him in..."

Her voice trailed off, and she jerked back to the slave-girl. "It's late," she said. "Time for raisins and milk. If we're lucky we'll catch the last of the bread before Monica eats it all. Come on.

"What is your name, anyway?" she asked as she led the girl back through the cool room. The place smelled strongly of fermentation. From a distance came the encouraging sound of Monica, voice raised in high dudgeon: she would not be at the kitchen table eating the last of the course wheat bread.