Three weeks passed.
They were the longest three weeks of Amara's life—and also, somehow, the shortest. Each day blurred into the next, a relentless cycle of sickroom rotations, household management, and the constant low-grade terror of being watched.
Daniel improved. Then worsened. Then improved again.
Dr. Mercer pronounced himself baffled. "The fever should have taken him by now," he said during his weekly visit, shaking his head. "His constitution must be stronger than I thought."
His constitution has nothing to do with it, Amara thought, watching the doctor pack up his bleeding equipment. It's the fact that I've been pouring half your medicines down the chamber pot.
But she couldn't say that. She just nodded and thanked him and walked him to the door.
The repairs to the cabins were halfway done.
Breechy had managed the project with quiet efficiency, spreading the work across several weeks so it looked like routine maintenance rather than a sudden campaign of improvement. Three roofs patched. One floor raised above the damp ground. New bedding distributed to the most vulnerable families.
Small changes. Barely visible, in the grand scheme of things.
But Amara noticed the difference.
Ruth walked differently now. Still cautious, still watchful—that would never fully change—but there was something in her posture that hadn't been there before. A loosening of the shoulders. A willingness to meet Amara's eyes.
Bess, too. The girl was still shy around Amara, hiding behind her mother's skirts whenever the mistress appeared. But she was eating better, sleeping better. The hollows in her cheeks were starting to fill in.
One child. One family. That's what I've managed to save so far.
It's not enough. It will never be enough.
But it's something.
The trouble started on a Thursday.
Amara was in the study, reviewing the weekly accounts, when Breechy knocked.
"Mistress. There's a situation."
She set down her pen. "What kind of situation?"
"In the quarters. One of the field hands—a man named Caesar—he's been accused of stealing."
Amara's stomach tightened. "Stealing what?"
"Food. From the main house stores." Breechy's face was carefully neutral. "Grimes caught him this morning. He's holding him in the overseer's cottage, waiting for your... decision."
My decision. Whether to have a man whipped for being hungry.
"Who accused him?"
"One of the other workers. A man named Thomas."
Thomas. The weathervane. The man who told powerful people what they wanted to hear.
"And what does Thomas claim he saw?"
"He says he saw Caesar leaving the storage cellar two nights ago, carrying a sack. He reported it to Grimes this morning."
Two nights ago. And he only reported it this morning. Why wait?
"I want to talk to Caesar. Alone."
Breechy hesitated. "Grimes won't like that."
"Grimes doesn't have to like it. Bring Caesar to the small parlor. And make sure Grimes knows I've taken charge of the investigation."
Caesar was a man in his thirties, broad-shouldered and work-hardened. He stood in the center of the parlor with his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes fixed on the floor.
Amara closed the door.
"Caesar. Look at me."
Slowly, he raised his head. His expression was the familiar mask—blank, guarded, waiting to see what kind of monster she would be.
"Tell me what happened."
"Mistress, I—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I didn't steal nothing."
"Then why does Thomas say he saw you?"
"I don't know, Mistress. Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe—" Caesar's jaw tightened. "Maybe he's saying what someone told him to say."
Someone. Grimes.
"Were you near the storage cellar two nights ago?"
A long pause. Caesar's hands clenched.
"Yes, Mistress."
"Why?"
"I was..." He trailed off. His eyes dropped back to the floor.
"Caesar. I can't help you if you don't tell me the truth."
"You can't help me anyway." The words came out flat, defeated. "I know how this works. White man says I stole, Black man says I didn't. Doesn't matter what really happened."
He's right. That's exactly how this works. The system is designed to make his voice worthless.
"Tell me anyway."
Another long pause. Then, slowly, Caesar spoke.
"My wife, Mistress. She's on the Harrison plantation, three miles east. I haven't seen her in four months." His voice cracked slightly. "Two nights ago, I snuck out to see her. I was near the cellar because that's where the path goes through the woods. I didn't take nothing. I just wanted to see my wife."
He risked everything—whipping, sale, worse—just to see his wife.
"Can anyone confirm where you were?"
"My wife. But she's not here. And even if she was, who'd believe her?"
Nobody. That's the answer. Nobody would believe a Black woman's testimony over a white man's accusation.
Amara stood up. Her mind was racing.
"Wait here."
She found Thomas in the stables.
He was an older man, gray at the temples, with a face that had learned to smile at the right moments. He straightened when he saw her approach, his expression shifting to something that looked like concern.
"Mistress Custis. I heard about Caesar. Such a shame. I didn't want to report it, but—"
"You waited two days."
Thomas blinked. "Mistress?"
"You say you saw Caesar leaving the cellar two nights ago. But you only reported it this morning. Why?"
"I—" He faltered. "I wasn't sure what I saw at first. I wanted to be certain before—"
"Before what? Before you talked to Grimes?"
Something flickered in Thomas's eyes. Fear? Calculation?
"I don't know what you mean, Mistress."
