In nearly any other town, the young woman walking down the street would have been met with gawks and dropped jaws. Although her clothes were modest in both style and color, they failed to disguise the gentle curves of her slender body. Her face was porcelain-pale, making her blue eyes shine like bold sapphires. A thick braid of delicate pink hung down her back, the tip of it brushing her waist. She was truly beautiful.
But in Derring, the small town hugged on all sides by humid swamp-lands, people's eyes slid away from her like she didn't even exist. If their gaze happened to fall upon her, it was in a vague, disinterested way. It all had to do with the black bands that circled her wrists and her neck. They marked her as a slave, only a small step up from a beast of burden. She wasn't a person, she was a possession.
Vevay had gotten used to people's reactions, mostly anyway. She'd always been the kind of person who liked to keep interaction with strangers down to a minimum for reasons only she knew. She'd gotten used to having a master; after all, she'd literally been made to serve. Many things about her current position in life seemed to fit around who she already was, but there were a few things that still didn't sit well with her.
The first thing that came to mind was the law that made it illegal for slaves to read or write. Vevay had come into this town knowing how to do both and loving to do both, but if she did so now, she risked severe punishment. The punishment was left up to the slave's master, and she'd heard stories of slaves being whipped or losing a finger or two simply for learning how to write their own name.
It was for this reason that Vevay clutched a small bag to her chest, hoping her arms would hide the outline of the book that pressed against the sides. While on an errand to the marketplace several days ago, she'd found it on the ground. Well, that wasn't completely true. She'd seen it fall from a man's pack as a couple of rowdy schoolchildren jostled him. She had been close when it happened, close enough to catch up to him and tell him of his loss, but the sight of the book lying there, with no one paying attention at all, had been too much for her scholarly soul. She scooped it up, hiding it in the bottom of her fruit basket.
It hadn't been until past midnight, when the rest of the house had gone to sleep, that Vevay had dared to bring it out of hiding and edge closer to the fire that kept the kitchen warm. Her calloused fingers had traced the gold lettering on the spine - Tristan and Isolde. She'd sat up all night that night, and the night after that, devouring page after page. It wasn't until she'd read the book through twice that her hunger began to wane enough for her conscience to get a message through.
It had taken her another full day to work up the courage to return the book to its owner. It was a dangerous venture; if he decided to be angry, he could have her beaten, and no one would protest. She shivered, remembering some of the other public beatings she'd witnessed, and nearly decided to go back to her master's house. But she hadn't been created to be a thief.
When Vevay reached the hotel she'd heard the out-of-towner was staying in, she slipped in through the back entrance. No one with slave bands was allowed to enter through the front; that privilege was reserved for the freeborn alone. A helpful busboy, matching bands around his wrists and neck, directed her to the correct room, and she stood outside the door, clutching the book to her chest like a security blanket. It was so hard to let it go, knowing it was likely that she'd never get an opportunity like this again. Vevay pressed her lips against the leather-bound book, then gave the door a timid knock. She stood there with her head down, her body curved in a submissive posture as she waited for the man to answer, trying to look as inoffensive as possible.
