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KYRA A NOVEL BY CAROL GILLIGAN AUDIO BOOK CD UNABRIDGED 9 HRS + EX-LIBRARY | eBay
All it would take was a single misspoken word by one foolish maid and I would find myself at the man's mercy once more. Nevertheless, I sought the familiar comfort of my family's allotted quarters, the sooty hearth, the cramped beds. There, I could sink into the blankets and perhaps feign illness—which I might not have to feign at all, given how utterly wretched my terror had left me feeling.
I wanted my mother and her well-meant nagging. I clung to what memories I retained of my youth spent in London, hunger ravaging my belly, limbs weak, my head on Michelle's lap as she stroked my stringy hair from my face and whispered of emerald fields and shady forests, of the countryside and of how we would go there, someday, she promised.
All around me, the streets had shriveled in upon themselves, beggars painted black by disease, and yet I had felt so safe in my mother's arms. I wanted that safety now. I heard the uncertain shuffle of horse hooves and low voices. Lifting my chin, I spotted my brothers John and Henry standing in one of the stable's stalls, the latter wielding a pitchfork as he dispersed new hay. I smiled as I approached the pair, but then my brow furrowed as I caught sight of their grim expressions.
What has happened? Shadows swam in Henry's violet gaze, and he moved to meet me, his hands like branding irons when they touched my chilled arms. I hadn't realized I'd grown so cold. John took his elder brother's place in the stall and used the pitchfork with swift, jagged motions, scattering hay all over the place. Calm yourself.
Why were they so stern? Pulling free of him, I tossed one final look in my brothers' direction before setting off for the house again, my dress dragging through the dirt and spilt chicken feed, body humming with horrid anxiety as I wrung my hands in my wrinkled skirt and thought nothing of the creases. A few hurried steps took me to the threshold of our humble domain, and I threw open the door, expecting the worse—.
I counted the three children twice before I breathed. They were fine. What manner of ill joke is this, Henry?
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