Grimes filled the doorway like a man used to taking up space.
He was taller than Amara had realized during their earlier meeting—or maybe it was the lateness of the hour, the flickering candlelight, the way shadows pooled in the hollows of his face. His eyes moved from Ruth, still clutching Bess, to Amara standing beside them, and something dark shifted in his expression.
"I see the wench has been telling tales." His voice was calm. Almost pleasant. "Whatever she's said, Mistress, I assure you—"
"She told me you're planning to sell her daughter." Amara kept her voice level. "Is that true?"
Grimes didn't blink. "The child is two years old and can't work for another decade. She's a drain on resources. The auction in Williamsburg next week will fetch a good price—thirty, maybe thirty-five pounds. That money could buy seed, equipment—"
"No."
The word fell between them like a stone.
Grimes's jaw tightened. "Mistress Custis. With respect. These are operational decisions. Master Custis entrusted me with the management of—"
"Master Custis is not here." Amara stepped forward. Behind her, she heard Ruth's sharp intake of breath. "I am. And I'm telling you: that child is not for sale."
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The candle flame danced, throwing wild shadows across the walls. Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked.
He's calculating, Amara realized. Weighing his options. Deciding whether to push back or fold.
"The child will be useless for years," Grimes said finally. "And the mother's work has already suffered since the birth. Sentiment has no place in—"
"Sentiment?" The word came out sharp, edged with a fury Amara couldn't quite contain. "You want to rip a two-year-old from her mother's arms and sell her to strangers, and you're lecturing me about sentiment?"
Grimes's face hardened. "This is how plantations are run, Mistress. This is how your husband runs this plantation. If you coddle them, they'll—"
"Get out."
"Mistress—"
"Get. Out." Amara pointed at the door. Her hand was trembling, but her voice didn't waver. "We're done for tonight. Tomorrow morning, you and I will have a longer conversation about your role here and the limits of your authority. But right now, you're going to leave this room, and Ruth and her daughter are going to stay."
Grimes stood frozen. His hands had curled into fists at his sides, and Amara could see the tendons standing out in his neck. For one terrible moment, she thought he might strike her.
He could, she realized. He could hurt me, claim I was hysterical, say the fever addled my brain. Who would contradict him? The slaves? Their testimony isn't admissible. And Daniel isn't here.
But Grimes didn't move.
Instead, after a silence that stretched like a blade, he uncurled his fists. His face smoothed into something that might have been deference but looked more like a mask.
"As you wish, Mistress." His voice was ice. "We'll speak tomorrow."
He turned and walked out. His footsteps echoed down the hallway, heavy and deliberate, until they faded into silence.
Amara let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding.
"Mistress—"
She turned. Ruth was on her knees, Bess clutched to her chest, tears streaming down her face.
"Thank you," Ruth whispered. "Thank you, thank you—"
"Don't." Amara crouched down, bringing herself to Ruth's level. "Don't thank me. I haven't done anything yet. Grimes will go to Daniel when he comes home. He'll tell him I've gone soft, that I'm undermining his authority. And Daniel might overrule me."
Ruth's face crumpled. "Then—"
"Then I'll fight him too." The words came out before Amara could stop them. "I don't know if I'll win. But I'll fight."
What am I doing? I'm promising things I can't guarantee. I'm making enemies I can't afford. Daniel comes home in two weeks, and when he does—
When he does, I'll deal with it. One crisis at a time.
"Go back to your quarters," Amara said, gentler now. "Keep Bess close. I'll send word tomorrow about what happens next."
Ruth rose unsteadily to her feet. She looked at Amara with an expression Amara couldn't quite read—gratitude and fear and something else, something almost like recognition.
"You're different," Ruth said quietly. "Since the fever. The others have noticed too."
"I know."
"They're scared. Some of them." Ruth hesitated. "But some of them... some of them are starting to hope."
Hope. The most dangerous thing she could give them.
"Be careful with hope," Amara said. "It can break you faster than cruelty."
Ruth nodded slowly. Then, with Bess still clinging to her neck, she slipped out into the darkness.
Amara stood alone in the bedroom.
The candle had burned low, throwing long shadows across the floor. Outside, the night was quiet—no sound but crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl.
What have I done?
She crossed to the window and looked out at nothing. Her reflection stared back at her from the glass—Martha's face, pale and strange in the candlelight.
I just declared war on the overseer. A man my husband chose, a man who knows how this system works, a man who has the law and tradition and two hundred years of accumulated brutality on his side.
And I did it for a two-year-old girl I've never met before tonight.
Her hands were still shaking. She pressed them flat against the windowsill and tried to breathe.
It was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do. How could I look at Ruth's face and say no? How could I let them tear a baby from her mother's arms and do nothing?
But "right" and "smart" aren't the same thing. And in this world, being right can get you killed.
She thought about Elias. About the brand on his face, the price he'd paid for wanting freedom. She thought about Oney, fifteen years old, watching everything with those careful eyes. She thought about Samuel, learning to read in secret, risking mutilation for the crime of literacy.
They're all watching me. Waiting to see if I'm real or if this is just another trick. Another white woman playing at kindness until it becomes inconvenient.
And honestly? I don't know the answer myself.
Amara turned away from the window.
Her journal lay open on the desk, the ink still wet on the last entry. She sat down and picked up the pen.
I made a promise tonight. To Ruth. To her daughter. To myself.
I said Grimes would never touch Elias again. I said Bess wouldn't be sold. I'm drawing lines I have no power to enforce, making enemies I can't afford to have.
Daniel comes home in two weeks. He'll hear about this. He'll have to choose: his wife or his overseer. His sentiment or his profit.
And I have no idea which way he'll choose.
But here's what I know: I couldn't have done nothing. I couldn't have stood there and watched and let it happen. Whatever else I've lost by coming to this place—my family, my identity, my world—I haven't lost that. Not yet.
The question is whether it will be enough.
She set down the pen. The candle sputtered, nearly spent.
Tomorrow I face Grimes again. Tomorrow I have to figure out how to actually keep these promises. Tomorrow—
A soft knock at the door.
Amara tensed. "Who is it?"
"Sally, Mistress." The older woman's voice was muffled by the wood. "I'm sorry to disturb you again, but—Mr. Grimes has called a meeting. The other overseers and senior hands. He says it's about 'maintaining order.'"
He's not waiting until morning. He's mobilizing now.
Amara stood.
"Where?"
"The barn, Mistress. But surely you're not thinking of—"
"Get my cloak."
"Mistress, it's the middle of the night, and a lady shouldn't—"
"Sally." Amara's voice cut through the protest. "Get. My. Cloak."
Silence. Then footsteps, retreating.
Amara looked at herself in the mirror one last time. Martha's face stared back—soft, unremarkable, the face of a woman who was supposed to stay in her place and let men handle difficult things.
Sorry, Martha. That's not how I operate.
She headed for the door.
[End of Chapter 7]