The invitation arrived three days later.
Amara found it among the morning post—a thick cream envelope, sealed with wax bearing an unfamiliar crest. Inside, a card in elegant handwriting:
Colonel and Mrs. George Washington request the pleasure of Mrs. Martha Custis's company at a dinner to be held at Mount Vernon on Saturday next, at six o'clock in the evening.
Amara read the words three times.
George Washington. They're inviting me to Mount Vernon.
Her hands were shaking.
This is it. The moment I've been waiting for—the chance to meet the man who will shape America.
And I have no idea what to say to him.
She spent the next several days preparing.
Not just her clothes—though Oney helped her select an appropriate mourning dress, dark but elegant—but her story. Her persona. The version of Martha Custis she would need to present.
A recent widow. Intelligent but not threatening. Interested in politics but not opinionated. Someone who listens more than she speaks.
Someone who can plant seeds without anyone noticing.
She also prepared practically. Mr. Power sent word that the legal challenge was proceeding—depositions would begin next month. John Custis was gathering witnesses. Grimes had been seen meeting with a lawyer from Williamsburg.
The walls are closing in. But maybe—maybe—this dinner can help.
George Mason had mentioned that Washington was "forward-thinking." That the Washingtons hosted political discussions at their salons. If Amara could make the right impression, establish herself as someone worth knowing...
Allies. That's what Power said I need. Character witnesses. People who will vouch for my sanity and competence.
George Washington would be a very useful ally.
Saturday came clear and cold.
Amara left White Oaks in mid-afternoon, traveling by carriage with only Oney as her companion. The roads were rough, the journey slow, but she barely noticed. Her mind was elsewhere—rehearsing conversations, planning approaches, trying to anticipate questions.
Mount Vernon appeared as the sun was setting—a white mansion on a hill overlooking the Potomac River. It was larger than she'd expected, grander. The home of a man with ambitions.
In twenty years, this man will lead an army. In thirty, he'll be president. In forty, he'll be dead—and the people he enslaved will finally be freed.
But right now, he's just a Virginia planter. Wealthy. Well-connected. Politically active.
And I'm about to have dinner with him.
The Washingtons received her in the main parlor.
Martha Washington—the real Martha Washington, the woman Amara had taken her history classes about—was small and plump, with kind eyes and an easy smile. She greeted Amara warmly, expressing condolences for Daniel's death, inquiring about the children.
"You must come visit again when you're out of mourning," she said. "We have children too, you know. The Colonel's stepchildren, from my first marriage. It's so important for young ones to have playmates."
"I would like that very much."
And then there was George.
He was taller than she'd expected—over six feet, broad-shouldered, with reddish-brown hair tied back in a queue. His face was stern in repose, but when he smiled, it transformed entirely.
"Mrs. Custis." He bowed over her hand. "I was sorry to hear about Daniel. He was a good man."
"Thank you, Colonel. He spoke well of you."
"Did he?" Washington's eyes were sharp, assessing. "I hope so. I have great respect for the Custis family."
There were other guests—local planters, a merchant from Alexandria, a minister who seemed more interested in food than souls. They gathered in the dining room for a meal that went on for hours, course after course, conversation flowing like the wine.
Amara stayed quiet at first, listening. The talk ranged from farming to horses to the latest news from London. She learned things—crop prices were down, tobacco markets were uncertain, there were rumors of new taxes coming from Parliament.
Then, inevitably, the conversation turned to politics.
"The Proclamation Line is strangling us," one planter complained. "I have veterans who were promised land in the west. Now they're being told they can't settle it."
"Parliament doesn't understand colonial affairs," another agreed. "They sit in London making decisions about places they've never seen, people they've never met."
"And yet they expect us to pay for their wars," Washington said quietly. His voice was measured, but there was steel underneath. "We fought alongside them against the French. Our men died. And now they reward us with restrictions and taxes."
"Surely there's a way to petition for redress," the minister suggested.
