"Ha! Fooled you. You thought I was Betty, you stupid little pig."

It was right about that time, I spotted the brown flecks in her eye that set her apart from Betty. After that, I tried to stay in the Carter's kitchen. At least that way it would only be me, and the maid cooking dinner. The lady must have thought I was insane sitting inside on a beautiful day.

"Go on outside and play," she'd say, but I'd just sit there. Eventually, most folks came to assume I was deaf as well as mute.

On the days I knew both Nancy, and Betty were out, I'd wander the grand hallways, looking at the beautiful things Mrs. Carter collected. In the parlor were stacks of beautiful, old, leather bound books. One day, I thumbed through the largest of them, and discovered colorful pictures inside. I opened it to get a better look.

The drawings were indeed beautiful. I recall one of a girl, soft, red hair cascading over her shoulders, robes flowing. I would later learn it was a picture of the Foxglove Queen, whom I will tell you about momentarily.

There were other pictures too. Graphic ones. A naked lady in what appeared to be a garden. Hooded figures standing around a circle. A goat being slaughtered with a dagger. A decorative dagger. A plate. A goblet. And what appeared to be a recipe. Finally, there was one last image I'll never forget. It was of a young woman, not unlike the one in the first picture, but she was lying on a rock or alter of some kind; a hooded figure was over her with a dagger, stabbing her. The look on the victim's face was of sheer terror, as blood dipped down her arm and into the goblet. Behind the hooded figure were two more, each apparently eating something from the plate.

I snapped the book closed. I knew instantly it was not meant for my innocent eyes, but by then it was too late. I turned on my heels and went back into the kitchen.

Winter days began to wane, and Mrs. Carter's garden club began to meet weekly. It was fun to watch the fanciest ladies of Savannah come to the house. They were beautiful in their diamonds, pearls, and fur coats. The sight of them made me miss my mother ever more. During the first few meetings, the group would shoo me away, shutting the pocket doors to the large parlor so they could meet without the prying eyes of a child. Even from the other side of the door I could hear them clinking their teacups, and gossiping about certain people around town.

By February, the meetings became more frequent, and the guest list smaller. The pocket doors were kept open, and I was allowed to help by passing around hors d'oeuvres.

"Thank you," a woman said to me.

"She's deaf," said another.

Suffering from SM, there was no way I could correct her. In some ways I was sorry. In others, not so much. You see, it's amazing the things people will say when they think you can't hear them.

"Such a shame," the first woman said. "She's a pretty little girl, too."

A modest smile crossed my face as I heard the compliment.

The most wicked of the women looked at me cock-eyes. 

"Are you sure the child is deaf?"