It was approximately a month after the bath incident when I discovered the trinket. I was engaged in the task of thoroughly cleaning the Mistress' chambers from top to bottom as I did once each week. Mistress DeMarcco was not at home as she and the Master had gone to town for the afternoon. It was now growing dark and they would be home soon, and I still had much to do. The Mistress had given me a huge list of tasks to do today in addition to my normal duties and I knew she expected me to fail to have one or more of them complete when she returned. I, on the other hand, was determined to succeed, and thus I worked rapidly and efficiently, hoping and praying I could conclude my duties before the Lady's return.

I was dusting the dresser when I noticed the cupboard door to the small bedside table was ajar, and I went to shut it with annoyance, thinking that another maid or perhaps the Mistress herself had neglected to shut it properly. As I reached to shut the cabinet I opened it wider, perhaps thinking to assure myself that nothing obstructed its closing, or maybe I did indeed seek a glimpse of the contents. I was aware that this particular cabinet was off limits to me. One of the first instructions I'd received from the Mistress was a curt, "Leave that alone. I'll take care of cleaning it." I had noticed that it normally was tightly locked, and I did not know where she kept the key. Therefore I was surprised she'd left it unlocked and open, and I felt a pang of naughty curiosity as I looked at the little door, my eyes darting around the room and my ears straining for any threatening sounds.

Inside it was dark and I did not see anything at first. Then, as my eyes adjusted, I saw there were several items. There was a small book, perhaps a Bible, and a stack of papers beneath that. The object that caught my attention, however, was the vase, for I recognized instantly as a miniature Lindsey Vase. With eager interest I took it from the cabinet, holding it gingerly in my hands, slowly rotating it, admiring the beautiful, intricate pattern. It was tiny, perhaps only six inches tall, the stem barely wide enough to hold a single rose at its narrowest point. It aroused painful memories in me, memories of days long since faded in time, and I felt a wrenching within my heart as I looked at that beautiful vase, though I was not positive as to the reasons behind my reactions. I knew it was one of his later works, as it was more polished and whole than his earlier pieces which were more common. A completed Lindsey was rare and costly. I wondered why the Mistress kept it locked away, hidden from view. Perhaps she was afraid a careless maid would break it.

At this point I must inject a word of history, least you think that all chambermaids are experts on fine porcelain. I was born and spent my early years in the town of Triten, a small farming village down south, and the home of the great and tragic John Lindsey. When I was scarcely two digits old, I, and everyone else in the town, became aware of his sudden fame. His pieces, of which almost everyone in town was the possessor of at least one, were suddenly art, and wealthy buyers from London and even Paris appeared to purchase them on street corners and alleyways, at double or triple the original price. My mother sold off several soup tureens, getting good money for each, even for the one that was chipped on the bottom.

Overnight, it seemed, John Lindsey was a celebrity, his little dishes making everyone wealthy. Over the next few years John's porcelain became more and more elaborate, finer, and almost useless for any practical purpose. Much of the town was ignorant of art, and thought John's new works were trivial and purposeless, and people began to speak of him as though he was a foreigner, as though he was no longer a part of our class. It was true, in a way, because those new pieces fetched astronomical prices, and he quickly became wealthy. I remember hearing a schoolyard rumor of a single goblet he had created over the span of two days that was bought for the purchase price of an entire house! At the time most of us wondered what drink could possibly be placed in a goblet worth so much. Surely, we decided, in our childish, ignorant manner, only liquid gold or the blood of a virgin princess or some sweet, magic nectar of the gods could qualify. We were far too simple to even conceive that the goblet could have been purchased without the intention of using it for drinking.

I had never met John Lindsey, though I had seen him on several occasions, walking about town, and I knew my mother had done business with him, preferring his quality to that of lessor vendors in town. That was before he became famous, of course, because after that no one could afford his porcelain, a fact I think he accepted but regretted. I say this because I met him, once, and that was how he seemed.

We could have been no more than twelve at the time, my best friend Sydney and I. It was near Christmas, and we had very little money. Sydney's mother was dying. It was a slow disease that rotted out her insides that was killing her, and there was nothing anyone could do to help her. She bravely lay in bed and spoke with hushed, excited tones of Christmas, however, as though everything was just fine and the world was a glorious place. Everyone knew that she would not live to see another Christmas, and Sydney was determined to make this last one special for her mum. I had gallantly volunteered to help, if I could, as I felt sorry for Sydney and Mrs. Jacoby had always been kind to me, giving me pieces of sweetbread or even ginger cookies when I visited.