"We've petitioned. We've written letters. We've sent delegations." Washington shook his head. "They don't listen. They see us as subjects to be managed, not citizens to be consulted."
Citizens. He's already using that word. Already thinking in terms of rights rather than privileges.
"Perhaps," Amara said quietly, "the problem is that we keep asking for what should be ours by right."
The table went silent.
Washington turned to look at her. His expression was unreadable.
"What do you mean, Mrs. Custis?"
Careful. Don't say too much. Plant the seed, don't dig the whole garden.
"Only that—" She chose her words carefully. "—asking implies that someone else has the authority to grant or deny. But if our rights are inherent—if they come from nature, or from God—then perhaps we shouldn't be asking at all."
A long pause.
"An interesting perspective," Washington said slowly. "And a dangerous one."
"Perhaps. But I believe history tends to favor the dangerous perspectives. Eventually."
Something flickered in Washington's eyes—interest, maybe. Or recognition.
"You've thought about this."
"I've had time to think. Sitting with a dying husband." Amara lowered her eyes, playing the grieving widow. "One thinks about many things. About what matters. About what endures."
"And what have you concluded?"
She looked up, meeting his gaze directly.
"That institutions are more fragile than they appear. That empires fall when they forget to listen. And that the people who build new things are rarely the people who expected to."
The silence stretched.
Then Washington smiled—a slow, thoughtful expression.
"Mrs. Custis, I believe you and I should talk further. Perhaps after dinner?"
"I would like that, Colonel."
They talked for two hours.
In Washington's study, away from the other guests, with the fire crackling and the night pressing against the windows. They talked about land and taxes, about the frontier and the future, about what it meant to be British subjects who were treated as something less than British.
Amara was careful. So careful. She didn't advocate for revolution—that would come later. She didn't mention independence—the word wouldn't even enter serious discussion for another fifteen years. She simply... asked questions. Raised possibilities. Nudged.
"Have you ever wondered," she said at one point, "what a government might look like if it was designed from scratch? Without all the accumulated weight of centuries?"
"That's a philosopher's question."
"Perhaps. But philosophers have shaped empires. Locke. Montesquieu." She paused. "The Romans, before they became an empire."
Washington was quiet for a long moment.
"You're not what I expected, Mrs. Custis."
"What did you expect?"
"A grieving widow. Someone overwhelmed by her circumstances." He studied her face. "Instead, I find a woman who reads political philosophy and has opinions about government."
"Is that inappropriate?"
"It's... unusual." A slight smile. "But not unwelcome. Most of my conversations with women are about household matters and children. It's refreshing to discuss ideas."
Seeds. I'm planting seeds.
"I've always believed that ideas are the most powerful things in the world," Amara said. "More powerful than armies or money. Because ideas can spread. They can grow. They can outlast the people who first thought them."
"And what ideas do you believe will outlast our current moment?"
Liberty. Equality. The rights of man—though it will take centuries before "man" truly means everyone.
"That every person has inherent worth," she said carefully. "That governments derive their authority from the consent of the governed. That power must be checked, or it will inevitably corrupt."
Washington was silent.
"These are radical thoughts, Mrs. Custis."
"Perhaps. Or perhaps they're simply thoughts whose time hasn't come yet."
He looked at her for a long moment.
"You're a remarkable woman. I hope we'll have the opportunity to continue this conversation."
"So do I, Colonel."
The carriage ride home was quiet.
Oney dozed in the corner, exhausted from waiting. Amara sat in the darkness, replaying the evening in her mind.
I met George Washington. I talked to him about political philosophy. I planted seeds—small ones, careful ones—that might grow into something.
Or might not. There's no way to know.
But for the first time since arriving in this world, she felt something that might have been hope.
Maybe I can actually do this. Maybe I can influence what comes next. Not by changing everything at once, but by being in the right rooms, having the right conversations, asking the right questions.
One seed at a time.
The carriage rattled through the darkness, carrying her back to the battles that waited.
But the war for the future had finally begun.
[End of Chapter 27]