Amara didn't stop moving until she was back inside the house with the door locked behind her.
Her dress was ruined—mud to the knees, hem soaked through, grass stains everywhere. Sally would notice. Sally would ask questions.
Deal with it later.
She stripped off the dress herself, stuffed it into the bottom of her wardrobe, and changed into clean clothes with shaking hands. By the time the house began to stir—servants moving through the halls, the distant clatter of breakfast preparations—she was sitting in the small study, looking like she'd been there for hours.
Her mind wouldn't stop replaying what she'd seen.
The old man's leg. The children on the floor. Pearl's empty eyes.
And the watcher. The figure in the shadows, there and then gone.
Focus. You promised Elias you'd be smart. So be smart.
She rang for Breechy.
He arrived within minutes, his face carefully neutral. If he noticed the mud still caked on her shoes—she'd forgotten to change them—he didn't mention it.
"Mistress."
"Close the door. And find Old Jenny. I need both of you."
Something flickered in his eyes—concern, maybe, or curiosity—but he didn't argue. He slipped out and returned ten minutes later with Jenny in tow.
The old woman looked tired. Up since before dawn, probably, starting the day's cooking. But her eyes were sharp, assessing Amara with the same careful attention she'd shown since the beginning.
"You wanted to see me, Mistress?"
"Both of you. Sit down." Amara waited until they were seated. "I visited the quarters this morning."
Silence.
Then Breechy said, very quietly: "Alone?"
"Yes."
Jenny's face had gone still. "Mistress, that was—"
"I know what it was. And I know what I saw." Amara leaned forward. "The cabins are falling apart. People are sleeping on dirt floors. There's no medicine, no proper blankets, no—" She stopped herself. Don't get emotional. Be practical.
"I want to make changes," she continued, more steadily. "But I need to do it carefully. If Grimes suspects I'm acting out of... sentiment... he'll find ways to punish people. I need a plan that looks like business."
Jenny and Breechy exchanged a glance.
"What kind of plan?" Breechy asked.
"I want a list. The cabins in worst condition—the ones that leak the most, that house the youngest children and the oldest workers. The ones where people are most likely to get sick." She pulled out a sheet of paper. "I want to prioritize repairs. Make it look like routine maintenance. Protecting the investment."
"And the blankets?" Jenny asked. "The food?"
"Same thing. Frame it as efficiency. Healthy workers produce more. Sick workers cost money." Amara's stomach turned at the words, but she forced them out. "I need you to help me write it up in a way that won't raise red flags. Numbers. Projections. Whatever it takes to make this look like smart business instead of—"
"Instead of kindness," Breechy finished.
"Yes."
Another long silence.
Then Jenny nodded slowly. "I can tell you which cabins are worst. Been watching people get sick in them for thirty years."
"And I can make the numbers work," Breechy added. "Make it look like any reasonable manager would do the same thing."
"Good." Amara felt some of the tension drain from her shoulders. "We'll need supplies. Wood, thatch, nails. Blankets—real ones, not rags. And simple bed frames for the children. Can we get them without Grimes noticing?"
"We can order through the usual suppliers," Breechy said. "List them as general maintenance. It'll show up in the accounts, but buried with everything else."
"Do it."
The rest of the morning was a flurry of lists and calculations.
Jenny provided the information: which cabins housed the most vulnerable, which roofs leaked worst, which families had sick children or elderly members who couldn't survive another cold snap. Breechy translated it into numbers—cost estimates, labor projections, a carefully worded proposal that made humanitarian concerns sound like capitalist optimization.
By noon, they had a document that would have made any MBA proud.
Investment in Labor Asset Maintenance, the title read. A Proposal for Reducing Mortality and Improving Productive Output.
Amara read it twice, hating every word. But it was perfect. Exactly the kind of language a Virginia plantation owner would understand and approve.
"I'll present this at dinner," she said. "In front of Grimes. Make it official."
Breechy hesitated. "He won't like it."
"I know. But if I do it publicly, with witnesses, he can't easily sabotage it later. He'll have to at least pretend to comply."
"And if he doesn't pretend?"
"Then I'll have documentation that he's defying direct orders from the mistress of the house." Amara's jaw tightened. "Whatever happens to Daniel, I need to establish a record. Something that shows I was managing this plantation competently. Something that protects my position if the family tries to challenge me."
And protects the people here, if I'm not around to do it myself.
She didn't say that part out loud.
Dinner was a tense affair.