We roamed the town, two forlorn little bundles in the cold, wintery air, but every shop we entered had nothing that we could afford to buy. We stood outside one admiring a collection of Lindsey vases in the window, Sydney almost crying with frustration. "Look there, Jay," she whispered. "Aren't they gorgeous!" I nodded, as indeed, the vases were beautiful and elegant, their characteristic blue and pink patterns fascinating. But I knew we could not afford them. Even the least expensive one would feed my whole family for two months or more. There was no way. "Oh, but she'd love a Lindsey vase," whined Sydney with despair. "Couldn't we at least inquire as to the price?"

It was pointless, but I agreed and we went inside. Sure enough, the price was outrageous, and Sydney went pale. She begged the proprietor for mercy, and told him of her dear mother, lying at home right at that moment, possible passing on, and the man looked troubled and sympathetic, but when she told him how much money we had he almost choked and stood up quickly and pushed us out the door, saying that he could not help us.

We wandered for a while, silent and forlorn. "Is that true, what you told that man?" I asked finally. "Your mom could go at any moment?"

Sydney's eyes were red and she looked at me sadly. "The doctor was just there this morning. He says he doubts she'll make it much past Christmas, if till then at all."

"She will," I said firmly. "If I know your mother she will not miss Christmas." Perhaps I had said the wrong thing, for Sydney burst into tears at that, and I took her in my arms and comforted her, hugging her and kissing her forehead. I did not know what to say to her, for both my parents were alive and healthy, and I did not understand how to help her. So I said nothing, almost always a good policy, and she just wept for a long while.

Finally we grew cold, and began to walk again. We were on the south side of town, very far from our homes. I was not even sure where we were. There were few buildings here as this was the outskirts of the town. Then I saw a large, new building on our left, two story and elegant, obviously the house of wealthy man. As we stepped nearer I saw the sign. It was a simple sign, white with neat blue lettering, and not especially large. It said simply, "John Lindsey, Craftsman." There were warm lights inside and on impulse I pulled Sydney toward the building.

We opened the door hesitantly, but the warmth drew us inside. A blazing fire roared at one end of the room, and at first we thought no one was there. But then we saw a tall, thin man crouched on a stool, bending over a table, toward our left. His concentration was absolute as he delicately hand-painted a tiny piece of porcelain. We held our breath in the stillness and waited. The man did not appear to have noticed our entrance, and for a reason unknown to us we did not disturb him, but marched closer to the fire and warmed ourselves.

After a very long time, perhaps an hour, the man put down the piece suddenly with a deep sigh, and rose and stretched his arms. He approached the fire and suddenly stopped, staring at us as though we had emerged at that instant from the very flames. "How did you get in here?" he demanded, his head whirling about as though the whole place might be filled with demons.

"We came through the doorway," I said, motioning toward it. This appeared to puzzle him for a moment.

"How long have you been here? Do your parents know where you are? What do you want?" His tone was brusque and rude, slightly condescending, and he looked rather angry and annoyed, as though we had no business being there. For a moment I thought he meant to thrash us, for he glanced about and held out his hand as though searching for an appropriate weapon, but then he found what he was looking for, a heavy mug of dark liquid, precariously perched at the edge of a wooden table. He lifted it to his lips and took a deep draught and then, with a look of disgust, put it back down, in the same position, murmuring, "It's cold, damn it!"

At this point Sydney, her nerves on edge, began to cry. She cried a great deal in those days, and though I thought it rather childish, as often there was no reason to cry, I could not really blame her. She cried now, big swollen tears dripping down her cheeks, her dark eyes wide with fear as the man approached. "Hush, now, little one," he said softly, and very gently he took the hem of his apron and wiped the tears off her cheeks. "There's no reason to cry. I'm not going to hurt you. You just surprised me, that's all. I thought I was alone and I discovered I was not. It was a shock, you understand. Please, would you like some warm milk?"

Sydney nodded quickly, and I did too, when the man glanced at me, and both of us watched breathlessly as he poured fresh white milk from a pitcher on the counter into a small iron pot which he hung over the fire. In a few minutes it was ready, and he poured us each a large mug full of milk, and we drank it down with relish, both of us hungry and thirsty.

"Well, you two certainly seemed to need that!" he said laughing and smiling, refilling our mugs again. "Now suppose you tell me why you are here." We could not refuse this instruction, but I did not know how to proceed. In the end I followed my mother's wisdom and simply told the truth.

