The Freedom Maze by Delia Sherman Page B

here down to old Auntie Europe — she look out for the picanninies. Then I show you the bestest way to the Big House.”
    It had rained in the night, and the morning smelled clean and damp. Sophie waited for Canada on the front steps, scratching at some new bug bites on her leg and trying not to think about whether Mammy would slap her again or if Dr. Fairchild’s mama was as mean as his wife.
    There was certainly plenty to distract her. Chickens scratched and squabbled in the dusty road between the cabins, ignoring scrawny dogs, who ignored them back. From the cabin next door, a tethered goat gazed with yellow, slotted eyes through the fence slats at the rows of vegetables in Africa’s garden. Birds sang from the oak grove and dipped and soared above the restless cane.
    The Good Old Days were sure livelier than the present. Sophie thought she’d like them just fine, if she didn’t have to be a slave.
    Then Canada ran up, and it was time to go to the Big House.
    Thinking it over, Sophie decided that Canada must be her official magical sidekick and guide. She certainly acted like one — pointing out the fastest shortcuts to the Big House and the yard, warning her what parts of the gardens were off-limits, telling her how to deal with Mammy.
    “She bark like a mad dog,” Canny said, “but she don’t hardly ever bite ’less you sass her. You just bend real respectful, say yes’m and no’m and keep you eyes down, and she be happy as a goat in a briar patch.”
    Like Miss Ely,
Sophie thought, remembering the strict math teacher.
It’s just playacting. I don’t really have to mean it.
She grinned at Canny, knocked on Mammy’s door, went in, and bobbed politely.
    “There you are,” said Mammy. “That headcloth looks like a possum’s been nesting in it.”
    Sophie glanced up, caught a fierce dark glare, and looked down again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t have a mirror.”
    “Sass and excuses!” Mammy whipped off Sophie’s tignon and refolded it. “If it were up to me, I’d send you right back to Mr. Robert. But Mrs. Fairchild’s a kind, Christian lady and she takes her responsibilities seriously. Just you keep in mind that kind is not the same as weak. Mrs. Fairchild ran this plantation all alone when Master passed and Dr. Charles was off North learning to be a doctor. She still runs it. She’s not likely to be impressed by a mongrel slave wench who thinks she’s as good as white folks.” Mammy yanked the tignon tight. “Follow me.”
    A few moments later, Sophie was on the gallery of the Big House, curtsying to her five-times-great-grandmother, Mrs. Charles Fairchild of Oak River Plantation, with her eyes fixed on the spreading pool of her wide black skirts. She felt slightly sick.
    “So you’re Sophie,” a sweet, slow voice said. “Look up, child. I want to see your face.”
    Shyly, Sophie lifted her gaze to a round, rosy face framed by a frilly white cap, a little rosebud mouth, a very unFairchild-like button nose, and clear blue eyes.
    “What an adventure you’ve had!” Mrs. Fairchild said merrily. “And how like Mr. Robert not to tell us he was sending you. I’ve written to scold him. Now. What shall we do with you? I suppose you do fancy sewing?”
    Sophie considered lying, decided it would lead to disaster. “No, ma’am.”
    “We shall have to teach you, then. Dr. Charles tells me you’re well-spoken. What are your accomplishments?”
    “Accomplishments, ma’am?”
    “Can you dress hair, for instance? Starch and iron?”
    What did slaves do, anyway? Sophie wracked her brain for some useful skill. “I like to read. And I won a prize once, for my handwriting.”
    “I declare!” Mrs. Fairchild produced a fat leather book from the folds of her dress. “Can you read this?”
    The spine was stamped in gold:
Little Dorrit,
by Charles Dickens. Sophie opened the book eagerly. If there was one thing she was good at, it was reading aloud. Whenever teachers wanted something read in class, she