NOTE: I'm using a translation website and the Microsoft Word translator right now for the Italian. I have a friend who can translate, but they're indisposed at the moment. If anyone else is willing to help, I'd be grateful.

Also, I know these chapters are short, but this story's inspiration comes in spurts.

Translations:

"Perché l'ha fatto compra questa ragazza, mio caro?" – "Why did you buy this girl, my dear?"

Ragazza- girl

"Non tocchi che le, vostre mani sono sporche! Avarsi tua mani! Quello non è il vostro alimento!" – "Don't touch that, your hands are dirty! Go wash your hands! That food isn't yours!"

XAXAXAXAXAX

By the time we pulled up to a rather large mansion (complete with servants' quarters and workers' bunks) it had rained rather hard, and the tarp over the supplies didn't protect me and it at the same time. So, I was soaking wet, dirty, tired, and hungry. Hunger was no longer a problem, just a state of being. I saw the haze of water in the distance and sighed. I used to live by the ocean in a small town. Though most of that life was lived on the streets, I'd rather be there, starving, than be a slave.

We stopped in a stable, and the strange man came and got me, speaking in what I guessed was a dialect of Italian. I knew three words in every language; slave; come; go. When he said slave, he slurred it so badly I nearly didn't understand him. I went where he pointed and carried in some of the things from the cart. I suppose whatever maid cleaned the halls wouldn't be too happy with me, all wet and filthy.

I followed the servant (he couldn't be anything else if he was carrying bags too), through the narrow corridors parallel to the main ones. In the kitchen on the lower level, I put down the load and stood waiting for another order.

I guess the girl who then came up to me realized I had no clue what she was speaking when she finally tugged my wrist and dragged me away from the warm kitchen. We came through a hidden door into a bedroom. At the desk on the far wall was a tallish man with spectacles on his nose. A noble-looking lady stood to his right with a hand on his shoulder. The Lord and Lady of the house, then.

I knelt where I was and put my head to the floor. I was new property, and I wasn't about to take risks. The servant girl spoke to the man and lady, and then left, as far I could tell.

A feminine hand jerked my chin up and the Lady peered at my eyes.

"Perché l'ha fatto compra questa ragazza, mio caro?"

I stiffened at the word ragazza. I was pretty sure it wasn't a compliment.

The Lord answered, and it seemed to pacify her. As soon as she let go, I put my head to the floor again.

I had picked up a few French words while in service in Nice, so some of what they said came through in a rough translation. Of course, it didn't tell me anything. I was told to stand, and to leave. So I went in search of food, namely the kitchen.

The kitchen was quite modern, really, a fancy oven with the pots all in place. It took me a while to find it, but I'm pretty good at retracing steps (you need to learn your location quickly when in service). However, when I went to grab a bun out of the basket perched on the counter, a wooden spoon met my hand sharply.

"Non tocchi che le, vostre mani sono sporche! Avarsi tua mani! Quello non è il vostro alimento!" The cook spoke as sharp as her spoon swung. Apparently the food had another purpose. I was handed an apple instead. The cook rambled some more and went back to work.

The apple was sweet, and I wandered outside in search of something to do. Something useful, mind you.