The slap landed before the anger in his voice.

"Penelope, I raised you for eighteen years. This is how you talk to me?"

He crouched down, grabbed a fistful of my hair, and yanked my head up.

"Just like your mother. Clamping down and never letting go. Don't blame me for getting rough."

He let go of my hair, stood, fetched a rag and stuffed it into my mouth, then waved at the two men.

"Throw her out back in the pigpen."

I struggled. It was useless.

They dumped me in, and I hit the filthy stone slabs, splattered head to foot with pig muck.

My father stood at the gate of the pen, looking down at me.

"You stay right here. Once Eddie's gone, I'll deal with you!"

The pen door was locked again.

I lay on the cold stone, my whole body unable to move.

I don't know how long it was before Edwina strolled in.

In her hand was the only photo of my mother that still existed. I'd hidden it in my pillow, and she'd dug it out anyway.

She waved the photo in front of my face.

"Your mom was pretty. Shame she couldn't get over herself."

Then she pinched the photo between both hands and tore it slowly apart.

The pieces fell into the pen, onto my face.

I pushed at the rag in my mouth, sobbing as if my chest were splitting, but I couldn't get out a single word.

"Oh, right, Penny."

She propped her chin in both hands and blinked at me.

"Dad arranged a good match for you. Damian Whitney, from the next village over. Honest man, hard worker. The birthmark on his face is a little scary, but still."

"His bride price was a lot, though. Eight hundred. Dad says the money's perfect for my college living expenses."

Eight hundred.

The rest of my life, in his eyes, was worth eight hundred.

Edwina stood and brushed the dust off her skirt.

"Three days from now I get on the train to Columbus. Once I'm at university, you and I will live in two different worlds. You and that litter of little birthmarked kids you'll pop out are only fit to rot in this village for the rest of your lives."

She turned to leave, took two steps, then seemed to remember something and looked back.

"Oh, and those pigs you've been raising. Dad says he'll sell them for my tuition. Once you're married off, all this belongs to your old family anyway."

She walked off, dainty and graceful, and the pen was left with nothing but the pigs grunting.

I braced against the slab and sat up, leaning against the wall.

The rag had rubbed my mouth raw and bloody, and still I couldn't work it loose.

The sky went dark and bright again, I lost count of how many times.

Far off, the firecrackers crept closer, and the cheerful wail of the wedding horns came from the edge of the village.

Damian Whitney, from the next village.

Come to collect me.

I closed my eyes. Tears came on their own, sliding from the corners of my eyes into the dirty coarse cloth of my clothes.

I couldn't move, couldn't speak.

All I could do was stare through the gap in the pen's slats.

Several sets of footsteps drew closer.

Beatrice Swanson, Edwina's mother, spoke first as she came into earshot.

"Damian, you've paid the bride price, sure, but the send-off fee for the bride is another five hundred. Not a cent less."

Damian gave a dull, good-natured laugh. "All right. Whatever you say, ma'am."

Listening to them haggle over me, I clenched my fists in the pen.

Beatrice took the money, and only then did she clack over in her heels and lean down to peer in through the gap in the slats.

"Oh, lord, what a sin. Look how filthy."

She covered her nose, deliberately letting the jade bracelet on her wrist show.

It was the heirloom from my mother's family.

All this time I'd thought a thief had taken it, and I'd grieved over it for a good long while.

I never imagined my father had quietly handed it to her.

"Penny, girl, your mother was just as stubborn back then. Held on right to the day she died. And in the end didn't it all come to me anyway?"

She pushed open the pen gate, walked in, and tipped a whole bucket of cold water over me.

"Come on now, let your auntie wash you up. Can't have you marrying in a coat of pig filth. People would laugh."

"Eddie left for the state university three days ago. By now she's probably already sat through a few classes. You, making a scene out here—what does it get you besides a harder time?"

"Take your auntie's word. Once you're married, settle down and live quiet. Don't walk the same road your mother walked."

So Edwina had set off three days ago.

I sat straight on the stone slab and curled my hands into fists.

When I said nothing,

Beatrice scrubbed my face with coarse cloth, hard enough to be scouring a hide.

My father stood in the doorway, his voice low.

"Penny, be good. When Eddie's done with college and comes back, she'll pay you and your husband back proper."

"Once you've given the Whitneys a grandson, your dad'll buy you something pretty to wear."

Something seemed to cross his mind, and he paused before going on.

"Today's your wedding day, but I still can't untie you. You've got too much going on behind those eyes. I already had Damian buy a sedative ahead of time. Once tonight's wedding night is done, it's all settled for good."

The rope bit into my flesh, and tears blurred my eyes until I couldn't open them.

Damian stood in the yard with the heavy old bicycle,

that blue birthmark running from his forehead all the way down to his chin.

My father pressed me face-down onto the back seat of the bicycle

and lashed me to it with three tight loops of rope.

Everyone was praising Damian for landing a bride who was obedient and had book learning besides.

They praised me for being dutiful, for earning my father such a fine bride price.

They praised my figure too, said I'd surely give the Whitneys four or five grandsons.

Even the man on the horn blew harder than ever, sending the sound ringing out over everything.

Just as I thought this was how the rest of my life would go,

a black sedan swung around from a little way off,

cut across the gate of our yard, and sealed off the way out.

The horn cut off in an instant.

In front of everyone, the driver got out from behind the wheel, trotted to the back, and pulled open the door,

handing out with great respect a gray-haired old man in a dark mandarin-collar suit.

"Excuse me. Is this the home of Penelope Fox, the county's top scorer?"

The old man spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but every word carried a weight you couldn't quite name.

My father shoved up through the crowd, a smile pasted on his face.

"I'm Penelope Fox's father. And you are…"

The old man drew a work ID from his pocket and held it out.

"Homer Dickerson, president of the state university."

He gestured to the middle-aged man at his side.

"This is Harry James, our director of admissions. We've come in person to take Miss Penelope Fox to enroll."