Amara stood frozen in the doorway, the dead rat at her feet, the bloodstained note still trembling in her hand.
SOFT HEARTS MAKE HARD GRAVES.
The words blurred as she stared at them. Her pulse hammered in her ears. Somewhere in the dark house, a floorboard creaked—settling wood, probably, but in that moment it sounded like footsteps.
He was here. In the house. Outside my bedroom door.
She forced herself to breathe. To think.
Grimes wants me scared. That's the point of this—not to hurt me, but to make me afraid. To make me second-guess every decision, jump at every shadow, until I'm too paralyzed to act.
I can't let him win.
She bent down and picked up the rat by its tail. The body was still warm. Fresh blood dripped onto the floorboards.
Evidence. This is evidence.
But evidence of what? And to whom would she report it? The magistrate? A man who probably shared Grimes's views on how to manage enslaved workers? Daniel? A husband she'd never met, who might side with his overseer over his "hysterical" wife?
Amara carried the rat into her bedroom and set it on a piece of cloth. Her hands were steady now—the initial shock fading into something colder, harder.
He wants a war. Fine. He'll get one.
She sat at her writing desk and began to compose letters.
The first went to Mr. James Power, the lawyer in Williamsburg whose name appeared repeatedly in Daniel's correspondence. She kept the tone casual—a wife inquiring about her husband's legal affairs during his absence—but her questions were precise: What precedents existed for widow's dower rights in Virginia? How were guardianship disputes typically resolved when a father died leaving minor children? What documentation would a widow need to secure her position?
Just in case.
The second letter went to Mr. Robert Carter Nicholas, the merchant who handled the plantation's accounts. She requested a full statement of outstanding debts and credit terms, framed as a dutiful wife preparing for her husband's return.
Knowledge is leverage.
The third letter was the most delicate. It went to Mrs. Elizabeth Carter of Shirley Plantation, a woman Martha had apparently corresponded with regularly. Amara kept the tone warm but slightly helpless—expressing concern about her recent illness, asking for advice on managing a household during a husband's extended absence, hinting that she felt overwhelmed and would welcome guidance from a more experienced lady.
Building the social shield. Creating witnesses who would remember that Mrs. Custis had reached out, had been struggling, had behaved exactly as a proper wife should.
By the time she finished, the candle had burned halfway down and her hand ached from gripping the unfamiliar quill. But she felt steadier. More in control.
Politics. Even here, even now, it all comes down to politics.
Morning came gray and damp, with clouds threatening rain.
Amara hadn't slept. She sealed the letters with wax from the desk drawer and set them aside for the morning post. Then she sat in the darkness, watching the sky lighten through the window, thinking.
She was dressed and waiting in the parlor when Sally brought the morning tea.
"You're up early, Mistress."
"I couldn't sleep."
Sally's eyes flickered to Amara's face, assessing. "Is something wrong?"
Someone left a dead rat outside my door with a death threat attached. But Amara couldn't say that. Not yet. Not until she understood the full shape of what she was dealing with.
"Just anxious about Master Custis's return," she said instead. "There's much to prepare."
"Yes, Mistress." Sally set down the tea tray. "Speaking of which—a letter arrived this morning. From Williamsburg."
Amara's heart stuttered. "From Master Custis?"
"I believe so."
Sally handed her the letter and withdrew. Amara broke the seal with fingers that weren't quite steady.
My dearest Martha,
I write with troubling news. The court proceedings have concluded more quickly than expected, but I find myself unwell. The journey home will be delayed by several days while I recover my strength. Doctor Mercer assures me it is nothing serious—merely fatigue and a touch of fever—but I would not risk exposing you or the children to illness.
I expect to depart Williamsburg by the 20th and arrive home no later than the 25th. Please ensure the house is prepared for my return.
Your devoted husband,
Daniel
Amara read the letter twice. Then a third time.
Fatigue and a touch of fever.
Daniel Parke Custis died in July 1757 of what historical records described as a "sudden illness." No one knew exactly what—medicine in this era couldn't distinguish between dozens of different diseases. But the pattern was there: a man in apparent good health, struck down within weeks.
