“Fifty-three people.”
“Fifty-four counting yourself.”
“I'm paying already.”
“Then fifty-three.”
“For two days.”
“One hundred sixty-eight dollars.”
Matilda stared.
The arithmetic was wrong.
Jedodiah didn't correct it.
Abigail had added extra.
He reached inside his coat.
Matilda caught his wrist.
“No.”
Both looked at her.
She released him.
“You're not paying her one hundred sixty-eight dollars for beans and bread worth twenty.”
Abigail hissed:
“Matilda.”
“No.”
Years of swallowed words seemed to arrive at once.
Matilda's face burned.
But she continued.
“We can feed everybody.”
“Two days.”
“Maybe three.”
“If meat is stretched.”
“If breakfast becomes porridge.”
“If we stop giving full coffee pots to card tables.”
A miner outside shouted:
“I heard that!”
Matilda ignored him.
Abigail stared.
“You will not discuss my household accounts.”
“I know the pantry better than you.”
Abigail stepped closer.
“You forget yourself.”
Matilda's heart pounded.
Maybe she had.
Good.
Jedodiah remained silent.
That mattered.
He had heard her say do not rescue me.
And somehow this enormous man, who looked capable of tearing a door from its hinges, obeyed.
Abigail pointed toward Matilda.
“You will make the dough.”
“You will serve my guests.”
“And tomorrow, we will discuss whether you still have employment.”
There.
The old weapon.
Matilda felt it.
Fear.
Room.