Three days into Daniel's illness, Amara finally found time to write.
The house had fallen into a strange rhythm—sickroom rotations, hushed voices, the constant boiling of water for compresses and teas. Dr. Mercer visited twice daily, each time prescribing more bleeding, more calomel, more "treatments" that Amara quietly sabotaged the moment he left. She'd become skilled at dilution, at substitution, at the small deceits that might be keeping her husband alive.
Husband. The word still felt foreign in her mouth.
It was past midnight when she finally retreated to her bedroom, a single candle burning on the writing desk. The house was silent except for the occasional creak of settling wood and the distant rhythm of Daniel's labored breathing, audible even through the walls.
She pulled out her journal—the private one, not the household commonplace book that anyone might read. She'd started hiding it in the false bottom of her jewelry box, wrapped in a silk handkerchief that would show fingerprints if disturbed.
Paranoid, she thought. But paranoia keeps you alive.
She dipped her quill in ink and began to write.
May 28, 1757
I need to record this. All of it. Not for anyone else to read—God forbid anyone ever finds these pages—but for myself. To remember who I am. To keep from losing myself in this role I'm playing.
My name is Amara Johnson. I was born in 1990 in Baltimore, Maryland, to Marcus and Denise Johnson. I have a younger sister named Keisha and a nephew named Jaylen who just turned six. I got my PhD in American History from Yale in 2018. I was—am?—an associate professor at Howard University, specializing in the history of slavery and the early American republic.
Three weeks ago, I was standing in front of a lecture hall full of undergraduates, talking about George Washington's enslaved workers. And then I woke up here.
Here. 1757. Virginia. In the body of Martha Dandridge Custis, twenty-six years old, recently widowed—no, not yet widowed, but soon—mother of two, owner of eighty-four human beings.
I don't know how this happened. I don't know if I'm dead, dreaming, insane, or genuinely displaced in time. I don't know if the real Martha is gone forever or sleeping somewhere inside this body, waiting to reclaim it. I don't know if I'll ever go home.
What I know is this: I am a Black woman from the future, trapped in the body of a white slave owner in the past. And every day I live this lie, every day I answer to "Mistress" and sign documents and make decisions about human lives, I feel pieces of myself crumbling away.
But I can't stop. I can't give up. Because if I do—if I let this body and this role consume me—then nothing changes. The eighty-four people on this plantation stay enslaved. Oney Judge stays enslaved. Elias stays branded and brutalized. Children get sold away from their mothers. And history rolls on exactly as it always did, with all its horrors intact.
I can't fix everything. I know that now. The system is too big, too entrenched, too defended by law and custom and the entire weight of colonial society. I can't free everyone. I can't end slavery. I can't even admit what I know without being locked up as a madwoman.
But maybe—maybe—I can make small changes. Plant small seeds. Protect a few people who would otherwise be destroyed. And if I'm really stuck here, if this is my life now, then maybe I can influence what comes next. The Revolution. The Constitution. The compromises that will shape America for centuries.
Maybe I can be a voice in George Washington's ear when he's deciding whether to free his slaves. Maybe I can nudge the founders toward slightly better choices. Maybe I can leave behind a country that's slightly less broken than the one I remember.
It's not enough. It will never be enough. But it's something.
And something is better than nothing.
Amara set down her quill and flexed her cramped fingers. The candle had burned down another inch while she wrote, and her eyes ached from the strain of writing by such dim light.
I should sleep. Daniel will need me in the morning.
But sleep felt impossible. Her mind kept circling back to the same questions, the same fears, the same impossible calculations.
How do I save a man I don't love so I can inherit his estate and use it to help the people he considered property? How do I play the role of devoted wife while secretly undermining everything this society believes in? How do I pretend to be Martha Custis when every moment in this skin makes me want to scream?
She was still sitting at the desk, staring at her journal, when she heard the knock.
Soft. Hesitant. Almost inaudible.
Amara's heart rate spiked. She closed the journal and slid it into the drawer, covering it with loose papers.
"Who's there?"
"Mistress?" A woman's voice, muffled by the door. "Please, Mistress. I need to speak with you."
Amara didn't recognize the voice. Not Sally, not Oney, not Old Jenny. Someone else.
She crossed to the door and opened it a crack.
A Black woman stood in the hallway, maybe thirty years old, with a thin face and eyes red from crying. She was dressed in the rough homespun of a field worker, her hands calloused and her shoulders stooped from years of labor.
"Please," the woman whispered. "I'm sorry to disturb you so late. But I didn't know where else to go."
Amara glanced down the hallway. Empty. Dark.
"Come in. Quickly."
The woman slipped through the door. Amara closed it behind her and turned the key in the lock.
"What's your name?"
