Oney's fingers moved through Martha's hair with the mechanical precision of someone who'd done this a thousand times before.
Amara sat rigid in the dressing chair, staring at her reflection. Every tug of the comb sent a jolt through her scalp—not painful exactly, but alien. Wrong. Like her body was rejecting the touch because it knew, on some cellular level, that it didn't belong to her.
"You're very tense today, Mistress."
Oney's voice was carefully neutral. A statement, not a question. The kind of observation a slave learned to make without seeming to judge.
"I had strange dreams," Amara said. It was becoming her default excuse. "I feel like I've woken up in someone else's life."
Because I have.
Oney said nothing. Her hands continued their work, sectioning hair, pinning it up. Amara watched her in the mirror—this girl who would one day outsmart George Washington himself.
"Oney." The name still felt heavy on her tongue. "How long have you been in this household?"
A pause. Almost imperceptible, but there.
"I was born here, Mistress. My mother is Betty. She tends the spinning."
Born into slavery. She's never known anything else.
"And how old are you now?"
"Fifteen, Mistress."
Fifteen. In Amara's time, fifteen-year-olds worried about homework and Instagram followers. This girl worried about being sold away from her mother, about avoiding the wrong kind of attention, about surviving another day in a system designed to break her.
"I see."
The hair was finished. Oney stepped back, hands folded in front of her, eyes lowered. The picture of perfect submission.
But you're not broken. You're watching. You're waiting. And in forty years, you'll run.
"The dress now, Mistress?"
Getting dressed in the 18th century was not a solo activity.
Amara had read about this—the layers, the stays, the petticoats—but experiencing it was something else entirely. Oney helped her into a shift first, then the stays, which were basically a corset made of whalebone that compressed her ribs until breathing became an act of conscious effort.
"Is it always this tight?" Amara gasped.
Oney's eyebrows lifted a fraction. "This is how you always wear them, Mistress."
Great. Martha was into suffering.
Petticoats came next—plural—then a quilted underskirt, then finally the gown itself: a dark green silk thing with elaborate embroidery that must have taken someone months to complete. Someone whose labor was never compensated.
By the time Oney finished lacing her into it, Amara was sweating and slightly dizzy.
"How do women live like this?"
She'd said it out loud. Oney's face remained blank, but something flickered in her eyes—amusement? Confusion?
"Like what, Mistress?"
"Nothing. I'm still recovering from the fever." Amara smoothed her hands over the silk. It was beautiful, she couldn't deny that. A small fortune wrapped around her body. "Thank you, Oney. You may go."
The girl curtsied and left without a word.
Alone, Amara turned back to the mirror. The woman staring back at her looked like a painting: elaborately dressed, carefully coiffed, utterly respectable. A colonial gentlewoman in her prime.
And underneath all this silk, I'm screaming.
She crossed to the writing desk and sat down. The newspaper was still there—The Virginia Gazette, May 12, 1757. She picked it up again, scanning the contents with new eyes.
News from London. Trade reports. An advertisement for a runaway slave—"Negro man named CAESAR, about 30 years of age, well made, speaks good English, has a SCAR on his left cheek"—offering a reward for his capture.
Amara set the paper down before she could crumple it in her fists.
Focus. Information. I need to understand my situation.
She found a calendar on the desk—a small printed booklet with dates and saints' days marked. May 1757. Daniel Parke Custis had died in July of this year, according to history. But if she was here now, in May, then Daniel was—
Alive?
Amara's heart lurched. She rifled through the papers on the desk, searching for any mention of Daniel, any indication of where he might be.
A letter. Dated May 8th.
My dearest Martha,
I write to inform you that my business in Williamsburg will detain me another fortnight at least. The matter of Father's estate continues to vex the courts, and the lawyers seem determined to extract every penny they can before reaching resolution...
The handwriting was masculine, slightly cramped. The signature at the bottom: Your devoted husband, Daniel.
Amara sat back.
Daniel Parke Custis was still alive. She was in Martha's body while Martha still had a husband—a husband who would die in approximately two months.
Did I cause this? Did my arrival somehow change—
No. That didn't make sense. According to history, Daniel died of a sudden illness in July 1757. She hadn't changed anything. She was just... earlier than she'd assumed.
So Martha's husband is going to come home, and I'm going to have to pretend to be his wife.
The thought made her physically recoil. She'd been so focused on the slavery aspect that she hadn't fully processed the other implications. Martha Custis was married. Martha Custis presumably shared a bed with her husband. Martha Custis was expected to be a wife in every sense of the word.
No. Absolutely not. There has to be a way to—
The door opened without a knock.
A Black man stepped into the room. He was older than Oney—maybe fifty, with gray at his temples and a slight stoop to his shoulders. He wore the plain clothes of a house servant but carried himself with a quiet authority that spoke of long experience.
"Mistress. The children are waiting for you in the dining room, and Cook wants to know if you've changed your mind about the dinner menu."
Amara stared at him. She had no idea who he was, what his name was, what position he held in the household hierarchy.
"I..." She trailed off. "Remind me of the menu."
The man's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind his eyes. Calculation. Assessment.
