John Custis returned in December.
Amara was in the parlor when Sally announced him—older now, grayer, but with the same sharp eyes and calculating manner.
"Mrs. Custis." He didn't bow. "You're looking well."
"Mr. Custis. This is unexpected."
"Is it?" He settled into a chair without being invited. "I would have thought you'd expect me. Given the circumstances."
"What circumstances?"
John smiled—a cold, knowing expression.
"I've been reading the Gazette. Fascinating essays lately. Anonymous, of course, but with a certain... distinctive perspective." He tilted his head. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about them, would you?"
Amara kept her face neutral.
"I read the newspapers like everyone else. I have no idea who writes the various pieces."
"No? That's interesting. Because some people—important people—have been asking questions. About who might have the education and inclination to write such radical material." John leaned forward. "And your name has come up."
He's fishing. He doesn't know for certain. He's trying to get me to confirm.
"I'm flattered that anyone would think me capable of such writing. But I assure you, I have no time for political essays. Managing an estate and raising children keeps me quite occupied."
"Of course it does." John's smile didn't waver. "Still, it might be wise to be more careful. About what you say. What you write. What you... associate yourself with."
"Is that a threat?"
"A friendly warning. From family." He stood. "I've decided not to pursue further legal action regarding the estate. You've proven yourself competent enough—and Colonel Washington's support has made challenges... inconvenient."
He's backing off. Why?
"I'm grateful for your understanding."
"Don't be grateful. Be careful." John paused at the door. "There are people watching you, Mrs. Custis. People who don't appreciate radical ideas—especially from women. If you value your position, you'll remember that."
He left without saying goodbye.
Amara sat alone in the parlor, her heart pounding.
He knows. Or he suspects. Either way, I need to be more careful.
The essays were a risk. A necessary risk, but still a risk.
I can't stop writing. The ideas need to spread. But I need to cover my tracks better.
She burned the drafts that night.
Every scrap of paper, every note, every piece of evidence that might connect her to the anonymous essays. She watched them curl and blacken in the fireplace, feeling something like grief.
This is what it costs. Secrecy. Paranoia. The constant fear of discovery.
Is it worth it?
She didn't have an answer. She only knew she couldn't stop.
Christmas came and went.
The children were excited—Jacky and Patsy, now eight and six, still young enough to believe in magic. Amara arranged presents and decorations, trying to create some semblance of normal family life.
But her mind was elsewhere.
1768 is coming. Then 1769. The non-importation movement will grow. The tensions will increase. Boston will have its massacre in 1770—five colonists killed by British soldiers. The Tea Party in 1773. Lexington and Concord in 1775.
Eight years until the Revolution. Eight years to prepare.
And I still don't know if I'm making any difference at all.
Washington came in January.
He looked tired—the House of Burgesses had been contentious, and the non-importation agreements were causing economic strain. But there was something else in his face. Something Amara had been dreading.
"I need to tell you something," he said, once they were alone in the study.
"What is it?"
"Martha—my Martha—she's asked me to stop visiting you."
Amara's stomach dropped. "I see."
"She says people are talking. About how often I come here. About how long we spend in private conversation." Washington's jaw tightened. "She doesn't suspect anything improper. But she's concerned about appearances."
Of course she is. In this world, appearances are everything.
"And what did you tell her?"
"I told her I would consider her concerns." He met her eyes. "But I also told her that you're one of the few people I can speak honestly with. That our conversations have been... valuable. That I'm not willing to give them up entirely."
He stood up for me. Against his own wife.
That's either very good or very bad.
"What did she say?"
"She said she understood. But she asked me to be more... discreet." Washington smiled slightly. "She suggested that if I must visit, I should bring her along. Chaperone, I suppose."
"That seems reasonable."
"It does." He paused. "But it also means our conversations will be more... limited. There are things I can't discuss in front of Martha. Politics. Philosophy. The future."
The things that matter most.
"I understand."
"Do you?" He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "Because I don't want you to think I'm abandoning our... friendship. I value it too much for that."
"I know, Colonel. And I value it too."
They stood in silence for a moment—close but not touching, the air between them charged with things that couldn't be said.
"We should probably rejoin the others," Amara said finally.
"Yes. We probably should."
Neither of them moved.
"Martha—" Washington began.
"Is a good woman," Amara finished. "And you're a good husband. Whatever else we are to each other, we can't forget that."
He looked at her for a long moment.
"No," he said quietly. "We can't."
He stepped back. The moment passed.
But Amara knew—they both knew—that something had changed. A line had been drawn, but the feelings on either side of it hadn't disappeared.
This is going to get complicated, she thought.
As if it wasn't complicated enough already.
That night, she wrote in her journal.
Washington's wife has noticed. The visits will be less frequent now. Less private.
It's probably for the best. I've been getting too close. Feeling things I shouldn't feel. Wanting things I can't have.
He's not mine. He was never going to be mine. I'm here to change history, not to live it.
She paused, her pen hovering over the page.
But God help me, it's hard. It's so hard to remember what I'm supposed to be doing when he looks at me like that.
When he makes me feel like a person instead of a ghost wearing someone else's face.
She closed the journal without finishing.
Some things were too dangerous to write down. Even in private.
Spring 1768
The months that followed were a slow burn.
Washington visited less frequently, and when he came, Martha was usually with him. The conversations were polite but shallow—farming, children, the weather. The deep discussions about politics and philosophy moved to letters, carefully worded to avoid anything that might be misinterpreted.
But the work continued.
Amara kept writing essays, though she changed her style to avoid detection. She kept supporting the network, though she added new layers of intermediaries. She kept managing the estate, though she pushed the boundaries of what was acceptable a little further each year.
And the world kept changing around her.
In March, the Massachusetts House of Representatives sent a circular letter to the other colonies, calling for united resistance to the Townshend Acts. In April, British troops were dispatched to Boston to maintain order. In May, the Virginia House of Burgesses passed resolutions condemning parliamentary taxation.
The pieces are moving, Amara thought. The game is progressing.
And I'm still here. Still watching. Still trying to nudge things in the right direction.
But am I making any difference at all?
She didn't know. She might never know.
All she could do was keep trying.
In June, Elias came to her with news.
"There's a man," he said. "A preacher. Traveling through Virginia. Talking to the slaves on different plantations."
"What kind of preacher?"
"The kind who talks about Moses leading his people out of Egypt." Elias's eyes were hard. "The kind who reminds people that God doesn't approve of bondage."
A traveling abolitionist. In 1768 Virginia.
"That's dangerous."
"Yes. It is." Elias paused. "He wants to come here. To speak to our people."
"If he's caught—"
"He won't be caught. He's careful. And he has... protection."
The network. James's network.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Look the other way. That's all. Let him come. Let him speak. And when he's gone, pretend you never knew he was here."
Amara thought about the risks. The exposure. The questions that might be asked if anyone found out.
Then she thought about Ruth and Bess and baby Daniel. About the people in the cabins who'd never had anyone tell them that their suffering was wrong. That God saw them. That they mattered.
"When is he coming?"
"Saturday night. After dark."
"I'll make sure no one's watching."
Elias nodded. Something passed across his face—not gratitude, exactly. Something more complicated.
"You know," he said quietly, "when you first came here, I thought you were just another white woman playing games. Pretending to care because it made you feel better about yourself."
"And now?"
"Now I don't know what you are." He met her eyes. "But whatever you are, I'm glad you're here."
He left before she could respond.
Amara stood alone in the study, feeling something warm spread through her chest.
I'm glad you're here.
It wasn't much. It wasn't forgiveness or trust or acceptance.
But it was something.
And sometimes, something was enough.
[End of Chapter 35]