Daniel died on a Wednesday.
Amara was with him when it happened. She'd been there for three days straight, barely sleeping, watching his chest rise and fall in increasingly shallow breaths.
The end came quietly—a long exhale, a stillness, and then nothing.
She sat for a moment, still holding his hand. The silence in the room was absolute.
He's gone.
I'm a widow now.
I'm in control.
The thoughts came one after another, cold and precise. She should have felt something—grief, relief, guilt. Instead, she felt empty. Hollowed out.
"Rest now," she said quietly. "Whatever happens next, you don't have to worry about it anymore."
She closed his eyes, smoothed the blankets over his chest, and went to tell the household.
The next hours were a blur of activity.
The body had to be prepared. The minister had to be summoned. Letters had to be sent—to Daniel's brother John, to the business partners, to the neighbors who would expect to pay their respects.
Amara moved through it all like a sleepwalker, doing what needed to be done, saying what needed to be said. Her face was appropriately somber, her voice appropriately steady. She performed grief the way she'd performed everything else since arriving in this body—convincingly, but from a distance.
I should feel something. He was my husband—Martha's husband. I cared for him for weeks. I fought to keep him alive.
But I didn't know him. I never knew him. And now I never will.
The funeral was scheduled for Friday. Until then, the house was in mourning—black crepe over the mirrors, candles burning in the front windows, a steady stream of visitors offering condolences.
Amara received them all. The neighbors. The business associates. The curious onlookers who wanted to see how the young widow was holding up.
And then, on Thursday morning, John Custis arrived.
He was younger than Daniel—mid-thirties, with the same long face and pale eyes. But where Daniel had been soft, John was sharp. Where Daniel had been cautious, John was aggressive.
Amara disliked him immediately.
"Mrs. Custis." He bowed—barely. "My condolences on your loss."
"Thank you, Mr. Custis. Your brother spoke of you often."
"Did he?" John's eyes swept the room, assessing. "I hope he also spoke of his business affairs. There will be much to discuss in the coming weeks."
"I'm sure there will be. But perhaps we could wait until after the funeral?"
"Of course." John smiled—a thin, cold expression. "I wouldn't dream of intruding on your grief."
He didn't mean it. They both knew he didn't mean it.
He's here to challenge me. Daniel warned me this would happen.
Fine. Let him try.
The funeral was a somber affair.
Half the county turned out—planters, merchants, politicians, their wives. They filled the small church to overflowing, their faces appropriately grave, their whispers not quite quiet enough.
Amara sat in the front pew with Jacky and Patsy on either side of her. The children were confused, frightened. Patsy kept asking when Papa was coming back. Jacky just stared straight ahead, his small jaw tight with the effort of not crying.
They're orphans now. In this world, at this time, that's what they are. And I'm all they have.
The minister droned on about eternal rest and the promise of resurrection. Amara barely heard him. Her mind was elsewhere—on the legal battles to come, the enemies circling, the impossible task of keeping everyone safe.
After the service, the mourners gathered at the house for the reception. Food and drink, murmured conversations, the social rituals that surrounded death.
John found her in the parlor.
"A word, Mrs. Custis? In private?"
She followed him to the study—Daniel's study, now hers. He closed the door behind them.
"I'll be direct," John said. "I've reviewed my brother's will. I'm not satisfied."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"He left you everything. The house, the land, the workers. The guardianship of the children." John's voice was clipped. "That's highly irregular."
"Your brother trusted my judgment."
"My brother was ill. His judgment was impaired." John stepped closer. "I intend to contest the will. I'll petition the court to appoint me as guardian of my nephew and niece. And I'll argue that you're not competent to manage an estate of this size."
Amara kept her expression neutral.
"On what grounds?"
"On the grounds that you've been making irrational decisions. Increasing rations for the workers. Reducing discipline. Spending money on unnecessary improvements." John smiled. "The neighbors have noticed, Mrs. Custis. They've been talking. And what they've been saying doesn't reflect well on your... mental stability."
Grimes. He's been feeding John information. Probably for weeks.
"I see."
"Do you? Because I don't think you understand the position you're in." John's voice dropped. "You're a woman. A widow. You have no family in Virginia, no powerful connections. If I decide to pursue this, you'll lose. Maybe not immediately, but eventually. The courts always favor blood over marriage."
Amara was quiet for a moment.
Then she smiled.
"Mr. Custis, I appreciate your... directness. Allow me to be equally direct." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded document. "This is a summary of your brother's estate. I prepared it myself, from the household accounts."
John took the paper. His eyes scanned the figures.
"As you can see, the estate has been profitable under my management. Crop yields are up. Worker productivity has increased. Expenses are down." Amara paused. "Not because I've been harsh, Mr. Custis. Because I've been efficient. Healthy workers work harder. Rested workers make fewer mistakes. These aren't irrational decisions—they're sound business practices."
John's jaw tightened.
"Furthermore," Amara continued, "I've been maintaining detailed records of all my decisions. Every expenditure. Every improvement. Every change in policy, with explanations of the reasoning behind it." She smiled again. "If you take me to court, I'll present those records. And we'll see what the judges think of a woman who increased productivity while reducing costs."
A long silence.
"You're not what I expected," John said finally.
"No. I'm not."
"This isn't over."
"I didn't think it was."
John studied her face for a moment longer. Then he turned and walked out, leaving the door open behind him.
Amara stood alone in the study, her heart pounding.
First battle. Not won, but not lost either.
Now for the next one.
That evening, after the guests had left and the children had been put to bed, Amara found Breechy in the kitchen.
"We need to talk."
They went to the small parlor. Amara closed the door.
"Daniel is dead. John is going to contest the will. And I need to know: are you with me?"
Breechy was quiet for a moment.
"What does 'with you' mean?"
"It means I need allies. Real allies. People who will help me hold this estate together against everyone who wants to tear it apart." Amara met his eyes. "I can't promise you freedom—the law won't allow it, not without jumping through hoops that would take years. But I can promise you that as long as I'm in charge, things will be different. Better food. Better housing. No whippings without cause—and I'll be the one deciding what counts as cause."
"And if you lose? If John takes over?"
"Then you're no worse off than you were before." Amara paused. "But if I win, if I can hold on long enough to establish myself... then maybe we can start thinking about bigger changes. Gradual ones. The kind that don't get people killed."
Breechy studied her face.
"You're asking me to bet on you."
"I'm asking you to bet on yourself. On your daughter. On everyone in the quarters who's been helped by the changes we've already made." Amara's voice hardened. "I'm not a saint, Breechy. I'm not going to pretend I'm doing this purely out of the goodness of my heart. I need you. I need your knowledge, your connections, your ability to make things happen without Grimes finding out. We need each other."
A long pause.
Then Breechy nodded.
"All right. I'm in."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." His voice was dry. "We haven't won anything. All we've done is agree to try."
"Trying is a start."
She left him in the kitchen and walked back to her room—her room now, not the room she shared with Daniel. The house was quiet, the mourners gone, the servants retired.
For the first time since arriving in this world, she was truly in control.
Now I just have to figure out what to do with it.
[End of Chapter 25]