"Roast pork with apples, Mistress. As you requested yesterday. Cook wants to know if you still want the apple pie for dessert or if she should prepare the syllabub instead."
Yesterday. When the real Martha was still in charge.
"Apple pie is fine."
"Very good, Mistress." He didn't leave. His eyes remained on her face, studying her. "Are you feeling quite well? You seem... different this morning."
It was more direct than anything Oney or Sally had said. A risk. In a world where enslaved people could be punished for impertinence, even observation could be dangerous.
He's testing me. Trying to figure out what's changed.
"I'm fine, James." She took a guess at the name—it was common enough. "The fever has simply left me tired."
"My name is Breechy, Mistress."
Shit.
"Of course. Breechy. Forgive me." Amara pressed her fingertips to her temple, her go-to gesture for faking disorientation. "The fever has confused my memory. I may need reminding of things for the next few days."
Breechy said nothing for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly.
"I understand, Mistress. I'll inform the others that you're still recovering."
He withdrew, closing the door behind him.
Amara let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her hands were trembling again. She pressed them flat against the desk and willed herself to be calm.
They know something's wrong. They might not know what, but they know. And in a household where knowledge is power and survival depends on reading your owners correctly—
She was in danger. Not from the enslaved people themselves—she didn't think they'd harm her—but from the scrutiny. If they realized how little she knew, if they started talking to each other, if word got out that Mistress Custis was acting strangely...
I need allies. I need someone who knows this household, someone who can teach me what I need to know without asking too many questions.
But who? Everyone here had reason to distrust her. She was the mistress, the owner, the enemy. Why would anyone help her?
Unless I give them a reason to.
Amara stood. Her legs felt steadier now, and the corset—while still uncomfortable—was becoming tolerable. She smoothed her skirts and headed for the door.
Time to face the children.
The dining room was smaller than she'd expected—a modestly sized chamber with a single long table and chairs for perhaps a dozen people. Morning light streamed through windows that overlooked the rear garden, where she could see a Black man pruning rose bushes with methodical care.
Jacky and Patsy were already seated. Jacky looked sulky, poking at his porridge with a silver spoon. Patsy was making a mess of hers, more ending up on her face than in her mouth.
"Mama!" Patsy's face lit up when she saw Amara. "Sit next to me!"
Amara's heart clenched. This child who wasn't her child, who loved a mother that no longer existed, who had maybe seventeen years to live before a seizure took her.
"Of course, sweetheart."
She sat in the chair beside Patsy. Jacky didn't look up from his porridge.
"Are you better now, Mama?" Patsy asked. "Sally said you had the fever."
"Much better." Amara reached over to wipe porridge from Patsy's chin with a napkin. The gesture came automatically, like her body remembered mothering even if her mind didn't. "I just needed rest."
"Papa is coming home soon," Jacky announced. His voice was flat. Challenging. "He said in his letter. Two more weeks."
Daniel. Two weeks.
"Yes, I know." Amara kept her voice even. "I read the letter this morning."
Jacky finally looked at her. His eyes were sharp for a five-year-old—too sharp. "You're acting strange."
"I've been ill."
"You're acting very strange." He set down his spoon. "You look at everything like you've never seen it before. And you didn't remember Breechy's name. Everyone knows Breechy."
Amara met his gaze steadily. This kid is going to be trouble.
"The fever affected my memory, Jacky. The doctor said it might take some time for everything to come back."
"The doctor said you weren't that sick."
Damn observant children.
"Then perhaps the doctor was wrong." Amara let a hint of steel enter her voice—the tone her own mother had used when Amara pushed too far as a kid. "Eat your porridge, Jacky. We don't waste food in this house."
For a moment, she thought he would argue. But something in her expression must have convinced him because he dropped his eyes and picked up his spoon again.
Small victory. I'll take it.
She ate her own breakfast in silence—fresh bread, butter, cold ham—while watching the children. Patsy chattered about her doll, her puppy, the birds she'd seen in the garden. Jacky ate with sullen efficiency and asked to be excused the moment his plate was clean.
"Lessons with Mr. Mosely," Sally reminded him as he fled the room.
"I know," he called back, already disappearing into the hall.
Amara finished her tea. The caffeine helped—it was a small anchor to normalcy, a ritual that existed in her time and this one.
"Mistress." Sally appeared at her elbow. "The overseer is asking to speak with you. He's waiting in the front parlor."
The overseer. The man who'd "disciplined" someone yesterday. Probably with a whip.
Amara set down her cup. Her stomach tightened, but she kept her face neutral.
"Tell him I'll be there shortly."
"Yes, Mistress."
Amara stood. Patsy grabbed at her skirts.
"No, Mama, stay!"
"I have to attend to business, sweetheart. I'll come play with you later." The words came easily, as if from some Martha-shaped part of her brain that knew how to be a mother to these children. "Be good for Sally."
Patsy pouted but released her grip.
Amara walked toward the front parlor.
The overseer. The enforcer. The man who keeps this whole system running through violence and fear.
And he wants to talk to me.
She paused outside the parlor door, steadying herself.
Remember who you are now. Remember what power you have. Use it.
She opened the door.
[End of Chapter 3]