Breechy's report came three days later.
"Josiah," he said, keeping his voice low. They were in the small study, door closed, curtains drawn. "I had Marcus and two others watching him. Every night for the past week."
"And?"
"He's... odd." Breechy frowned. "He walks the grounds late at night. Sits near the main house, smokes his pipe, watches the windows. But he doesn't report to Grimes. Doesn't meet with anyone. Just... watches."
"That doesn't make sense."
"No. Unless he's not the spy at all. Unless he's just—" Breechy shrugged. "—a strange man with too much time and not enough sense."
Amara rubbed her temples. "So we're back to nothing."
"Not nothing." Breechy hesitated. "There's someone else. Thomas."
"Thomas?"
"An older man. Been here longer than anyone except Jenny. He works in the stables mostly, but he's everywhere. Always helpful. Always polite." Breechy's voice turned careful. "Always in the right place to overhear things."
"You think he's the one?"
"I think he's the type who survives by knowing which way the wind blows. Grimes is powerful, so Thomas tells Grimes things. But if you become more powerful..." Another shrug. "He'd probably tell you things instead."
Not a spy. A weathervane. Someone who aligns himself with whoever has the most to offer.
"That's almost worse."
"Yes." Breechy met her eyes. "Because you can't trust him. But you also can't remove him without proof. And if you confront him, he'll just become more careful."
Another problem without a solution. Add it to the list.
"Keep watching. Both of them."
"Yes, Mistress."
That afternoon, Amara met with Elias.
They couldn't meet at the forge—too visible, too easy for Grimes to notice. Instead, she found him near the edge of the tobacco fields, ostensibly inspecting a damaged fence.
"The blankets arrived yesterday," she said, keeping her voice low. "Breechy is distributing them tonight, starting with the children's cabin."
Elias nodded but didn't look at her. His eyes stayed on the fence, his hands moving over the broken wood.
"The repairs start next week. Three cabins first—the ones with the worst roofs."
Still nothing.
"I also moved Sookie to the main house. She's safe. Grimes can't touch her there."
Finally, Elias looked up. His expression was unreadable.
"You want me to say thank you?"
"No. I want you to tell me how people are reacting."
A long pause. Elias went back to examining the fence.
"Some of them are grateful," he said at last. "Ruth cried when she got her blanket. Old Jenny actually smiled—first time I've seen that in years."
"And the others?"
"Scared. Suspicious." He straightened up, wiping his hands on his trousers. "They think it's a trick. That you're being kind now so you can be cruel later. Or that Grimes will punish them for accepting charity."
"It's not charity. It's—"
"I know what it is." Elias cut her off. "But they don't. They've never seen a white person do something kind without expecting something back. They're waiting for the other shoe to drop."
And they're right to wait. In this world, kindness always has a price.
"What can I do to convince them?"
"Nothing. You can't convince people with words. You can only convince them with time." Elias met her eyes. "Keep doing what you're doing. For weeks. Months. Years. Eventually, maybe, some of them will start to believe."
"And in the meantime?"
"In the meantime, I'll be your... messenger." The word seemed to cost him something. "If someone's in trouble, if someone needs help, I'll bring it to you. But I'm not going to tell them to trust you. That's something they have to decide for themselves."
It wasn't much. But it was more than she'd had yesterday.
"Thank you."
Elias snorted. "Don't thank me. I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it because—" He stopped.
"Because what?"
"Because maybe you're real. And if you are, my people deserve to know about it." His jaw tightened. "And if you're not—if this is all some game—I'll find out eventually. And then we'll have a different conversation."
A threat and a promise, wrapped together. Fair enough.
"Understood."
That evening, someone came to the forge.
Amara heard about it later, from Breechy. A young man named Peter—nineteen, worked in the tobacco fields, had a wife on a neighboring plantation whom he hadn't seen in six months.
He'd heard about the blankets. Heard about Ruth's daughter being saved. Heard, through the network of whispers that connected every slave quarter in Virginia, that the mistress at White Oaks might be different.
So he'd gone to Elias. And asked—hesitant, terrified—if there was any chance, any possibility, that he might be allowed to visit his wife.
Elias brought the request to Amara the next morning.
"It's against the rules," he said flatly. "Grimes would never allow it. If Peter gets caught off the property without a pass, he could be whipped. Or worse."
"What if I give him a pass?"
"You can do that?"
"I'm the mistress of this plantation." Amara's voice was steady, though her heart was racing. "I can write a travel pass for any worker I choose."
Elias stared at her. "You'd do that? For one man? To see his wife?"
"Everyone keeps asking me that. 'You'd do that? You'd really do that?'" She shook her head. "Yes. I'd do that. I'd do whatever small thing is in my power to make someone's life slightly less miserable."
"Even if it makes you look soft?"
"Let them think I'm soft. Let them think I'm foolish." Amara met his eyes. "People have been underestimating soft, foolish women for centuries. Sometimes that's an advantage."
A long silence.
Then Elias nodded.
"I'll tell Peter."
The encounter with Grimes happened two days later.
Amara was walking back from the garden when he appeared on the path, blocking her way. Not aggressively—he kept a respectful distance, his posture casual. But there was something in his eyes that made her skin crawl.
"Good afternoon, Mistress."
"Mr. Grimes."
"Beautiful day, isn't it?" He fell into step beside her, uninvited. "I've been noticing how much more... lively... things have been lately. People talking more. Moving around more. Almost like they've forgotten their place."
"I wouldn't know anything about that."
"Wouldn't you?" His voice was light, almost teasing. "I hear things, Mistress. I hear that workers have been coming to certain people with their problems instead of going through proper channels. I hear that passes have been issued for personal visits—something that hasn't happened in years."
Amara kept walking. "I'm not sure what you're implying."
"I'm not implying anything." Grimes stopped, forcing her to stop with him. "I'm just offering some friendly advice. People in our position—management, you might say—we have to be careful. The workers will tell us what we want to hear. They'll act grateful, act loyal. But underneath?" He smiled. "Underneath, they hate us. All of us. And the moment they sense weakness, they'll use it against us."
"Thank you for the warning."
"Just something to keep in mind." He tipped his hat. "You never know which voice is telling you the truth and which one is just telling you what you want to hear."
He walked away, leaving Amara standing on the path.
He knows. He knows I've been building relationships, bypassing his authority. And he's warning me—or threatening me—that he'll use it against me.
The question is: how?
She didn't have an answer. But she knew one thing for certain.
The game was getting more dangerous.
[End of Chapter 19]