"Reckon I've got somethin' comin'," Frederick said cautiously, "but what do you mean, 'make me sorry for real'?"

"Well…" His master stretched out the word in a way he didn't like. "My wife and me, we spent some time last night talkin' about that." Most likely, Clotilde had spent the time talking and Henry listening. He stared at the coal on the end of the cigar, and at the thin column of smoke rising from it. He doesn't want to tell me, Frederick realized, and ice spidered up his back. At last, Barford spoke again: "What we decided was, we got to give you five lashes and send you out to the fields. Don't like to do it, Fred-wish like hell there was no need. Got to, though. Damned if I can see any way around it."

"Ohhh!" The air wheezed out of Frederick as if he'd been hit in the belly. He'd known they would have to punish him, but… "Is that really fair, Master Henry? I didn't hurt anybody, and five lashes're sure gonna hurt me."

"Got to do it." Barford didn't sound happy about it. To give him his due, he didn't enjoy hurting his animate property, as some masters did. But he did sound very firm, and he explained why: "Isn't just on account of you mucked up Clotilde's fancy gathering. Those dresses you ruined… Only way I can keep some of those damned biddies from going to law with me for hundreds and hundreds of eagles is to show 'em I made you sorry. Clotilde wanted I should give you ten, but I managed to talk her down some."

"I'll-" Frederick bit down hard on what was about to come out of his mouth. I'll run off was the last thing a slave wanted to tell a master, especially when it was true.

Biting down hard didn't do him the least bit of good. "You'll do no such damnfool thing," Henry Barford said, as if Frederick had shouted the words in his face.