The next two weeks were a careful dance.
Amara continued her normal routines—inspecting the estate, meeting with servants, reviewing accounts. She gave no sign that she knew what was coming. She smiled at Grimes when they crossed paths. She treated Thomas and Hannah exactly as she always had.
But beneath the surface, she was preparing.
Breechy reported that Hannah had been seen meeting with Josiah late at night, whispering. They'd been given instructions, he said—though he didn't know what.
"Whatever they're planning, it's supposed to happen soon," he told her. "The workers are nervous. Something's in the air."
"Let them be nervous. But make sure our people know: no matter what happens, no one responds with violence. No matter what the provocation."
"And if someone tries to start something?"
"Then we stop them. Peacefully. Publicly." Amara's jaw tightened. "They want an incident they can use against me. We're not going to give them one."
Elias was harder to convince.
"You're asking us to just take it," he said, his voice bitter. "Whatever they do to us—the provocations, the insults—you want us to stand there and do nothing."
"I'm asking you to survive."
"Survival isn't enough."
"It's a start." Amara met his eyes. "I know it's not fair. I know it's asking too much. But if they provoke a reaction—if anyone fights back—that's exactly what they need. Evidence that we can't maintain order. Evidence that I'm unfit to run this estate."
"And if you lose? If John takes over?"
"Then he sells half of you to pay his gambling debts. Separates families. Brings in overseers who make Grimes look gentle." Amara's voice was hard. "I'm not asking you to do this for me, Elias. I'm asking you to do it for yourselves. For Ruth and Bess. For the children who'll be sold if John wins."
Silence.
"Two weeks," Elias said finally. "Two weeks of swallowing whatever they throw at us. And then?"
"And then we see where we stand."
The incident came on a Thursday.
Amara was in the parlor when she heard the shouting.
She moved quickly—out the back door, toward the commotion near the tobacco barn. A crowd had gathered: white servants, field workers, everyone drawn by the noise.
In the center of it all stood Josiah.
He was holding a sack—grain, it looked like—and pointing at a young Black man Amara didn't recognize. One of the field hands. Marcus, she thought. The nine-year-old who asked too many questions—except now he was older, maybe fourteen.
"I saw him!" Josiah shouted. "Saw him with my own eyes! Stealing from the stores!"
The accusation hung in the air.
Marcus's face was a mask of controlled terror. "I didn't steal nothing. He's lying."
"You calling me a liar, boy?"
The crowd shifted. Amara could feel the tension building—the anger, the fear, the explosive potential of the moment.
This is it. The manufactured incident. They want me to respond with force—or fail to respond at all.
She pushed through the crowd.
"What's happening here?"
"Mistress." Josiah turned to her, his expression a perfect simulation of righteous outrage. "I caught this boy stealing grain from the storage shed. He needs to be punished."
"And what punishment would you suggest?"
"Thirty lashes. At minimum." Josiah's eyes glittered. "That's the standard for theft, isn't it?"
Standard. As if whipping a child is something that can be standard.
Amara looked at Marcus. The boy was trembling, but his chin was up. Defiant. Exactly what they wanted—a Black boy showing defiance, proving that the workers here were out of control.
"Marcus." She kept her voice calm. "Did you take the grain?"
"No, Mistress. I swear I didn't."
"He's lying!" Josiah interrupted. "I saw—"
"I didn't ask you." Amara's voice cut through the noise. "I asked Marcus." She turned back to the boy. "Where were you this morning?"
"In the tobacco field, Mistress. Working the rows. You can ask anyone—Samuel, Breechy, they saw me."
Amara looked at the crowd. "Samuel? Are you here?"
Samuel pushed forward—older now than the eager boy she'd first met, his face more guarded. "Yes, Mistress."
"Was Marcus in the field this morning?"
"Yes, Mistress. All morning. I was working next to him."
"And did you see him anywhere near the storage shed?"
"No, Mistress. He was with me the whole time."
Amara turned back to Josiah.
"It seems we have conflicting accounts."
Josiah's face reddened. "The boy's lying. They're all lying. They cover for each other—"
"Or perhaps you were mistaken." Amara's voice was ice. "It was early. The light was poor. You thought you saw something, but you were wrong."
"I wasn't wrong!"
