Amara didn't sleep that night.
She sat by her window, wrapped in a shawl, watching the grounds until dawn began to lighten the sky. No more movement. No more shadows. Just the ordinary sounds of a plantation waking up—the distant crow of a rooster, the clatter of pots in the kitchen, the murmur of voices starting the day's work.
Who was it? Where did they go?
The questions circled in her head like vultures.
She'd checked the back door after the figure disappeared. It wasn't locked—it was supposed to be locked at night, but the bolt had been pulled back. Someone had either left it open deliberately or had a key.
The servants have access. Grimes has access. Half the plantation probably has access if they know which floorboard creaks and which one doesn't.
She was no closer to answers than she'd been weeks ago.
Morning brought a visitor.
Amara was in the parlor, pretending to embroider while actually thinking about door locks, when Sally announced that a Mr. George Mason had arrived to see Master Custis.
"Master Custis isn't receiving visitors," Amara said automatically. "He's unwell."
"The gentleman says he has urgent business. He's willing to speak with you if the Master is indisposed."
George Mason. The name tickled something in Amara's memory. A Virginia planter, she thought. Politically active. One of the men who would later argue against the Constitution because it didn't include a Bill of Rights.
"Show him in."
Mason was a tall man in his forties, with sharp eyes and the confident bearing of someone used to being listened to. He bowed correctly when he entered but didn't waste time on pleasantries.
"Mrs. Custis. Forgive the intrusion. I had hoped to discuss some matters with your husband, but I understand he's ill."
"Gravely ill, I'm afraid. But perhaps I can help?"
Mason hesitated. Amara could see him calculating—was it proper to discuss business with a woman? Would she understand? Would she be offended?
"It's a matter of some political sensitivity," he said finally. "Concerning the recent directives from London regarding western settlement."
"The Proclamation Line."
Mason's eyebrows rose. "You're familiar with it?"
I wrote a paper on it in graduate school. But she couldn't say that.
"My husband has corresponded with several gentlemen on the subject. I've... read over his shoulder, so to speak."
A small smile crossed Mason's face. "A wife who reads over her husband's shoulder. How refreshing."
He sat down—uninvited, but Amara didn't object—and launched into an explanation of the situation. The British government, concerned about the cost of defending western settlements from Native American attacks, had forbidden colonial expansion beyond the Appalachian Mountains. Land speculators were furious. Veterans who'd been promised western land grants felt betrayed.
"The thing is, Mrs. Custis, this isn't just about land. It's about principle. Parliament is making decisions that affect our lives without consulting us. Today it's settlement boundaries. Tomorrow it might be taxes. Where does it end?"
With a revolution, Amara thought. With a war. With a new country built on ideals it won't fully live up to for centuries.
But she kept her face neutral.
"It does seem troubling," she said carefully. "Though I'm sure Parliament has its reasons."
"Parliament has its interests. That's not the same as reasons." Mason leaned forward. "I've been corresponding with several gentlemen about forming a... discussion group, shall we say. Men who share concerns about the direction of colonial policy. I was hoping your husband might be interested in joining."
A discussion group. The early stirrings of revolutionary sentiment.
"I'll mention it to him when he's well enough to receive the information."
"Please do." Mason stood, clearly preparing to leave. "And Mrs. Custis—if you find yourself interested in such discussions, there are ladies' gatherings where these matters are sometimes... touched upon. Mrs. Washington, for instance, hosts a very lively salon when Colonel Washington is at Mount Vernon."
Amara's heart stuttered. "Colonel Washington?"
"George Washington. You may have heard of him—made quite a name for himself in the frontier wars. He's been focusing on his plantation lately, but he keeps a hand in political affairs." Mason smiled. "I believe he and your husband have met once or twice. Fine man. Very forward-thinking for a Virginian."
George Washington. He's already here. Already in this world. Already within reach.
"I'll keep that in mind."
Mason left. Amara sat alone in the parlor, her embroidery forgotten, her mind racing.
He's real. He's close. And apparently, he hosts salons where people discuss politics.
If I can get to one of those gatherings...
But that was a problem for another day. Right now, she had more immediate concerns.
She found Elias at the forge that afternoon.
He was working on something—horseshoes, it looked like—his hammer striking the hot metal in a steady rhythm. He didn't stop when she approached.
"I heard about Caesar," he said, not looking up.
"Word travels fast."
"Word always travels fast among people who have nothing else to trade." He dunked the shoe in water; steam hissed and billowed. "You saved him. From the whipping."
"I stopped a false accusation. That's not the same as saving anyone."
Elias set down the horseshoe and finally looked at her. His expression was unreadable.
"It's more than most would do."
"It's less than I should be able to do."
A long pause. The forge crackled between them.