He's already sick. The illness that will kill him has already begun.
She set down the letter. Her hands were shaking again, but not from fear this time.
If Daniel dies now—before I've consolidated anything—I lose everything.
The thought was cold. Clinical. But it was also true.
The family will challenge me. Grimes will have free rein. The reforms die with my authority. Everything I've tried to build in the last three days gets swept away like it never happened.
She didn't love Daniel. She'd never even met him. But she needed him—needed him alive, at least long enough for her to become indispensable. Long enough for her changes to take root. Long enough for her to build a position that couldn't be easily dismantled.
I don't need to save him because he deserves saving. I need to save him because his death, right now, destroys me.
It was a brutal calculation. But Amara had spent her career studying people who made brutal calculations—founders and generals and presidents who weighed human lives against political necessity. She'd judged them from the safety of her lecture hall.
Now she was one of them.
What can I do? I don't have antibiotics. I don't have modern equipment. All I have is knowledge—basic hygiene, clean water, rest, nutrition. Things that might help. Things that might buy time.
If I can keep him alive until I'm secure, then whatever happens afterward...
She didn't finish the thought.
A knock at the parlor door interrupted her.
"Mistress?" Breechy's voice. "Mr. Grimes is asking to see you."
Amara's jaw tightened. She folded Daniel's letter and tucked it into her sleeve.
"Send him in."
Grimes entered the parlor with the air of a man who'd already won.
He was freshly shaved, neatly dressed, his manner smooth and professional. Nothing in his demeanor suggested he'd spent the previous night sneaking through the house to leave bloody threats on her doorstep.
"Mistress Custis." He inclined his head. "I trust you slept well?"
He knows I didn't. He wants me to know he knows.
"Well enough." Amara gestured to a chair. "Please, sit."
Grimes sat. His eyes swept over her face, searching for signs of weakness, of fear. Amara kept her expression neutral.
"I've received word from Master Custis," she said. "He's been delayed in Williamsburg. Illness."
Something flickered across Grimes's face—surprise? Calculation?
"I'm sorry to hear that. Is it serious?"
"The doctor says not."
"Good." Grimes settled back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. "Then we have a few more days to... discuss things. Before he returns."
"What things did you have in mind?"
"Your new policies, Mistress." His voice was mild, but his eyes were hard. "I've had time to think about them. To consider their... implications."
"And?"
"I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot." Grimes spread his hands in a gesture of conciliation. "I reacted poorly to your suggestions. That was unprofessional of me. I apologize."
Amara said nothing. She waited.
"The truth is," Grimes continued, "I've been managing this plantation for three years. I know every field, every worker, every quirk of the operation. That knowledge is valuable. It would be a shame to... waste it."
"I'm not planning to waste anything, Mr. Grimes."
"Of course not. I simply mean—" He leaned forward, his voice dropping to something almost intimate. "—that we could work together. Your ideas about improved conditions, rest days, better rations—these aren't necessarily incompatible with efficiency. With the right implementation, the right approach, we might even increase productivity."
He's trying a new tactic. Collaboration instead of confrontation. Make me think he's on my side, then undermine me from within.
"I see." Amara kept her voice neutral. "And what would this 'right approach' look like?"
"Gradual changes. Pilot programs, if you will. We try your methods on a small scale, measure the results, adjust as needed." Grimes smiled—a thin, cold thing that didn't reach his eyes. "That way, when Master Custis returns, we can present him with data. Evidence. Not just sentiment."
It was clever. Amara had to admit that. Frame her reforms as experiments, subject to his oversight and approval. Co-opt her agenda while maintaining his control.
"And if the 'experiments' fail?" she asked.
"Then we'll know your methods don't work, and we can return to proven practices." Grimes spread his hands again. "No harm done."
Except he'll be the one judging what counts as success or failure. He'll be the one collecting the data. And somehow, miraculously, every experiment will fail.
"That's an interesting proposal," Amara said. "I'll consider it."
"Please do." Grimes rose to his feet, smoothing his waistcoat. "Take your time, Mistress. There's no rush."
He moved toward the door, then paused. When he turned back, his expression was pleasant, almost solicitous.
