I tripped and fell against the steps of one of the shacks. From inside, several shadowed faces turned towards the commotion.

“I am Jack,” said the owner of the hands, “Chief Groundsman of the estate. You, however, will refer to me as ‘Sir’ or suffer accordingly.”

A less gruff member of the grounds crew walked up. “Sir, this one’s needed for fitting right away.”

Jack’s rough hand yanked me up by the armpit. “Off with it then,” he barked.

The younger crew member guided me forward, but not so roughly. “Fitted for what?” I asked quietly, hoping not to get a blow from behind.

None came. “Your tether. Every work area on the grounds has a place to tie up to.”

“The silver chains around people’s ankles?”

“Yes. Now shut up.”

We came upon a long, narrow barn. Inside, kids younger than me were stamping and forging metal.

“Need chains!” yelled the crew member.

An older man emerged from a store room, and looked at me keenly. “If this is the new one, he don’t get chains. He’s for house duty.”