He moves on so quickly from the topic that I don't think of anything to say that doesn't sound pitying. There's no use in saying sorry because I know I'd have hated it if someone said that to me, especially if I'd once been someone's property, for all the nasty things everyone on the island said about belonging to Benjamin Malvern.

So I nod and screw up my face sympathetically in a way that I hope conveys that I don't want to harp on a point if he doesn't want to but that it still sounds terrible. I think, mostly, I just look like I've got indigestion.

"I'm less worried about feeding myself than our horses," I say.