"One more thing. I hope you won't take this the wrong way, but—as someone who's been in this community for many years—I feel I should mention..." He tilted his head, studying her. "A lady's reputation is a delicate thing. Fragile. Once damaged, very difficult to repair."
Amara's skin prickled. "I'm not sure I take your meaning."
"Only that certain behaviors—however well-intentioned—can be... misinterpreted. A mistress who visits the slave quarters unaccompanied. Who holds private meetings with male servants. Who walks to the barn at midnight." His smile widened slightly. "Tongues wag, Mistress Custis. And once people start asking questions about a woman's judgment—or her virtue—well. The questions have a way of answering themselves."
The threat hung in the air between them, elegant and poisonous.
He's not just threatening my body. He's threatening my social existence. My credibility. Everything I need to survive in this world.
"I appreciate your concern for my reputation," Amara said, keeping her voice steady. "I'll be sure to keep it in mind."
"I'm glad to hear it." Grimes inclined his head. "Oh, and one more thing—I noticed some unpleasantness in the hallway this morning. A dead rat, it looked like. Terrible creatures. They get everywhere this time of year." His eyes met hers, and in them she saw something cold and amused. "I'll have someone clean it up."
"How thoughtful of you."
"Think nothing of it, Mistress. Good day."
He left.
Amara sat motionless in her chair, heart pounding.
He just threatened to destroy me. Not with violence—with whispers. With insinuation. With the slow poison of rumor.
And he did it while smiling.
That's the serpent. Not the rat—the rat was just bait. The real danger is the thing that coils around you so slowly you don't notice until you can't breathe.
She rose and walked to the window. Outside, the clouds had darkened, and the first drops of rain were beginning to fall.
He's underestimating me. They all are.
Good.
That afternoon, Amara asked Breechy to arrange a private meeting.
They met in the small study at the back of the house—a room that had apparently belonged to Daniel, filled with ledgers and maps and the faint smell of pipe tobacco. Breechy stood just inside the door, his face carefully neutral.
"You wanted to see me, Mistress?"
"Close the door."
He did. His eyes never left her face.
"Breechy—William—I need to ask you something. And I need you to answer honestly, even if you think I won't like the answer. Can you do that?"
A long pause. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"If Grimes were... removed. From his position. Is there anyone else on this plantation who could manage the field operations?"
Breechy's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind his eyes. "You're asking if we could run this place without him."
"Yes."
"Mistress, that's—" He stopped. Started again. "No white overseer would work under those conditions. A plantation without a white manager—"
"I'm not asking about what's conventional. I'm asking about what's possible."
Breechy was silent for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, more careful.
"Elias. The blacksmith. He used to manage work crews before his... before he tried to run. He knows the fields, the rotation schedules, the equipment. And the others respect him."
"But he's—"
"Black. Yes." Breechy met her eyes directly. "Which means he couldn't be the official overseer. But if there were a white man willing to sign papers and collect a salary while Elias did the actual work..."
A figurehead. A white face to satisfy the law while Black hands did the real labor.
"Could that work?"
Breechy didn't answer immediately. His jaw tightened, and when he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
"The law calls it 'inciting servile insurrection,' Mistress. If anyone found out—they wouldn't just dismiss me. They'd hang Elias. Publicly. As an example." He paused. "And you... you'd be lucky if they only called you mad. More likely they'd seize the estate, scatter everyone here to different owners, and make sure your name became a warning to every other woman in Virginia who thought she could run things differently."
The words landed like stones.
"I understand the risk," Amara said quietly.
"Do you?" Breechy's mask slipped for just a moment, revealing something raw underneath. "Forgive me, Mistress, but you've been here three days. You don't know what they do to people who threaten the order of things. I've seen it. I've—" He stopped himself. "The point is: this isn't difficult. It's not risky. It's fatal. For everyone involved."
Amara was quiet for a long moment.
"Then we'd need to be very careful," she said finally. "We'd need a white man who's desperate enough to take the money and keep his mouth shut. Someone with no connections, no reputation to protect. Someone who'd sign whatever we put in front of him and stay out of the way."