"I'm not really sure, sir," I said, seeing that Sydney was too shy to speak. "We've been out shopping for a Christmas present for Sydney's mum--she's dying, you see, the 'sumption, I think, and we hoped to buy her something pretty, as it's her last Christmas and all,"--Sydney began to cry at those words, so I hurried forward--"but we have no real money, just a few coins." I opened my left hand and showed him our meager savings. "We tried to buy a Lindsey vase at a shop but the owner wouldn't sell us anything 'cause we couldn't pay enough, even though we begged him, and then he pushed us out, see, and we wandered and ended up out here, on the south side, and it's a long way home and we were cold, and then we saw your sign, and the light looked warm and when we came in you were so hard at work we didn't want to bother you, so we just stood here by the fire and got warm.

"I'm terribly sorry if we bothered you, Mr. Lindsey, as I know you are busy and famous now, but my mum always says good things about you, how you're such a fine man, and your porcelain's the best on the continent, and she won't serve Christmas dinner on nothing less than a Lindsey platter, one of the old ones, before you started getting all fancy and artistic, and I don't know, I just saw your house and came right on in, thinking, I suppose, that you might have some small piece we could buy for Sydney's mum. I know it was rude, sir, and we should have knocked, but I suppose I thought it was like a shop, see, where you just go right in. I'm sorry, sir, though you've been most kind and generous. Thank you for the milk; it was wonderful. We can go now, and leave you. We don't want to disturb your work. You create such beauty it seems impossible to believe it's all done right here, Mr. Lindsey. I am honored just to meet you!"

With that I just about collapsed from lack of breath, for I don't doubt that I delivered that speech without a pause, and Mr. Lindsey just stared at me open-mouthed with that surprised gaze that adults use when children astonish them.

"Well, I'll be!" he exclaimed with a big smile. "Sit down, child, and take a breath. At least one thing's for certain, you are telling the truth. No liar could talk without breathing; it just isn't done."

He stood then, and began to wander around the room, murmuring to himself and examining various shelves about the place. Finally, with an expression of satisfaction and success, he selected an item, examined it, and returned. Smiling, he handed it to Sydney. "There you go, er, Sydney. Will that please your mother?" Sydney's eyes went wide and she stared at the miniature vase in her hand as though she was not quite convinced it was real.

"Now, it has a small defect," said Mr. Lindsey, pointing to a slight imperfection in one of the thin lines near the base of the vase. "It is not very noticeable, but of course I cannot sell it at full price. How much did you say you had?"

I leapt to my feet and produced the money, six small coins in my open palm. Mr. Lindsey examined my hand and carefully took two of them, smiling at me. "That's exactly the right price," he said.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Lindsey! You are so very kind!"

"Nonsense," he said, color rising to his face. "Like I said, it is defective, but I doubt your mother shall mind."

"Certainly not!" murmured Sydney, shaking her head solemnly. "She loves your beautiful artwork. She's told me so, many times. Thank you very much!"

A few minutes later found us outside, the sky darkening with the approaching evening, a chill wind pushing at us as we struggled northward. The cold did not bother us, however. We scarcely felt it; our joy was our warmth. For deep inside Sydney's coat was buried a treasure, a gift of mammoth proportions, something more precious than any of us knew.

It was these thoughts that passed through my mind as I slowly turned the little vase in my hands, thoughts that took me back twenty-two years. Mistress DeMarcco's vase was so similar to Sydney's, the same size and shape, and even the same pattern. It quite troubled me.

Like so much that happens in life, that vase was a bittersweet memory to me. An odd mixture of joy and sadness, pain and longing. At the time it had been mostly sadness, but the years had softened the wounds, and now I felt only a vague sense of loss, a longing for those bittersweet days of yore.

The day after we left Mr. Lindsey's workshop a fierce storm arose, one of the worst in anyone's memory. It was sudden and unexpected, and it blanketed the entire county for two whole days. When it was over word spread like fire that Mr. Lindsey was missing, that he had last been seen riding to visit his sister in Richport, a mere 15 miles distant, on the day the storm hit. A visitor from Richport said that his sister claimed he had never arrived and she was concerned. Immediately teams of men went out searching, for everyone liked Mr. Lindsey. Late in the evening they returned, a sad and broken group of men, for in a lonely ravine, far off the main road, they had found his horse, dead, with a broken leg. Not far away, they came across the body of the great artist, frozen in the storm.

The next day was Christmas, and it wasn't a jolly one for Triten, the entire village cloaked with black and in mourning.

Sydney's mother died three days after Christmas.

We had taken the vase to her immediately after leaving Mr. Lindsey's place. Sydney didn't say it but I think she was worried that her mother wouldn't last until Christmas and she wanted to give her the vase as soon as possible.