"I think you do." Amara stepped closer. "I think someone told you to watch for anything you could use against me. Anything that would make me look like I'm losing control. And when you saw Caesar—doing something innocent, probably—you decided to twist it into a theft."
"Mistress, I would never—"
"I'm not finished." Her voice was cold. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to go to Grimes right now and tell him you were mistaken. You didn't see Caesar steal anything. It was dark, you were confused, and you're sorry for the misunderstanding."
Thomas's face went pale. "But Mr. Grimes—"
"Mr. Grimes answers to me. And so do you." Amara held his gaze. "Make your choice, Thomas. You can be useful to the person who actually runs this plantation, or you can keep playing both sides and see how that works out for you."
A long, tense silence.
Then Thomas nodded. Slowly. Reluctantly.
"Yes, Mistress."
Grimes was furious.
She could see it in the rigid set of his shoulders when he came to the study that evening, in the controlled precision of his movements as he stood before her desk.
"Thomas recanted."
"I know."
"He says he was mistaken about what he saw."
"People make mistakes."
Grimes's jaw tightened. "With respect, Mistress, this undermines discipline. If workers believe they can commit offenses and escape punishment—"
"Caesar didn't commit any offense."
"You don't know that."
"I know Thomas's accusation doesn't hold up. And I know that whipping a man based on questionable testimony would be unjust." Amara met his eyes. "I'm not interested in injustice, Mr. Grimes."
The silence stretched.
"You're making a mistake," Grimes said finally. His voice was quiet, almost soft. "The people here—they're watching you. All of them. Waiting to see how far they can push. And every time you show mercy, every time you let something slide, they remember. They calculate."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's an observation." He smiled—a thin, cold expression that didn't reach his eyes. "I've been doing this a long time, Mistress. I've seen what happens to plantations that get soft. The runaways. The thefts. The fires that start in the night." He paused. "The violence."
He's trying to scare me. Trying to make me think the enslaved people are the danger, not him.
"Thank you for your concern. I'll keep it in mind."
Grimes held her gaze for a moment longer. Then he turned and walked out.
Amara sat alone in the study, her hands shaking.
He knows I'm working against him. He knows I'm trying to change things. And he's already planning his next move.
The question is: what will it be?
That night, she visited Daniel.
He was awake—a rare occurrence lately. The candlelight caught the hollows of his cheeks, the gray pallor of his skin. He looked like a man made of paper, liable to tear at any moment.
"Martha." His voice was a whisper. "Come. Sit."
She sat in the chair beside his bed, taking his hand. It was cold, despite the blankets piled on top of him.
"How are you feeling?"
"Like death." He tried to smile. "But apparently death doesn't want me yet."
"Don't say that."
"Why not? It's true." He coughed—dry, rattling. "I've been thinking, Martha. About what happens... after."
Amara's heart rate spiked. "You're going to recover. Dr. Mercer said—"
"Dr. Mercer is a fool." Daniel's grip tightened on her hand. "I know what's happening to me. I've known for weeks. I'm not going to get better. I'm just... taking longer to die than expected."
She didn't know what to say. The truth was, he was probably right. She'd been delaying the inevitable, not preventing it.
"The will," Daniel continued. "I had Mr. Power update it last month. You'll have control of the estate—the land, the house, the workers. Everything."
"Daniel—"
"Let me finish." He paused, gathering strength. "My brother John will try to challenge you. He's always resented how much Father left to me. He'll claim I wasn't in my right mind, that you manipulated me. You need to be prepared."
His brother. Another enemy I didn't know I had.
"What should I do?"
"Document everything. Every decision you make, every improvement to the estate—write it down. Show that you're competent. That you're protecting his investment." Daniel's eyes found hers. "And find allies. People who will speak for you when John comes calling."
Allies. In a world where I can't trust anyone.
"I understand."
"Good." He sank back against the pillows, exhausted. "You've changed, Martha. Since the fever. You're... different. Stronger." A pause. "I don't know what happened to you, but whatever it was... I think it might save this family."
Amara held his hand as he drifted back to sleep.
He doesn't know the half of it.
And he never will.
She was walking back to her room when she heard the noise.
A soft sound, almost inaudible. Coming from the servants' staircase.
Amara froze. Listened.
Footsteps. Moving away from her, down toward the ground floor.
She thought about calling out. Thought about going back to her room and locking the door.
Instead, she followed.
The staircase was dark—no candles lit, no moonlight through the narrow windows. She moved by feel, one hand on the wall, trying to keep her footsteps silent.
At the bottom, a door creaked.
She reached the ground floor just in time to see a figure slip out the back entrance. A man, from the shape of him. Moving quickly, with purpose.
By the time she got to the door, he was gone.
She stood in the doorway, heart pounding, staring into the empty darkness.
Someone was in the house. Someone who didn't want to be seen.
Josiah? Thomas? Someone else entirely?
She didn't know. But she was going to find out.
[End of Chapter 21]