She kept her eyes on Abigail.
“What does that mean?”
“You know what it means.”
“No.”
“Say it.”
Abigail’s mouth twisted.
“You think that mountain man came because you're some lost princess?”
“He came because of property.”
“Men care about property.”
“Not cooks.”
“Not women who—”
She stopped.
Matilda waited.
“Who what?”
Abigail looked at her body.
There.
The familiar judgment.
The room held its breath.
Abigail said:
“Who cannot even cross a room without breathing hard.”
Matilda felt the old shame rise.
Then something different happened.
It stopped halfway.
Because she suddenly saw Abigail clearly.
Not as judge.
As jailer.
Not physically.
Psychologically.
Abigail needed Matilda ashamed.
Shame kept her cheap.
Shame kept her grateful.
Shame kept her from asking why the debt never shrank.
Matilda straightened.
It hurt.
She did it anyway.
“Get out of my way.”
Abigail blinked.
“What?”
“I'm going to the kitchen.”
“You're fired.”
Matilda looked at her.
Then smiled.
Not kindly.
“All right.”
Abigail stared.
Matilda removed her apron.
For nine years, she had tied that knot every morning.
She untied it.
Folded the stained cloth once.
Placed it on Abigail's desk.
The room watched.
Abigail’s face changed.