The morning after her confrontation with Grimes, Amara woke to silence.
Not the normal silence of a sleeping house. A different kind. The kind that meant people had been talking and stopped the moment they heard her coming.
She noticed it first in the kitchen. Old Jenny was stirring a pot over the fire, her back turned. Two younger women—laundry workers whose names Amara was still learning—stood near the door. When Amara entered, they went quiet. Not the respectful quiet of servants waiting for instructions. The wary quiet of people who'd been discussing something they didn't want her to hear.
"Good morning," Amara said.
"Morning, Mistress." Jenny didn't turn around. Her voice was flat.
The younger women murmured something and slipped out the back door.
So it's started.
Amara poured herself tea from the pot on the table. The liquid was lukewarm—it had been sitting a while.
"Jenny."
"Mistress?"
"Is there something you want to tell me?"
A long pause. Jenny's shoulders tightened, but she kept stirring.
"Just talk, Mistress. You know how it is. People talk."
"What are they saying?"
Finally, Jenny turned. Her face was carefully neutral, but her eyes held something that might have been warning.
"They're saying you've changed. That you're not yourself since the fever. Some say you've gone soft in the head. Others say—" She stopped.
"Say what?"
"That you're playing a dangerous game. That whatever you're doing with Grimes, with Ruth and the girl, it's going to blow back on all of us. Not you." Jenny's voice dropped. "Us."
The words landed like a slap.
Of course. Of course that's what they're thinking. I'm the one picking fights, and they're the ones who'll pay if I lose.
"I'm trying to help."
"I know you think that, Mistress." Jenny's tone wasn't hostile, exactly. Just tired. "But you've been here a few weeks. We've been here our whole lives. We know how this works. You push too hard, the master pushes back. Or the master dies, and someone worse takes over. Or the neighbors get nervous about 'uppity slaves' and suddenly there's a patrol riding through every night, asking questions."
She's not wrong. None of what she's saying is wrong.
"What would you have me do? Let Grimes sell a two-year-old?"
"I'd have you be careful." Jenny wiped her hands on her apron. "Ruth's grateful. We all see that. But gratitude doesn't protect anyone when the law comes calling. You want to help? Stay alive. Stay in charge. Don't give them a reason to take you down."
She turned back to her pot, dismissing Amara without another word.
The rumors spread faster than Amara expected.
By midday, she'd caught three separate conversations that stopped when she approached. Sally was suddenly too busy to talk. Breechy was polite but distant. Even Oney seemed guarded, her eyes sliding away whenever Amara tried to make contact.
Grimes has been busy.
She found out how busy when Mrs. Pemberton came to call.
Eleanor Pemberton was a neighbor—wife of Thomas Pemberton, who owned the plantation three miles south. She arrived in a carriage that probably cost more than most people earned in a lifetime, dressed in silk that would have fed a family for a year.
Amara met her in the parlor, playing the role of gracious hostess. Tea. Cakes. Small talk about the weather, the roads, the shocking price of imported fabric.
Then Mrs. Pemberton leaned forward, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur.
"My dear Mrs. Custis. I hope you won't think me forward, but—I've heard some troubling things. About your household."
Here it comes.
"Troubling things?"
"About your... management. Of the servants." Mrs. Pemberton's eyes were bright with poorly disguised curiosity. "They say you've been making changes. Unusual changes. More food, less discipline. Some are calling it—" She paused delicately. "—an experiment."
"I've made some adjustments, yes. To improve efficiency."
"Efficiency." Mrs. Pemberton smiled, showing too many teeth. "That's one word for it. Others are using different words. 'Reckless.' 'Naive.' 'Dangerous.'"
Amara kept her expression pleasant. "And what word would you use, Mrs. Pemberton?"
"I would use 'concerning.'" The older woman set down her teacup. "You're young, Mrs. Custis. And I understand your husband is unwell. It's natural to feel... overwhelmed. To make decisions one might later regret."
