His over-sized hands were hard and callused, yet strangely gentle as they rubbed the soap
over mine, lathering my arms in a coat of bright pink bubbles. Steam rose from the running
tap water to fog the dirty tin mirror. It made little difference as, obscured by dents and
rust, a reflection could scarcely be seen. But I studied my impassive face anyway, and he
spoke to me softly, taking great pains to keep his voice even and calm, as though he were
trying to coax a frightened doe to his hand.
"That's the way. Good girl, let's get the other hand now. Okay, we're
almost done."
I stood still and straight beside him, my immobility leaving him lightly holding my
hands, washing them in his. Through unrevealing eyes, I watched the lather change from
pink to gray as it soaked the ink from my fingertips. My prints had been taken when first
I was brought to the Los Angeles Police Department. To identify me, they had said. But I
couldn't understand why. I already knew who I was. My Master named me Mischief years
ago.
The detective was nice. He was not a tall man, but more of a medium build. With his
graying head bent over my hands and the sink, I could see he was becoming slightly bald on
top. He had combed his hair over to hide the spot.
He was not paunchy, as older men generally became. He still had the lean, muscular figure
of a man much younger than the lines on his weathered face suggested. And his voice was
gentle and low as he spoke nonsensical words of comfort to me. Were I not already so
frightened, I probably would have enjoyed the calming ministrations that were so closely
akin to my Master's own touch.
"Good." The Detective gave a satisfied nod. "Now we rinse."
He passed both our hands under the steady stream of water, cupping tepid pools in the
palm of his hand to wash all the way up my elbows.
Good.
I was momentarily startled and quickly glanced in the mirror to see if my face retained
its appropriate degree of impassivity. It had.
Good. My Master said that word a lot, too. I wondered, and not for the first time, if
Daymon Tane, the Master of the Masters, had begun to look for me yet. Would he even know
where to find me? Tears threatened, but I blinked them back. Struggle though I did to
smooth the fear from my expression, my mouth started to tremble and quiver as so often
happened when I was scolded.
Wetting a coarse, brown washcloth, the Detective rubbed it over a piece of the cheap pink
soap until froths of bubbles foamed up again. He passed it over my face and neck, then
chuckled ruefully. "Well, what do you know. There's a woman under all this
dirt."
I held perfectly still, letting him move my head as he wished. I closed my eyes, feeling
the comforting touch pass across my cheeks, my forehead and eyelids. If I shut out his
voice, I could almost pretend it was my Master who cared for me and not this
stranger--kind though he was--who had taken me under his wing.
Then came the questions.
"Who put the welts on you, honey?" the detective quietly asked me. He wiped the
soap away with the freshly rinsed washcloth, starting me from my thoughts. "You
don't have to tell me, if you don't want to. But--" he shrugged, feigning a
nonchalance which the tightening of his mouth contradicted. "--if it were me, I
wouldn't want anyone to hurt me like that. I could help you, you know. Honey, I could
fix it so nobody ever hurt you again. If you talk to me, I guarantee you'll never
have to go back to the one who did this."
My mask of indifference broke and fell away, revealing naked terror. Though I struggled
to keep silent as a Personal should, a low keening wail rose up from my throat. The welts
criss-crossing my bottom pulsed and throbbed as I sank to my haunches, forcing them to
stretch over bruised, discipline-damaged flanks.
Hugging my shoulders, I rocked myself. I tried to pretend my Master was there to keep me
comforted with familiarity. I needed him to keep me disciplined and safe. I did not want
to go with the Detective, I wanted to go home.
"Missing," I sobbed.
Why didn't he understand? I tried to enunciate clearly, but it was so hard to
remember how English sentences pieced together. I know I got half the things I tried to
say wrong, but it had been so long since I'd had any need for the language of my
birth that, but for a stray phrase here and there, most of it was faded from my mind. All
replaced by my Master's words, in my Master's tongue, now that I belonged to
him.
So how to tell the detective that my Master had brought me with him when he came to this
awful city for a meeting with the other masters? How could I tell him that, through my own
foolishness, we had gotten separated and I was now lost?
I loved Tane! I did not want to leave him. I did not want to leave Judgment. I was tired
of the city with its loud noises and strange people. I was tired of being frightened. I
buried my face in my hands, remembering my home and my Master.
Oh, how I wish I was there...
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