The barn was on the far side of the house, past the kitchen garden and the smokehouse. Amara walked through the darkness with Sally's cloak wrapped tight around her shoulders, her slippers already damp with dew.
This is insane. A proper colonial lady doesn't storm into overseer meetings in the middle of the night. A proper colonial lady stays in her bedroom and lets men sort out men's business.
Good thing I'm not a proper colonial lady.
Torchlight flickered through the cracks in the barn's wooden walls. She could hear voices inside—low, masculine, tense. Grimes's voice rose above the others, though she couldn't make out the words.
Amara pushed open the barn door.
The conversation stopped dead.
Six men sat on hay bales in a loose circle, lit by a pair of oil lanterns. Grimes was standing, clearly in the middle of making some point. His face went rigid when he saw her.
"Mistress Custis." His voice was carefully controlled. "This is a private meeting."
"On my property." Amara stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind her. "With my employees. I don't recall authorizing any meetings tonight."
The other men shifted uncomfortably. She recognized a few faces from earlier—the two who'd brought Elias to her parlor, plus several she hadn't met. Rough men, with the weathered look of people who spent their lives outdoors. They were all staring at her like she'd grown a second head.
"We were discussing plantation business," Grimes said. "Nothing that concerns—"
"Everything on this plantation concerns me." Amara moved to the center of the circle, forcing the men to turn their bodies to face her. A power move she'd learned in faculty meetings: control the geometry of the room. "What were you discussing? Specifically?"
Silence. The men exchanged glances.
Finally, one of them—older, with a gray beard and a missing front tooth—cleared his throat. "Mr. Grimes was explaining that there might be some changes coming. He wanted us to be prepared."
"Changes?"
"He said you've been... different. Since the fever." The man's eyes darted to Grimes, then back to Amara. "He said we might need to adjust how we handle things."
Handle things. Meaning the slaves. Meaning Grimes is already laying groundwork to undermine whatever I try to do.
"I see." Amara let her gaze sweep across the assembled men. "And what exactly did Mr. Grimes suggest you do to 'handle things'?"
More uncomfortable silence.
"Nothing's been decided," Grimes cut in smoothly. "We were simply having a conversation about maintaining discipline. The Negroes have been restless lately. They sense weakness, and if we don't—"
"Weakness?" Amara turned on him. "Is that what you call it when I refuse to let you tear a child from her mother?"
Grimes's mask slipped for just a moment—a flash of genuine anger beneath the professional calm. "I call it sentiment, Mistress. And sentiment will destroy this plantation faster than any disease or drought."
"You're wrong."
"Am I?" Grimes stepped closer. Not quite threatening, but asserting his physical presence in a way that was clearly meant to intimidate. "You've been mistress of this estate for—what? A few years? I've been managing Negroes for twenty. I know how they think. I know what they need. And what they need is a firm hand, not a soft heart."
"What they need is to be treated like human beings."
The words hung in the air. One of the younger overseers actually gasped.
Grimes's eyes narrowed. "Careful, Mistress. Talk like that could be... misunderstood."
He's threatening me. Not physically—not here, not in front of witnesses—but he's making it clear that he could cause problems. Rumors. Accusations. The suggestion that the mistress of the house has developed dangerous sympathies.
In a world where abolitionists are considered radicals and helping slaves escape is a crime, that kind of rumor could be devastating.
Amara didn't flinch.
"Let me be clear," she said, pitching her voice to carry to every man in the barn. "I am the mistress of this plantation. My husband is away, and in his absence, I have full authority over all operations—including the management of enslaved workers. If any of you have a problem with my decisions, you're welcome to take it up with Mr. Custis when he returns. But until then, you follow my orders. Is that understood?"
Silence.
"I asked if that was understood."
"Yes, Mistress," the gray-bearded man muttered. The others echoed him, reluctantly.
Grimes said nothing.
Amara held his gaze for a long moment. This isn't over. We both know it. But for tonight, I've won.
"Good." She pulled her cloak tighter. "This meeting is finished. Go back to your quarters. All of you."
The men filed out, not meeting her eyes. Grimes was the last to move. He paused at the door, looking back at her.
"You're making a mistake, Mistress. A bad one. And when Master Custis comes home—"
"When Master Custis comes home, I'll explain my reasoning to him. That's between me and my husband." Amara met his stare without wavering. "Good night, Mr. Grimes."
He left.