"They're talking about you," Elias said quietly. "In the quarters. About what you did for Caesar. About the blankets, the repairs, the food."
"What are they saying?"
"Some of them are starting to believe you might be different. That maybe—" He stopped. His jaw tightened.
"Maybe what?"
"Maybe things could actually change." The words came out hard, almost angry. "Do you understand how dangerous that is? Hope is dangerous. It makes people take risks. It makes them forget that the system hasn't changed just because one white woman decided to be kind."
"I know."
"Do you?" He stepped closer. "Because hope is what gets people killed out here. Hope is what makes a man try to run north, only to get caught and branded. Hope is what makes a woman think she can refuse and end up beaten. Hope is what I've spent my whole life trying to kill in myself, because hope is a lie that masters use to keep us compliant."
The words hit Amara like blows.
He's right. God help me, he's right.
"What would you have me do? Stop trying? Go back to the way things were?"
"No." Elias's voice dropped. "I'd have you be honest. With them. With yourself. Tell them the truth—that you can make things a little better, but you can't make them free. That you're still their owner, still part of the system, still the person who decides whether they eat or starve."
"I know what I am."
"Do you? Because sometimes I watch you, and I think you've forgotten. You act like you're one of us. Like you understand what it's like. But you don't. You can't." His eyes were hard. "You go back to the big house every night. You sleep in a feather bed. You eat from china plates. And we're still here. Still owned. Still waiting to see if tomorrow is the day everything falls apart."
Amara didn't have an answer.
Because he was right.
I can't forget what I am in this body. I can't pretend I'm not complicit. Every improvement I make is still within a system of total dehumanization. I'm not a liberator. I'm just... a slightly better jailer.
"I'm sorry," she said finally.
Elias looked at her for a long moment.
"Don't be sorry. Be useful." He turned back to the forge. "That's all any of us can ask."
That evening, Amara sat with Daniel.
He was having a good day—lucid, able to sit up, even managing to eat a few bites of broth. Dr. Mercer had been encouraged by the improvement, though Amara knew better than to trust it.
"You had a visitor today," she said. "Mr. George Mason."
"Mason?" Daniel's brow furrowed. "What did he want?"
"To discuss politics. The Proclamation Line, colonial rights, that sort of thing."
"Ah." Daniel sank back against his pillows. "George is always discussing politics. He and Washington and the rest of them—they think they're going to change the world by talking about it."
They're going to change it by fighting about it, Amara thought. But they don't know that yet.
"He mentioned Colonel Washington. Said you'd met."
"Once or twice. At Williamsburg, I think. Or maybe at one of the Fairfax gatherings." Daniel's eyes were growing heavy. "He's a decent man. Ambitious. Married to the Custis widow—no relation to us, despite the name. Made himself quite wealthy."
The Custis widow. Me. Or Martha. Or whatever I am.
"Do you think the political situation is serious? The things Mason was talking about?"
"Who knows?" Daniel's voice was fading. "The British have been making stupid decisions since before I was born. They'll probably keep making them after I'm gone."
He drifted off to sleep.
Amara sat beside him, watching the candlelight flicker on his pale face.
After I'm gone. He says it so casually now. Like he's already accepted what's coming.
She thought about the will he'd mentioned. The control she'd inherit. The brother who would challenge her.
When Daniel dies, I'll be one of the wealthiest widows in Virginia. I'll have land, money, power. And I'll have eighty-four human beings whose lives depend on what I do with that power.
No pressure.
She was walking back to her room when she heard voices.
Low, urgent. Coming from the servants' staircase—the same one where she'd heard footsteps the night before.
Amara pressed herself against the wall, listening.
"...can't keep doing this. She's watching everything now."
The voice was male. Familiar, but she couldn't place it.
"Then be more careful." A second voice. Also male. "The information is still valuable. Grimes needs to know what she's planning."
Amara's heart stopped.
Grimes needs to know.
There it is. Proof. Someone in this house is reporting to Grimes.
She held her breath, straining to hear more.
"What about the cellar business? Thomas bungled that."
"Thomas is an idiot. But he's not the only one watching."
"She's getting too close. Asking too many questions. If she finds out—"
A floorboard creaked. Amara must have shifted her weight without realizing.
The voices stopped.
Footsteps. Coming toward her.
Amara turned and walked—quickly, but not running—toward her bedroom. She heard a door open behind her, heard someone step into the hallway, but she didn't look back. Just kept walking, her hand on the knife in her sleeve, until she reached her room and closed the door behind her.
She leaned against the wood, heart pounding.
They're here. In the house. At least two of them.
And they know I'm getting close.
She crossed to the window and looked out at the dark grounds.
Grimes. It all comes back to Grimes.
But who is working for him? Who can I trust?
The answer, she realized, was no one.
No one at all.
[End of Chapter 22]