She's warning me. Or threatening me. Maybe both.
"I appreciate your concern."
"I'm sure you do." Mrs. Pemberton stood, smoothing her skirts. "Just remember—this isn't Philadelphia or Boston, where they have strange ideas about the natural order of things. This is Virginia. We have traditions here. Ways of doing things that have worked for generations. A woman who forgets that..." She let the sentence hang. "Well. I'm sure you understand."
She left without finishing her tea.
Amara sat alone in the parlor, staring at the untouched cakes.
The neighbors are talking. Grimes is feeding them information—or they're feeding each other. Either way, I'm being watched. Judged. And if I step too far out of line...
She thought about what Jenny had said. About the patrols. The questions. The consequences that fell on Black bodies when white people got nervous.
I'm not just risking myself. I'm risking everyone.
The thought made her want to scream.
She found Ruth in the laundry house that afternoon.
The building was hot and damp, filled with the smell of lye soap and wet cloth. Ruth was bent over a washboard, scrubbing linens with mechanical intensity. Bess sat in a corner, playing with a rag doll that looked handmade.
"Ruth."
The woman looked up. Her face was still thin, still tired, but something had changed. A light in her eyes that hadn't been there before.
"Mistress." She started to rise.
"No, don't get up. I just wanted to check on you. Both of you."
Ruth glanced at Bess, then back at Amara. "We're fine, Mistress. Better than fine. I don't—" Her voice caught. "I don't know how to thank you."
"You don't have to thank me."
"But I do." Ruth's hands were still wet, still gripping the washboard. "You don't know what it means. To not wake up every morning wondering if today's the day they take her. To know she's safe. Or—" She corrected herself. "—safer."
Safer. Not safe. Because nowhere is safe for them. Not really.
"Ruth, I need to ask you something."
"Anything, Mistress."
"The others. The people in the quarters. What are they saying about me?"
Ruth's expression flickered—surprise, then caution. "I don't want to speak out of turn."
"I need to know. Please."
A long pause. Ruth's hands stilled on the washboard.
"They're divided," she said finally. "Some think you're a gift from God. A sign that things might get better. Others think—" She hesitated.
"Think what?"
"That you're making trouble for everyone. That Grimes will find a way to punish us for what you're doing. That when the Master dies—" She stopped, realizing what she'd said.
"It's all right. I know he's dying."
Ruth nodded slowly. "When he dies, they think whoever comes next will blame us. For your changes. For any losses. They'll say we got above ourselves, and they'll beat us back down."
They're not wrong to be afraid. Every reform I try to make puts a target on their backs, not mine.
"And what do you think?"
Ruth looked at her. Really looked, with an intensity that made Amara want to flinch.
"I think you're different," Ruth said quietly. "I don't know why or how, but I think you actually care what happens to us. And that scares me more than Grimes ever did."
"Why?"
"Because Grimes, I understand. He's cruel, but he's predictable. I know what he wants, what he'll do. You?" Ruth shook her head. "I don't understand you at all. And when I don't understand something, I can't protect myself from it."
The honesty hit Amara like cold water.
She's right. They have no reason to trust me. I'm a white woman who showed up one day and started acting strange. For all they know, I could change back tomorrow. Or I could be playing some game they can't see.
"I can't promise you anything," Amara said. "I want to—God, I want to promise you everything will be okay. But I can't. I don't know what's going to happen. I don't know if I can protect you. All I can do is try."
Ruth studied her face for a long moment.
"Then try," she said. "That's more than anyone else has ever done."
Daniel was worse that evening.
Amara sat by his bedside, watching him struggle to breathe. The fever had spiked again despite her interventions—or maybe because of them. She had no way to know if the willow bark was helping or if she was just prolonging the inevitable.
His eyes fluttered open. For a moment, they were clear—clearer than they'd been in days.
"Martha."
"I'm here."