"Ruth, Mistress." The woman's voice was shaking. "Ruth from the quarters. I work in the tobacco fields."
Ruth. Amara searched her memory. She'd seen the name in the ledger—Ruth, age 29, field. Value: £40. Note: strong worker, has one child.
"You have a daughter," Amara said. "Bess."
Ruth's face crumpled. "Yes, Mistress. That's why I'm here. Mr. Grimes—he says—" She couldn't finish. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Amara felt her stomach tighten. "What did Grimes say?"
"He says he's going to sell her." Ruth's voice broke on the word. "My baby. She's only two years old. He says she's a—a 'surplus mouth to feed.' Says the plantation can't afford to keep children who aren't old enough to work. He's already written to a trader in Richmond."
The words hit Amara like a physical blow.
He's selling a two-year-old child. Tearing her away from her mother. And he's doing it because he can—because the law says these people are property, and property can be disposed of however the owner sees fit.
"When?" Amara's voice came out harder than she intended. "When is this supposed to happen?"
"He said the trader's coming Friday. Four days from now." Ruth fell to her knees, grasping at Amara's nightgown. "Please, Mistress. I know I'm nothing. I know I have no right to ask. But she's my baby. She's all I have. Please don't let him take her."
Amara stood frozen, looking down at this woman—this mother—who was begging for her child's life.
In my time, this would be kidnapping. Human trafficking. Crimes that would put someone in prison for decades. Here, it's just business.
"Get up," Amara said. Her voice was gentle, but firm. "Stand up, Ruth. Look at me."
Ruth rose slowly, wiping her face with the back of her hand.
"I'm going to ask you some questions, and I need you to answer honestly. Can you do that?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"Did Grimes tell you why he's doing this now? Why Bess specifically?"
Ruth hesitated. "He said—he said it's because of you, Mistress. Because of the new rules. He said the increased rations and rest days are costing money, and someone has to pay for it. He said—" She swallowed. "He said if you want to play at being kind, you should know the price."
That bastard.
The rage that surged through Amara was cold and clarifying. This wasn't just cruelty for cruelty's sake. This was a message. A punishment. Grimes was selling Ruth's daughter to make a point—to show Amara that her "reforms" had consequences, that every improvement she tried to make would be paid for in someone else's suffering.
He's trying to break me. To make me choose between my principles and these people's lives. To prove that kindness is a weakness that gets people hurt.
"Does Master Custis know about this sale?"
"I don't think so, Mistress. Mr. Grimes handles all the—" Ruth's voice caught. "He handles all the sales. The Master just signs the papers."
Daniel is too sick to sign anything right now. Which means Grimes is acting on his own authority—or planning to forge the signature.
Amara's mind raced through the possibilities.
Option one: I confront Grimes directly. Tell him the sale is canceled. Risk a power struggle that I might lose, especially with Daniel incapacitated.
Option two: I go over Grimes's head. Appeal to Daniel—but Daniel is barely conscious, and even if he were well, he might side with his overseer.
Option three: I buy Bess myself. Transfer her into my personal property, separate from the plantation's assets. Grimes can't sell what I own.
The third option was risky. It would cost money—money that technically belonged to Daniel. It would set a precedent that could be exploited. And it would make her conflict with Grimes even more explicit.
But it was the only option that guaranteed Bess wouldn't be sold on Friday.
"Ruth," Amara said. "I need you to listen to me very carefully. I'm going to stop this sale. I don't know exactly how yet, but I promise you—Bess is not leaving this plantation. Do you understand?"
Ruth stared at her. The hope in her eyes was almost painful to see.
"You would do that? For us?"
"I would do that because it's right." Amara took Ruth's hands in hers. "But I need you to be careful. Don't tell anyone we talked tonight. Don't let Grimes know you came to me. If he asks, pretend you've accepted what's happening. Can you do that?"
"Yes, Mistress." Ruth's voice was steadier now. "I can do anything if it means keeping my baby."
"Good. Now go back to the quarters. Try to sleep. I'll handle this."
Ruth hesitated at the door. "Mistress?"
"Yes?"
"Why are you helping us? The others—they say you've changed since your fever. That you're different now. Some of them think you've gone mad. But I think—" She stopped herself.
"What do you think?"
Ruth looked at her for a long moment. "I think maybe you finally see us. Really see us. And I don't know why or how, but—" She blinked back fresh tears. "Thank you. Whatever happens. Thank you for trying."
She slipped out into the darkness before Amara could respond.
Amara didn't sleep that night.
She sat at her desk, poring over the household accounts by candlelight, searching for the leverage she needed. The numbers swam before her eyes—debts, credits, inventories, projections—but slowly, a picture began to emerge.
Grimes was skimming.
