“How so?” I asked.
At first, Seven didn’t say anything. He looked at his hands, as if studying them.
“How so?” I demanded again. “How can you, who looks like a slave here, help me?”
“I’m not a slave,” Seven said quietly.
“No? Then what are you?”
Seven drew in a long breath and slowly let it out. “I’m, well…” He paused. “I was supposed to be a minister, but…”
“A minister?” I questioned and laughed
Seven scowled. “I’m supposed to be a seven!” He narrowed his eyes at me then looked away, seemingly upset.
I rolled my eyes and asked, “What is a seven?”
Without looking at me, he answered, “I already said, it’s a seventh daughter, or son, of a seventh daughter, or son.”
“So are you?”
“Am I what?”
Wow, he was being obstinate.
“Are you a seventh son of a seventh son?” I asked.
“Yes.”