CHAPTEPk.
I
Sacred Chattel
May I875
\"SHOOI You LITTLE HEATHEN SPY!\" Mellie rushed to the open
window from which she had ripped the curtains， and the boy
scampered down， toward the woodpile. \"Go on， all the way，
Bran. Go help your mama pack，\" she called， less harshly， but
she was in no mood for his tricks. She bent down to wrap the
china teapot in the curtains and tucked it deep in the flour barrel.
Even with no tea， it was a reminder of sin. Mellie did not honor
the word \"forbidden.\" Like its opposite， \"call，\" she heard it too
often， and it smacked of human decision， not unlike \"whoa，\" a
temporary command. Her small act of spite and stealth--for
she intended to drink Irish tea again one day--gave her strength
to go back to the rapid， breathess removal of everything in her
house.
In this community of Saints who believed that sin did not exist，
she believed with all her heart that it did and that she was sinned
against， mortally. Even with weeks of warning， she had been
shocked out of her good senses at seeing her husband s new bride
yesterday. And worse， Harry himself， like a witless dandy， unable
to see the mockery of weddings. Anger， barely subdued by two
strong cups of valerian tea， smoldered through her to kindle
every act with bitterness. Sweltering in the brilliant May sun，
she lifted her thick， honey-brown hair to cool her neck. A breeze
brushed the tendrils across her temple， and for a wild moment she
thought it was Harry s hand. \"Holy Jesus! I m safe from nothing，\"
she whispered. The Saints were daylight people; always the inner
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