Asimov's Science Fiction: February 2014 by Penny Publications Page B

number of indentured servants. Unlike in Albion or the Americas, Maroon servants were considered part of the family. That nuanced difference helped Jamaica's aristocracy lay their heads to pillow at night.
    "What took you so long?" August Cobena asked from behind a table in the kitchen.
    "I just now finished."
    "Come, nuh." August raised both his arms and waited in the middle of the large drawing room. As Desmond neared him, he realized the man wore only his white silk jumpa and a pair of briefs, thankfully covered by the fall of the collarless shirt. August nodded toward the pile of kente cloth. Its silk and cotton material ran smoothly over his fingers, a dark green pattern accented by yellow and black threads.
    Desmond draped the interwoven cloth strips around August, thinking the man too old to be diapered like a child. He'd always considered August Cobena an avaricious man, whose tiny eyes gleamed from within his large face with a faraway gaze, as though staring through whoever he spoke to in order to fix them on his next goal. Black moles freckled his cheek, his smooth skin, dark like calf hide. His nose was too thin for his face and he never quite shut his mouth, leaving his fat tongue to loll on the cusp of his lips as if forgotten.
    Desmond dutifully wrapped the fabric around him, leaving the man's right shoulder and arm exposed, then allowing the remaining cloth to trail along the ground. It was a sign of prosperity, and August never allowed an opportunity to acknowledge the class differences between him and others to go unattended.
    Gaslit fixtures adorned the walls. Strictly an affectation of wealth well worth the extra heat produced. Putting on a pair of slippers, August moved toward the bar and poured himself a finger of colorless rum from a crystal decanter. The first glass went down in a single gulp. As did the second. He lingered on the third.
    "Are you ready?" Ninky Cobena's voice had both a nasal quality and a sing-song measure to it. Too tall, too loud, and too young—she was nearly thirty years August's junior—her wide hips and high breasts cut a remarkable profile despite her wrappings. Her kente wrap was the inverse pattern to August's: a rich yellow, with green patterns woven against black threads. She, too, wore her cloth around her body styled as a toga, over an undercloth of white lace. The other main difference was a red calico scarf wrapping her head like ivy around a statue, folded in half, tied and tucked. It accentuated her high cheekbones and full lips. Her every move was sure.
    Desmond backed away from the man and took his place in the corner of the room. The fact that they spoke English was the only acknowledgement he was present. The Maroon spoke Asante-Twi when they were among their own and English when
obroni
were present. Patois was spoken only by the "common" people. Desmond sat between them, among them yet unseen at the same time. Such was the power of class and caste, an accident of shade. All the better positioned to glean scraps of discarded conversation.
    "No, I'm not ready. What's the point? This whole estate is cursed."
    "August, don't be that way." The stack of bracelets on her right wrist dropped to the middle of her arm with each gesture.
    "Our fortunes dwindle. Our family name is..."
    "Fine. It still carries much weight in the empire. The colonel still needs us." Ninky adjusted the drape of his cloth. She snapped her fingers and held out her hand without meeting Desmond's gaze. He unfurled his pocket kerchief and handed it to her. She dabbed at some imagined spot on August's collar. Though young, she was wise as a serpent. The rest of the staff feared being in her presence, as she had a bit of the dragon about her; however, Desmond was the personal attaché for August and didn't fear her wrath. He'd dealt with worse in his own mother.
    "You need to take better care of your charge."
    "Yes, mum." Desmond pocketed his kerchief. She hated to be called mum, complaining it made