We arrived just as evening set, and I told Sydney I couldn't stay long as I would be expected at home. She nodded, and we went into the house, straight to the small room at the back. I did not like the room very much, though I had been in it before. It was cramped and dark and full of foreign odors, most of them unpleasant.

Mrs. Jacoby lay as though dead, covered with blankets. She seemed smaller and more frail than I had seen her before. But there was a light in her eyes, though it was tiny and distant. She seemed only vaguely aware of our presence, muttering and turning her head as though she had trouble seeing and asking plaintively, "Is that you, kitten? It that my baby daughter?"

"Yes, mummy, it's me," whispered Sydney, grasping her mother's head and holding it so they could look into each other's eyes. The old woman blinked rapidly and suddenly seemed to start awake, as though from a deep sleep.

"Sydney!" she exclaimed. "Sydney, my love! You're here. Oh, hold me, dear, I love you so much." Sydney kissed her mother's forehead then, and held her tightly for a few minutes. Sydney did not cry but she looked like she expected to so at any moment.

"I have a Christmas present for you," the little girl whispered.

The mother appeared surprised, slightly confused. "Is it Christmas already?" she said with a deep sigh. "I have so much to do. Nothing is ready." She made a feeble effort as though to rise, but Sydney pushed her down, hushing her gently.

"Christmas is days away, mum. Don't worry about it. There's plenty of time." Then Sydney took the vase out of the inside of her coat, slowly unwrapping it from the strip of cloth used to protect it.

Mrs. Wagner's eyes went wide when she saw the vase. "It's a Lindsey!" she breathed in astonishment. "It's beautiful. But child, those cost a fortune! How did you manage it?"

In hushed tones Sydney told her mother the story, of the cold, the warm milk, and how nice dear Mr. Lindsey had been. The old woman cried then. We all began to weep, and Mrs. Jacoby appeared to be very happy and alive, her cheeks flushed with passion and vigor, eyes wet with tears, her mouth stretched into a wide smile, almost a living ghost of her former self.

Sydney's father came in about that time. We fell silent, for a moment, and then Mrs. Jacoby showed him the vase, her eyes shining with joy. Mr. Jacoby was a big man, a worker. I had rarely spoken to him, and in fact, rarely saw him. For as long as I knew her, Sydney did not say much about him, but always talked about her mother. He always frightened me a little, as he seemed so stern and continually cross, as though he were glaring at everyone in the room. But his eyes were soft, now, as he looked at the woman in the bed. He smiled and ran his fingers through the wisps of hair on her head. She suddenly looked so old at that moment I wondered that she breathed at all. As we watched he whispered to her and her eyes slowly faded and shut, and in a heartbeat she was fast asleep, resting quietly.

The man took the vase from her loose fingers and studied it. He did not pretend to understand impractical things like art, but he knew the piece had to be expensive. In a low voice he said gruffly, "Where'd you get it, girl."

Sydney told him. His face was a rock. He calmly placed the vase on the bedside table and walked out of the room, both of us following. Without a word we walked outside, to the small woodshed, where he silently took down a long leather strap. I felt my eyes growing wide in astonishment.

"Do you want to tell me the truth, girl, or do you want extra for lying?"

Sydney's face had gone pale. "I'm telling you the truth, father. Mr. Lindsey himself gave me that vase!"

"It's true Mr. Wagner," I ventured, falling silent when he glared at me.

"You're both liars," he said vehemently, spitting onto the ground next to me. "I ought to thrash you both telling stories. Now tell me the truth: where did you steal it from?" His voice roared like thunder and his black eyes blazed with fury.

Sydney did not answer, and I looked away. Like in a dream I watched as he pulled Sydney forward, into the shed, and thrust her bodily across the top of a large barrel. With harsh, cruel speed he jerked her dress and coat upward, her thin legs bare except for her stockings. He pushed her dress up so high you could see her naked bottom, as undergarments were reserved for Sundays. When he had her sufficiently naked for his needs, he began to thrash her, the heavy strap rising and falling at blinding speed. The pale flesh of her thighs and buttocks turned crimson with each stroke and each time Sydney screamed and sobbed in pain as though she was being burned with a live poker. The lashing continued, red stripes painting her thighs and legs. Sydney struggled now, and her father roared at her to be still, and the belt came down even harder, the dreadful sound of each blow almost causing me to pee.