"The children." His voice was a thread. "Are they well?"
"They're fine. Jacky is doing his lessons. Patsy drew you a picture."
A ghost of a smile crossed his cracked lips. "Good. That's good."
He was quiet for a moment, gathering strength.
"I heard..." He coughed—wet, rattling. "I heard there was trouble. With Grimes."
Amara's stomach tightened. "Who told you that?"
"Doesn't matter." Another cough. "Is it true? Did you stop a sale?"
So Sally did tell him. Or someone did. Despite everything, word got through.
"Yes."
Daniel closed his eyes. She couldn't read his expression—pain? Disappointment? Acceptance?
"The girl," he said finally. "Ruth's daughter."
"Bess. She's two years old."
"I know." A long pause. "Grimes wanted to sell her last year. I told him no. Too young—no profit in it." His eyes opened again, finding hers. "He waited until I was sick. Until he thought no one was watching."
Daniel stopped the sale before. Not out of compassion—out of economics. But he stopped it.
"You're not angry?"
"Angry?" Daniel almost laughed, but it turned into another cough. "I'm dying, Martha. What do I care about one child more or less?" He reached for her hand—his grip weak, his skin papery. "But be careful. Grimes has friends. And you're making enemies."
"I know."
"Do you?" His eyes searched her face. "You've changed, Martha. Since the fever. You're... different. Harder. More certain." He paused. "I'm not sure I like it. But I'm not sure I dislike it either."
Amara didn't know what to say.
"Just promise me," Daniel continued. "Whatever you're doing, whatever you're planning—keep the children safe. Keep the estate intact. Everything else..." He waved a weak hand. "Everything else is just details."
Details. Eighty-four human lives are just details.
But she couldn't say that. Not to a dying man. Not to the husband she needed to outlast.
"I promise."
Daniel's eyes closed again. His breathing slowed, evening out into the rhythm of exhausted sleep.
Amara sat beside him in the dimming light, still holding his hand.
He's not a monster. He's just... ordinary. A man who stopped a sale because the numbers didn't add up, not because a child deserved to stay with her mother. A man who sees people as assets and calls it practical.
And I'm going to inherit everything he built. The house, the land, the money. The eighty-four human beings he considers "details."
What does that make me?
She didn't have an answer.
That night, she found the second message.
It was tucked under her pillow—she discovered it when she turned down the bedcovers. A folded piece of paper, cheap and rough, the kind used for everyday notes.
She unfolded it with trembling fingers.
THE MASTER DIES. YOU DIE NEXT. KEEP YOUR REFORMS AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS TO YOUR LITTLE PETS.
No signature. No indication of who had left it.
But someone had been in her room. Someone had gotten past the locked door, past Sally and Oney and everyone else. Someone had put this under her pillow, where she laid her head every night.
They could have done anything. Smothered me in my sleep. Put poison in my water. And instead they left a note.
This is a game to them. A slow, patient game of fear.
Amara read the note again. Then she walked to the fireplace and burned it, watching the paper curl and blacken in the flames.
Grimes. It has to be Grimes. Or someone working for him. Someone in this house.
She thought about Sally's guarded looks. The whispered conversations that stopped when she approached. The feeling of being watched that never went away.
I can't trust anyone. Not fully. Not ever.
But she couldn't stop, either. Couldn't go back to pretending slavery was acceptable, couldn't stop trying to protect the people she'd promised to help.
So this is what it's like. This is what it feels like to resist a system from inside it. Constant fear. Constant doubt. Never knowing who's friend or enemy.
She thought about Harriet Tubman again. About Frederick Douglass. About all the people who'd fought this system for real, with their own bodies on the line.
They did it for years. For lifetimes. Some of them died for it.
And I'm scared of a note.
She straightened her spine. Lifted her chin.
Fine. They want to play? We'll play.
But they're going to find out I don't scare easy.
[End of Chapter 14]