It was subtle. A few pounds here, a few shillings there. Supplies ordered but never delivered. Labor costs inflated. A pattern of small discrepancies that, added together, amounted to a significant sum.
He's been stealing from the estate for years. And no one noticed because no one was looking.
It wasn't enough to get him fired—not by 18th-century standards, where a little graft was considered normal. But it was enough to undermine his credibility. Enough to make Daniel—or Daniel's executors, if it came to that—question his judgment.
Leverage. Not a weapon, but a shield.
She made careful notes, cross-referencing entries, building her case. By the time the first gray light of dawn crept through the windows, she had a file of evidence that wouldn't prove anything in court but would plant serious doubts in anyone who read it.
Then she washed her face, changed into a day dress, and went to find Grimes.
He was in the overseer's office—a small building near the stables, separate from the main house. She could see the light of his lamp through the window as she approached.
She didn't knock.
Grimes looked up from his desk, startled. His expression cycled rapidly through surprise, annoyance, and finally a careful neutrality.
"Mistress Custis. You're up early."
"I couldn't sleep." Amara closed the door behind her. "I've been doing some reading. Going through the accounts."
Something flickered in his eyes. Wariness.
"The accounts are in order, I assure you—"
"I'm sure they are." Amara sat in the chair across from his desk, uninvited. "But I found some interesting discrepancies. Small things, mostly. The kind of details that only stand out when you look at the full picture."
Grimes said nothing. His jaw tightened.
"I also heard an interesting rumor." Amara kept her voice conversational. "Something about a sale. A child named Bess. Apparently she's being sold to a trader in Richmond this Friday."
"The plantation's finances require—"
"The plantation's finances are my concern, Mr. Grimes. Not yours." Amara leaned forward. "And I'm telling you now: that sale is canceled."
Grimes's face reddened. "You can't—"
"I can. And I am." She held up a hand before he could interrupt. "I'm also transferring Bess and her mother Ruth to my personal property. They'll be listed as household servants, under my direct supervision. Whatever arrangements you've made with the trader, unmake them."
The silence that followed was thick enough to cut.
"This is highly irregular," Grimes said finally. His voice was strained, controlled. "Master Custis—"
"Master Custis is dying." The words came out flat, brutal. "We both know it. The doctor knows it. In a few weeks—maybe sooner—I will be in control of this estate. And when that happens, Mr. Grimes, I will remember who helped me and who stood in my way."
She let the implication hang in the air.
Grimes stared at her. She could see the calculations running behind his eyes—the weighing of risks and rewards, the assessment of whether she was bluffing.
"You're making a mistake," he said quietly. "The other planters won't understand. They'll say you're soft. Weak. They'll say—"
"Let them say what they like." Amara stood. "I'd rather be called weak than be the kind of person who sells children away from their mothers. Now. Do we have an understanding?"
Another long silence.
Then Grimes nodded. Once. A short, jerky motion.
"The sale is canceled. Mistress."
"Good." Amara moved toward the door. "Oh, and Mr. Grimes? Those discrepancies I mentioned. I'm sure they're just clerical errors. Innocent mistakes. But I'd recommend being more careful with the bookkeeping from now on. For everyone's sake."
She didn't wait for his response.
The walk back to the main house felt longer than it should have. Amara's legs were shaking—delayed reaction to the adrenaline, probably—and her hands wouldn't stop trembling.
I just threatened my overseer with exposure. I just pulled rank on a man who could destroy me with a few well-placed rumors. I just gambled everything on the assumption that I'll outlast Daniel and inherit control.
If I'm wrong—if Daniel recovers, or if the family challenges the will, or if Grimes decides to call my bluff—
She couldn't think about that now.
The sun was fully up by the time she reached the house. Sally met her at the door, her face carefully neutral.
"Mistress. Dr. Mercer has arrived. He's with the Master now."
"Thank you." Amara smoothed her skirts, composed her expression. "I'll join them shortly."
She climbed the stairs to her bedroom, locked the door, and stood with her back against the wood, breathing.
Ruth. Bess. Safe. For now.
Grimes. Angry. Dangerous. But contained.
Daniel. Dying. Maybe weeks left. Maybe days.
And me. Alone. Surrounded by enemies. Playing a role I never asked for, in a nightmare I can't escape.
She walked to the mirror and looked at her reflection—Martha's reflection. Blue eyes. Brown hair. White skin.
I don't know how long I can do this, she thought. I don't know if I'm strong enough.
But she thought of Ruth's face. The hope in her eyes. The gratitude that was almost like worship.
They're counting on me. All of them. Even the ones who don't know it yet.
She straightened her shoulders. Fixed her hair. Prepared to face another day.
One step at a time. One battle at a time. One life at a time.
That's how you change the world.
[End of Chapter 13]