"Then prove it." Amara gestured at the sack in his hands. "That grain—where did it come from? Which storage shed? How much is missing from the inventory?"
Josiah hesitated.
"You don't know, do you? Because you didn't actually see a theft. You saw an opportunity." Amara stepped closer, lowering her voice so only he could hear. "I know what you're doing, Josiah. I know who sent you. And if you ever try something like this again, I'll make sure everyone knows exactly what kind of man you are."
She stepped back and raised her voice for the crowd.
"There will be no punishment today. Without evidence, there can be no conviction. That's how civilized people operate." She swept her gaze across the assembled faces—white and Black, hostile and hopeful. "Return to your duties. All of you."
The crowd dispersed slowly. Josiah stood frozen, his face a mask of barely controlled fury.
"This isn't over," he said quietly.
"No," Amara agreed. "It isn't."
That evening, Grimes came to see her.
He didn't knock—just pushed open the study door and stood there, his face thunderous.
"You humiliated my man."
"Your man tried to frame a child for theft."
"You don't know that."
"I know exactly what happened, Mr. Grimes." Amara stood, meeting his eyes. "I know about the meetings at your cottage. I know about the plan to manufacture an incident. I know about your friend from Williamsburg."
Grimes's face went pale.
"How—"
"It doesn't matter how. What matters is this: I'm not the naive woman you thought I was. I'm not going to fall for your traps or bow to your threats." Amara stepped closer. "You've underestimated me from the beginning. That ends now."
"You don't know what you're dealing with."
"Don't I? I'm dealing with a man who steals from his employer, brutalizes his workers, and conspires with outside parties to remove a lawful widow from her estate." Amara smiled—cold, sharp. "I have documentation of the financial discrepancies. I have witnesses to your behavior. And now I have knowledge of your conspiracy."
"None of that would hold up in court."
"Maybe not. But it would hold up in the court of public opinion. It would make people ask questions. It would make John's legal challenge look like exactly what it is—a power grab backed by a corrupt overseer."
Silence.
"What do you want?" Grimes's voice was low.
"I want you gone. Off this estate. By the end of the month."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I start sharing what I know. With the neighbors. With the courts. With anyone who'll listen." Amara paused. "You've spent years building a reputation as a competent manager. How much of that reputation survives when people learn what you've really been doing?"
Grimes stared at her.
For a long moment, she thought he might attack her—might cross the room and put his hands around her throat. She could see him calculating, weighing, deciding.
Then something shifted in his expression. Not defeat, exactly. But... recognition.
"You're not what I expected," he said quietly.
"So I've been told."
"This isn't over."
"Maybe not. But your part in it is." Amara pointed at the door. "You have two weeks to settle your affairs. If you're still here after that, I'll consider it trespassing."
Grimes left without another word.
Amara stood alone in the study, her heart pounding.
I did it. I actually did it.
Now I just have to survive the aftermath.
The news spread through the estate within hours.
Grimes was leaving. The man who'd terrorized them for years, who'd wielded the whip and the threat of sale like weapons—he was leaving.
Amara received the reactions with cautious awareness. Not everyone was happy. Some of the workers—the ones who'd allied with Grimes, who'd traded information for small privileges—looked at her with something like fear.
But others... others looked at her differently.
Ruth came to her that evening, Bess on her hip.
"Is it true, Mistress? He's really going?"
"He's really going."
Ruth didn't say anything. But her eyes filled with tears, and she reached out and touched Amara's hand—just briefly, just a brush of fingers against fingers.
It was the most human contact Amara had felt since arriving in this world.
"Thank you," Ruth whispered. "Thank you."
She left before Amara could respond.
That night, alone in her room, Amara finally let herself feel it.
The exhaustion. The relief. The strange, hollow victory of winning a battle that shouldn't have needed to be fought.
She pulled out her journal and wrote:
Grimes is leaving. I won.
Except I didn't win. Not really. I just survived another round. Another enemy down, but more will come. John is still out there. The legal challenge is still pending. The system is still intact.
But for tonight—for this one night—I'm going to let myself feel like it means something.
Tomorrow I'll go back to fighting.
Tonight, I rest.
She closed the journal, blew out the candle, and slept.
For the first time in weeks, she didn't dream of fire.
[End of Chapter 29]