The household gathered in the dining room—Amara at the head of the table, Grimes to her right, the white servants arranged according to hierarchy, a few of the house slaves standing against the walls waiting to serve.
Amara cleared her throat.
"I have an announcement."
Grimes looked up from his plate. His expression was pleasant, but his eyes were watchful.
"I've been reviewing our operational costs," Amara continued, "and I've noticed some concerning patterns. Over the past three winters, we've lost seven workers to illness. That's a significant loss of investment."
Investment. Say the word. Make it sound cold.
"I've decided to implement some improvements. Better maintenance of the workers' quarters. Additional blankets and bedding before winter. Minor repairs to prevent weather damage." She slid the document across the table toward Grimes. "I've prepared a detailed proposal. I'd appreciate your input on implementation."
Grimes picked up the papers. His face remained neutral as he scanned the first page, but Amara saw his jaw tighten.
"This is... thorough," he said finally.
"I believe in being prepared."
"Of course." He set the document down. "Though I might point out that some of these expenses seem... generous. Additional blankets for every cabin? Bed frames for the children's quarters?"
"Healthy workers are productive workers, Mr. Grimes. I would think you'd understand that better than anyone."
The silence stretched.
Around the table, the other white servants exchanged glances. Amara caught a few expressions—confusion, skepticism, one or two that might have been approval.
"If you think it's wise, Mistress," Grimes said at last. His voice was perfectly correct, but there was something underneath it. Something cold. "I'll see to the implementation personally."
"I'm sure you will."
He held her gaze for a moment longer than necessary. Then he returned to his meal, and the conversation moved on to other things.
But Amara noticed the way his hand tightened on his knife.
He knows. He knows this isn't really about efficiency. And he's already planning how to undermine it.
Fine. Let him plan. I'll be ready.
That evening, she went to find Sookie.
The girl was in the kitchen, scrubbing pots with the kind of mechanical intensity that came from years of practice. She looked up when Amara entered, and her face went carefully blank—the survival mask Amara had seen on so many others.
"Sookie."
"Mistress."
"I'd like you to start working in the main house tomorrow. Lighter duties—helping with the sewing, assisting with the children. You'll sleep in the servants' quarters upstairs, near Oney."
Sookie's hands stilled on the pot. "Mistress?"
"Your father asked me to look after you." Amara kept her voice gentle but matter-of-fact. "I'm doing that."
For a long moment, Sookie didn't move. Then something cracked in her expression—not quite gratitude, not quite fear. Something more complicated.
"Is this real?" Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Or is this—" She stopped herself.
"It's real."
"But why?" The question came out raw, almost desperate. "Why would you—"
"Because no one should have to be afraid of what might happen in the night." Amara met the girl's eyes. "I can't promise you everything will be safe. I can't promise anything in this world. But I can promise you that as long as I have any power at all, no one is going to touch you against your will."
Sookie stared at her. Fourteen years old, and her eyes held the wariness of someone who'd learned not to trust.
"I don't understand you," she said finally.
"That's all right. You don't have to understand me. Just know that I mean what I say."
She left Sookie in the kitchen, still staring after her.
She doesn't trust me. She shouldn't. Trust is dangerous in a world like this.
But maybe—maybe—she'll trust me enough to stay safe.
It was nearly midnight when Breechy knocked on her bedroom door.
"Mistress. I apologize for the hour."
"What is it?"
"One of the men—Samuel—he was doing inventory in the lumber shed this evening. Checking what we have for the repairs." Breechy's voice was low, urgent. "Someone had been there before him. Moved things around. Counted the stock."
Amara's blood chilled. "Who?"
"He didn't see them. But the marks were fresh. Someone wanted to know exactly how much lumber we have and how much we're planning to use."
Someone is tracking my reforms. Counting the cost of my kindness. Preparing to use it against me.
"Grimes?"
"Or someone working for him." Breechy hesitated. "Mistress, this isn't just resistance. This is surveillance. Whoever's doing this—they're building a case."
A case. For what? To prove I'm incompetent? To show Daniel's family I'm wasting money? To justify removing me from control of the estate?
"Keep watching," Amara said. "And Breechy—find out who has access to that shed at night. I want names."
"Yes, Mistress."
He left. Amara stood at the window, looking out at the dark grounds.
They're watching me. Counting my moves. Waiting for me to make a mistake.
Fine. I can play this game too.
And I play to win.
[End of Chapter 17]