Amara stood alone in the empty barn, surrounded by hay and shadows and the lingering smell of tobacco smoke.
I just threatened the overseer in front of his men. I just undermined his authority completely. He's going to hate me now. He's going to look for ways to sabotage me, to prove me wrong, to make me fail.
And I have no idea if I can actually do this job better than he can.
She thought about Daniel. About the husband she'd never met, whose management style she was systematically dismantling. What kind of man was he? The history books painted him as unremarkable—a wealthy planter who died young, leaving behind a widow who would go on to greater things. But history books didn't capture the texture of a life. They didn't tell you whether a man was kind or cruel, thoughtful or careless.
He hired Grimes. He trusted Grimes with the lives of eighty-four people. That tells me something.
But people can change. People can learn. Maybe—
A sound from outside. Footsteps, soft and quick.
Amara tensed. "Who's there?"
A figure slipped through the barn door. Small, slight, moving with the practiced silence of someone who'd learned not to be noticed.
Samuel.
The twelve-year-old boy stood just inside the doorway, his eyes wide in the lamplight. He was dressed in the simple clothes of a house servant, and his feet were bare.
"Mistress." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I saw you come out here. I thought—I wanted to—"
"Samuel." Amara kept her voice gentle. "What are you doing up at this hour?"
He hesitated. "I heard what happened. With Ruth and Bess. Everyone's talking about it in the quarters."
"Already?"
"News travels fast when it matters." Samuel stepped closer, still keeping his voice low. "They're saying you stood up to Mr. Grimes. They're saying you told him no."
"I did."
Samuel's face was impossible to read in the dim light. "Why?"
The same question Elias had asked. The same question Ruth had asked. The question Amara kept asking herself.
"Because it was wrong." She crouched down, bringing herself closer to his eye level. "Because a mother shouldn't lose her child. Because—" She stopped, struggling to articulate something that felt too big for words. "Because someone has to say no. Even if it doesn't change anything. Even if it doesn't matter in the end. Someone has to stand up and say: this is wrong, and I won't be part of it."
Samuel was quiet for a long moment.
"My mother used to say that," he said finally. "Before she died. She used to say: 'They can own your body, but they can't own your soul. Not unless you let them.'"
Amara's throat tightened.
"Your mother sounds like a wise woman."
"She was." Samuel's voice cracked slightly on the word. "She died when I was seven. Fever took her. And my father—I never knew him. So I've been alone since then. Just me and the big house and whatever work they give me."
An orphan. Twelve years old. Raised by a system that sees him as property.
And he's standing here in the middle of the night, asking me why I did the right thing, because he's not sure he's ever seen anyone do it before.
"Samuel." Amara reached out and touched his shoulder. He flinched—a reflex, the instinctive response of someone who'd learned that touch from white people usually meant pain—but he didn't pull away. "I can't promise you everything will be okay. I can't promise I'll be able to protect everyone. But I can promise you this: I see you. You're not invisible to me. And as long as I'm here, I'm going to fight for you. For all of you."
Samuel looked at her. In the lamplight, his eyes were bright with something that might have been tears.
"Can I ask you something, Mistress?"
"Anything."
"Will you teach me more? More than just my name. I want to read books. Real books. I want to know things."
Teaching slaves to read is illegal. If we're caught, he could be maimed. I could be prosecuted. It would destroy everything I'm trying to build here.
But looking at this boy—this orphan who'd lost everything and still wanted to learn, still believed that knowledge could set him free—how could she say no?
"Yes," Amara said. "I'll teach you. We'll have to be careful. We'll have to be secret. But yes."
Samuel's face split into a smile—the first genuine smile she'd seen from any enslaved person since she'd arrived.
"Thank you, Mistress."
"Call me—" She stopped herself. She couldn't tell him her real name. Not yet. Maybe not ever. "Just be careful, Samuel. And get back to bed before someone notices you're gone."
He nodded and slipped out into the night, silent as a ghost.
Amara stayed in the barn a moment longer, listening to the crickets and the distant sounds of the plantation settling into sleep.
Elias. Ruth. Samuel. Three people who are starting to trust me.
Grimes and his men. A husband I've never met. A system that's been grinding people to dust for a hundred years.
These are the battle lines. And I'm standing right in the middle.
She blew out the lamp and walked back to the house through the darkness, Martha's body carrying her forward, Amara's mind already planning the next move.
Two weeks until Daniel comes home.
I'd better be ready.
[End of Chapter 8]