Amara spent the next three days watching.
She watched the servants move through the house, noting who spoke to whom, who lingered in hallways, who disappeared at odd hours. She watched Grimes during their brief interactions, searching for signs of satisfaction or frustration—any hint that his spies had reported something useful.
She watched everyone. And she trusted no one.
Two voices. Both male. One familiar, one not.
She'd replayed the conversation in her head a hundred times, trying to identify the speakers. Thomas seemed the obvious choice for one of them—but she'd already confronted him, already scared him into backing down. Would he really keep spying after that?
Yes. Probably. He's a survivor. He'll do whatever keeps him safe.
But the second voice bothered her more. It had been cooler, more confident. Someone who wasn't just following orders but actually believed in what he was doing.
Josiah? He's been here long enough to know the house. But Breechy's investigation suggested he's just... strange. Not actively malicious.
Unless Breechy was wrong. Unless Breechy was part of it.
The thought made her sick.
I can't think that way. If I start suspecting everyone, I'll be paralyzed. I need to focus on what I can control.
What she could control, at the moment, was the household accounts.
She'd taken over the bookkeeping entirely since Daniel's illness, and the more she studied the numbers, the more patterns emerged. Small discrepancies—a few shillings here, a few pounds there. Expenses that didn't quite add up.
Grimes had been skimming. She'd suspected it before, but now she had proof.
Not enough to fire him—not by 18th-century standards, where a little graft was expected. But enough to document. Enough to have ready when the time came.
Evidence. Build the evidence. When Daniel dies and his brother challenges me, I'll need ammunition.
She was working on the accounts late one afternoon when Oney knocked.
"Mistress? There's someone to see you. A woman. From the quarters."
Amara set down her pen. "Who?"
"She says her name is Pearl."
Pearl looked different than she had in the cabin.
Still thin, still worn. But there was something in her eyes now—not emptiness, but purpose. She stood in the small parlor with her hands clasped in front of her, her spine straight despite everything.
"Mistress. Thank you for seeing me."
"Of course. Please, sit."
Pearl hesitated, then lowered herself onto the edge of a chair. She looked uncomfortable—not just nervous, but physically uncomfortable, like the soft furniture was alien to her body.
"I wanted to..." She stopped. Started again. "Elias said you might be able to help."
"Help with what?"
A long pause. Pearl's hands twisted in her lap.
"Mr. Garrett. The man who—" She couldn't finish. But she didn't need to.
The man who raped her. The man who "borrows" enslaved women like they're library books.
"What about him?"
"He's coming back. This weekend. Mr. Grimes invited him to stay." Pearl's voice was barely audible. "He asked for me specifically."
The words landed like stones.
He asked for me specifically.
Amara felt rage building in her chest—hot, suffocating rage that threatened to choke her.
"When did you find out?"
"This morning. One of the girls told me. She heard Grimes and Garrett talking when Garrett sent word he was coming."
Grimes. Of course. This is probably a test. See if I'll intervene, and if I do, use it against me.
"Pearl, I—" Amara stopped. What could she promise? What could she actually do?
If I refuse to let Garrett have her, he'll be insulted. Grimes will tell everyone I'm interfering with normal social customs. The other planters will see it as one more sign that I've lost control.
But if I don't refuse—if I let this happen—
I can't. I can't let it happen. Not again. Not to her.
"You won't be available this weekend," Amara said. Her voice was steadier than she felt. "I'm assigning you to care for Master Custis. Sickroom duty. You'll be needed day and night."
Pearl stared at her. "But I don't know anything about nursing—"
"You can learn. And more importantly, you'll be in the main house, in the sickroom, where Garrett has no business being." Amara leaned forward. "I can't promise this will work. I can't promise he won't find some other way. But I can make it harder. That's all I can do."
Tears were streaming down Pearl's face, but she didn't seem to notice.
"Why?" The question was raw, almost desperate. "Why are you doing this?"
Because I'm a Black woman from the future who knows exactly what you've been through. Because my ancestors survived what you're living. Because I can't look at your face and pretend it's acceptable.
"Because it's wrong," Amara said simply. "And because I can."
Grimes came to find her that evening.
He didn't look angry—not overtly. But there was a tightness around his eyes, a tension in his shoulders, that told her he'd heard about Pearl.
"I understand you've reassigned one of the field hands to sickroom duty."
"I have."
"Pearl."
"Yes."
A pause. Grimes's smile was thin.
"Mr. Garrett will be disappointed. He was looking forward to seeing her."
"Mr. Garrett will have to find entertainment elsewhere."
"That may be... difficult." Grimes tilted his head. "He has particular tastes. And he's been a friend of this household for many years."
"Then perhaps it's time to make new friends."
The silence stretched. Amara could feel Grimes calculating, weighing his options.
"You're making enemies, Mistress."
"I know."
"Enemies you can't afford."
"Perhaps. But there are some things I can't afford to accept, either."
Grimes studied her for a long moment. Something shifted in his expression—not respect, exactly, but a kind of acknowledgment.
"You're not what I expected," he said finally. "When Master Custis took ill, I thought you'd be easy to manage. A soft widow, overwhelmed by responsibility, grateful for guidance."
"Sorry to disappoint."
"On the contrary." He smiled again—wider this time, more genuine, and somehow more frightening. "I find it refreshing. It's been a long time since I've had a worthy opponent."
He left before she could respond.
Amara stood alone in the hallway, her heart pounding.
Opponent. He called me an opponent.
Which means he's no longer pretending we're on the same side.
This is war now. Open war.
And I don't know if I can win.
Later that night, she found a note under her pillow.
Not a threat this time. Just a single line, in handwriting she didn't recognize:
The man you seek walks at midnight. Watch the back garden.
No signature. No explanation.
Amara stared at the words, her mind racing.
Someone is helping me. Someone knows about the spy and wants me to catch him.
But who? And why?
She had no way to know. But she knew one thing: she was going to be in the back garden at midnight.
Whatever happened next, she was done waiting.
[End of Chapter 23]