"Half a sack or you can take her." The butcher's grin showed a stump of a tooth and the kind of hunger that never left his eyes. "She's young," Cordelia Greco said, voice even as bone. "Strong hands. Useful in the fields. Ten coins or half a sack of grain." "Ten coins? She's worth more dead than alive," another buyer snorted. "Two coins. Three, if she proves stubborn." "Shut up and bid." Cordelia's hand tightened on the rope around Kinsley's wrists. "Don't act like you're kind. This county eats kindness." Kinsley spat. "You sold my father for a pouch and you're selling me for your pride." "You talk like you own anything," the butcher said. He reached to thumb the braid by Kinsley's shoulder. Kinsley twisted. "Try it." The crowd laughed. Laughter here meant change—someone would step forward with coin. "She talks back," a woman muttered. "Good for a cook. Tough enough for the road." Lenore Bacon pushed through the ragged circling people, Baxter clinging to her skirts like a buoy. "Cordelia," she said. "You promised—" Cordelia cut her off. "I promised nothing. You took them in when you had room, but I raised Kinsley. She owes me labor." "Raise her?" Kinsley said. "You raised her to fear you." Cordelia smiled, not kind. "Fear keeps children out of trouble." "Fear keeps you small," Kinsley said. The slap came like a snapped twig. Her palm struck Cordelia's cheek. No theatrics