Her long bony fingers grabbed my upper arm and with a hard yank, pushing me down in the chair before the long sewing table. For the first time, I saw what was on it.
Socks. Piles and piles of socks.
“These are the servants' hosiery, almost all of it. You are to match them up, see which needs fixing, and fix them.”
There were enough socks to keep two sets of hands busy for hours. I sat before the piles unable to say a word.
A bony finger poked my shoulder.
“Get to it,” she sneered, “and don't come out until you've finished, not even when you hear the dinner bell.”
* * *
For hours, I sat there until my hands hurt. The flickering light of the gas lamps showed every painful, red pinprick dotting my hands. My stomach grumbled, angry with me for not tending to it, but I still had so much
