She stood apart from the main group, not chained in the same way, guarded by a trader who watched her like he watched his money.
There were five other women with her, dressed more cleanly than the field hands, their hair arranged, their faces scrubbed.
“House girls,” Brewer murmured beside Hartwell. “Luxury stock. Folks use them for entertaining, for showing off.”
Isabella did not look like she belonged to a category. She looked like a person trapped inside a category that was too small to hold her.
Hartwell felt something in his chest shift, not quite desire, not quite pity. It was closer to hunger, but not for her body. For movement. For sensation. For the strange proof that he could still be startled by life.
The trader noticed his gaze and stepped forward, lips curling into a professional grin. His name was Étienne Dupré, French by birth or by performance, broad in the middle, rings on his fingers.
“You have an excellent eye, Colonel,” Dupré said, voice slick with confidence. “She is… exceptional.”
“Where did she come from?” Hartwell asked, pointing with his cane as if distance could keep him clean.
“Born in Louisiana,” Dupré replied. “Raised in a fine house in New Orleans. Her mother served there. The master had… attachments. He saw to her education. Reading, writing, sums, even some French. Then he died. Debts. The legitimate family sold everything.”
Dupré shrugged like weather. “A shame, but business.”