Breechy stared at her. "You're serious."
"I don't know if I'll ever be in a position to try it. Grimes has power. Daniel is coming home. Everything could fall apart tomorrow." She met his eyes. "But if I get the chance—if there's even a possibility—I want to be ready. Don't you?"
The silence stretched.
"There's a man," Breechy said slowly. "In Williamsburg. Lost his farm two years ago. Drinks too much. No family, no prospects. He'd do almost anything for a steady wage and a roof."
"Find out more about him. Quietly."
"Yes, Mistress."
He moved toward the door, then paused—just as Grimes had paused, in almost exactly the same spot.
"Mistress?"
"Yes?"
"Be careful. Grimes has been here longer than you know. He has... connections. Friends in places you might not expect." Breechy's voice dropped even lower. "Including in this house."
The words hit her like ice water.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean not everyone here is your ally, Mistress. Some of us have been watching you, hoping you're different. But some of us—" He hesitated. "Some of us have been here so long, we've forgotten how to hope for anything but survival. And survival sometimes means... choosing the winning side."
"Are you saying someone in the household is reporting to Grimes?"
Breechy didn't answer. He just looked at her, his eyes full of warning.
Then he opened the door and slipped out into the hallway, leaving Amara alone with the rain and the shadows and the growing certainty that she was surrounded by enemies she couldn't see.
That night, Amara locked her bedroom door for the first time since arriving.
She sat at the writing desk, the candle burning low, Daniel's letter spread out before her. Rain drummed against the windows. The house creaked and settled around her.
She reached for her journal, intending to write, and stopped.
The inkwell was on the wrong side of the desk.
Amara stared at it. She was certain—almost certain—she'd left it on the right, near the quill stand. Now it sat on the left, closer to the edge.
Maybe I moved it without thinking. Maybe Oney moved it when she cleaned.
She opened the desk drawer where she'd stored her private notes. The papers were there, but—
They were stacked differently. She'd left them with the corners aligned. Now they were slightly fanned, as if someone had rifled through them quickly and tried to put them back.
Her heart began to pound.
She checked the other drawers. The hidden compartment in the writing desk. The small jewelry box where she'd tucked her most sensitive observations.
Nothing was missing. But things had been moved. Examined. Read.
Someone was in here. Someone went through my things.
The spy. Whoever is feeding Grimes information—they were in my room.
Amara sat very still, fighting the urge to scream.
Who? Sally? Oney? One of the other servants? Someone I haven't even noticed?
She thought about the letters she'd written last night. The lawyer, the merchant, Mrs. Carter. Had the spy read them before she sealed them? Did Grimes already know she was building a network, preparing for a fight?
Assume the worst. Assume he knows everything.
She pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and forced herself to think strategically.
Enemies: Grimes. The spy. Daniel's family (potentially). The entire structure of colonial Virginia.
Allies: Elias (probable). Breechy (likely). Samuel (eager but vulnerable). Oney (unknown—watching, waiting).
Resources: Money. Property. Knowledge of the future. Martha's social connections.
Weaknesses: Female. "Different." Power that is borrowed, conditional, revocable at any moment.
She stared at the list. It wasn't enough. It was nowhere near enough.
But it was what she had.
Outside, lightning flashed, illuminating the room in stark white for a split second. In that flash, she could have sworn she saw a shadow move past the window—a shape, there and gone, too quick to identify.
She was on her feet before she knew it, pressing against the wall beside the window, heart hammering.
Nothing. Just the rain and the darkness and her own fear.
Get a grip. You can't afford to fall apart.
She forced herself to breathe. To think.
Eleven days until Daniel comes home. Eleven days to prepare.
And somewhere in this house, someone is watching everything I do.
Amara folded her list and tucked it into the hidden pocket she'd discovered in her stays—close to her body, where no one could reach it without her knowing.
Then she blew out the candle and lay down in the darkness, listening to the rain, listening for footsteps that might or might not be real.
Sleep, when it finally came, was shallow and full of dreams she couldn't quite remember—dreams of rats and serpents and a house full of doors that all led to the same dark room.
[End of Chapter 11]