I stood, stunned, just outside the doorway, tears filling my eyes. I wanted to weep at the injustice of it, I wanted to scream and fight. But Mr. Wagner was a big man and I could not fight him. If I tried I surely would be whipped myself, and that terrified me. It had been years since my father had seen the need to strap me, and my memories of the last one were vague and filled with horror and dread beyond expression. With a pounding heart I pushed aside any guilt at abandoning my friend and turned and ran. I ran all the way home without stopping, crying the whole way. I felt awful about leaving her, but I couldn't just stand there and wait for my turn. In my mind I could not rid myself of the image of her thin legs sticking out from under her clothing, kicking so frantically I could see between her legs all the way to the darkness of her crotch, thick red welts covering her pale skin. The image terrified and humiliated me. It was a reminder of my own cowardice, and yet I couldn't imagine receiving a strapping like that.

I didn't see Sydney again until the funeral. It was a quiet affair, just a few of us. Sydney was appropriately dressed in black. Her father was there, tall and looming, but he did not look at me. He did not look at anyone, really, but seemed distant and aloof. His shoulders were squared as though he was carrying a heavy, awkward burden. As soon as the ceremony was finished he left, curtly motioning for Sydney and her little brother to follow.

Tears in her eyes, Sydney hastily ran to me and told me they were leaving. I thought she meant to go home, which seemed rather obvious and a silly thing to need to tell me, but she mentioned that her father had relatives near Sheraton, and as he felt it too much of a burden to raise two children on his own, they would go live with their aunt. This struck me like a blow, and I watched in silence as my friend left, scurrying to catch up with her father.

At home I cried. I had not known Sydney for very long, perhaps a few years, but we had grown close, as children do, and to a child, a year can be a lifetime. I begged my father to let me go with her, but of course that was out of the question. A week later she was gone, and I was alone.

Thus, in the span of a few weeks time, our village lost a hero, my friend lost part of her family, and I lost my friend. I never saw Sydney again, though every time I see a piece of Lindsey porcelain I think of her. I think of her dear mother, valiant to the end. I think of her father holding that strap and her tiny kicking legs, and of course, Mr. Lindsey and that cozy, firelit room where we shared warm milk.

Tears blurred my vision as I thought of that terrible Christmas, so full of tragedy and poignant joy. The vase rotated in my fingers and I suddenly froze, my heart skipping a beat. I frantically scanned the pattern again. Had I not seen a slight smudge in one of the lines? Just a tiny imperfection, something so minor none but an artist would scarcely notice it?

"How _dare_ you!" exclaimed a voice from behind me, immediately followed by the shudder of a door slamming shut. I felt a chill pass through me. That sound of doom echoed in my mind like a ringing bell. I looked up to the Mistress, standing before the door, the expression on her face one of absolute shock and betrayal. I could not move, even when she snatched the vase from my hand, inspected it briefly, and gingerly placed it in the cabinet. I'd seen that expression before, I realized suddenly, when I was a child, and the authorities had taken a baby away from its mother. I did not know why they had taken her baby, but the look of betrayal and uncontrolled hatred in her eyes had haunted me for months, and I saw that look in the Mistresses eyes now, a look of pure hatred, as though I were stealing her child.

The Mistress snapped the door shut firmly. Her dark eyes blazed with unspeakable fury, her expression suddenly reminding me of the raging Mr. Jacoby as he flogged his daughter so many years ago. I could not look at her, but stared straight ahead, my mind slow and numb.

"Get out," she hissed, and my heart started in surprise. Wasn't she going to beat me? I expected nothing but the worst punishment of my life. But she only pointed to the door and growled, "I said, get out!" and I left immediately. Her eyes were filled with tears and she looked like she was trembling with rage or passion. This was no game for her; no pleasure glinted in her eyes. Instead I glimpsed fear and sadness, two emotions I had never suspected the Lady even had the ability to endure, let alone bear them with such a weary expression of long-suffering.

I went straight to my room and fell onto my bed and began to weep. I wept for Sydney and her mother, for my damned self, for the Mistress and whatever terrible secret she bore, and for Mr. Lindsey and his vase. I don't know how long I lay weeping, but finally I lay silent and still, and the slowly the image of the vase returned to haunt me. My resolve began to thicken and I knew what I had to do, regardless of the penalty. Some how, some way, despite the horrible punishment I was waiting to receive, I was going to have to examine that vase again, to make certain that I had seen what I thought I had seen. Surely it was only my eyes playing games, my mind confused by my memories, forcing me to see what I wanted to see. But I could not be sure. I needed to look at the vase, and though I knew the Mistress would be on her guard now more than ever, I _had_ to examine that vase, whatever the cost!