Morning came too soon.
Amara woke to sunlight streaming through the curtains and Oney's soft knock at the door. Her body ached—Martha's body, she reminded herself, this borrowed flesh—from too little sleep and too much tension.
"Mistress? It's past seven. The children are asking for you."
Amara pushed herself upright. The events of the previous night rushed back: Ruth's desperate plea, the confrontation with Grimes, the barn meeting, Samuel's hopeful face in the lamplight.
Day one of the new regime. Let's see how long it lasts.
"I'll be down shortly."
Getting dressed was faster today. Amara was learning the rhythms of 18th-century clothing—which layers went where, how to breathe around the stays, the trick of walking in shoes with no arch support. Oney moved around her with practiced efficiency, but there was something different in her manner. Less wariness. More... attention.
"Everyone's talking about last night," Oney said quietly as she pinned up Amara's hair. "About what you did."
"What are they saying?"
"Some think you've lost your mind." A tiny pause. "Some think you might be different from before. Really different."
"And what do you think?"
Oney's hands stilled for just a moment. "I think... I want to wait and see."
Fair enough. I haven't earned trust yet. Only promises.
"That's wise," Amara said. "Don't believe anything until you see it with your own eyes."
Breakfast was a subdued affair.
Jacky was sullen, poking at his eggs without eating. Patsy chattered happily about a dream she'd had involving a talking horse. Sally moved around the table with her usual quiet efficiency, but her eyes kept darting to Amara's face.
They all know. The whole household knows I challenged Grimes. And now they're all waiting to see what happens next.
"I want to visit the quarters this morning," Amara announced.
Sally nearly dropped the teapot.
"Mistress?"
"The slave quarters. I want to see them. See how people are living."
Jacky looked up from his eggs. "Why?"
"Because I'm responsible for them." Amara set down her fork. "And I can't be responsible for something I don't understand."
"Ladies don't go to the quarters," Jacky said, with the absolute certainty of a five-year-old who'd absorbed the rules of his world. "That's what Papa says."
"Your Papa isn't here right now." Amara stood. "Sally, please have Breechy meet me in the front hall in fifteen minutes. He'll show me around."
Sally's face was a mask of professional neutrality. "Yes, Mistress."
The walk to the quarters took ten minutes.
Breechy led the way, his back straight, his pace measured. He hadn't questioned her request—hadn't shown any visible reaction at all—but Amara could feel the tension radiating from him. This wasn't normal. This wasn't how things were done.
Good. Normal is what got us here.
The quarters were behind the main house, past the kitchen garden and the outbuildings, in a cluster of small wooden structures that Amara had glimpsed from her window. Up close, they were even more depressing than she'd imagined.
Eight cabins, built of rough-hewn logs, with gaps between the boards that let in light and weather alike. Dirt floors. No windows, just openings covered with burlap. Each cabin was maybe fifteen feet square, meant to house six to ten people.
The smell hit her first. Smoke and sweat and something sour underneath—the smell of too many bodies in too little space, with inadequate sanitation.
Eighty-four people. Eight cabins. Do the math.
People stopped what they were doing as she approached. Women paused at their washing. Children froze mid-play. Men straightened from their tasks and turned to watch, their faces carefully blank.
The survival mask. She was seeing it everywhere now.
"Good morning," Amara said. Her voice felt too loud in the sudden silence. "I'm—I wanted to see how you're living. To understand."
No one responded. They just watched her, these people whose lives she legally controlled, whose bodies she technically owned.
What do they see when they look at me? A threat? A curiosity? Another white woman playing at concern before going back to her comfortable house?
An old woman stepped forward. Her hair was gray, her face deeply lined, her hands gnarled from decades of work. Old Jenny, Amara realized. The cook from the ledger.
"Mistress." Jenny's voice was raspy. "Is there something wrong?"
"No. I just—" Amara took a breath. "I want to make some changes. To improve conditions. But I can't do that without understanding what the problems are."
Jenny's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. "Problems, Mistress?"
"Food. Shelter. Medical care. Work hours." Amara gestured at the cabins. "I can see these buildings need repair. The gaps in the walls—do they leak when it rains?"
A long pause. Then Jenny nodded slowly. "Yes, Mistress. They leak."
"And the food—is there enough? Is it adequate?"
Another pause. The watching crowd had grown larger, Amara realized. People were drifting in from the fields, from other parts of the plantation, drawn by the spectacle of the mistress standing in the middle of the quarters asking questions.
"We get by," Jenny said carefully.
She's afraid to tell me the truth. Afraid that honesty will be punished.
"I'm not going to hurt anyone for answering honestly," Amara said. "I give you my word. I want to know what's actually happening here, not what you think I want to hear."
Silence stretched. Then a voice spoke from the back of the crowd—young, male, with an edge of defiance.
"The food's not enough. We're hungry most days. And tired. And the cabins are so crowded you can't turn over without hitting someone."
The crowd parted. A young man stood there—maybe seventeen or eighteen, with the lean build of someone who did hard physical labor and never got enough to eat. His jaw was set, his eyes challenging.
He's testing me. Just like Jacky, but with higher stakes.
"What's your name?" Amara asked.
"Marcus."
Marcus. The name Elias had mentioned. The one who'd stood up to Grimes and triggered this whole crisis.
"Marcus." Amara held his gaze. "Thank you for your honesty. That's exactly what I need."
He blinked. Clearly, that wasn't the response he'd expected.
"From now on," Amara announced, raising her voice so everyone could hear, "there will be some changes. First: food rations will be increased. I want every person here getting three full meals a day. Not scraps. Not leftovers. Real food."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"Second: work hours will be adjusted. Sunrise to sunset is the standard, but there will be a rest period in the middle of the day. And one full day off per week—Sundays—for rest and personal time."
More murmurs. Louder now.
"Third: no one is to be physically punished without my explicit approval. No whippings, no beatings, no brandings. If Mr. Grimes or anyone else tries to discipline you, you come to me first. Understood?"
The silence that followed was different from before. Not fearful. Stunned.
Old Jenny was staring at her like she'd sprouted wings.
"Mistress," Jenny said slowly, "do you know what you're saying?"
"I know exactly what I'm saying."
"Mr. Grimes won't like this. Master Custis won't—"
"Let me worry about Mr. Grimes and Master Custis." Amara looked around the crowd—at the faces that were slowly, cautiously, beginning to show something other than fear. "I can't change everything. I wish I could, but I can't. There are laws. There are realities. But within those limits, I'm going to make your lives as bearable as I possibly can. That's my promise."
She saw Elias at the edge of the crowd. He was watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read—something between suspicion and hope, guarded but attentive.
He's still waiting. Still testing. Good. Don't trust me yet. Make me earn it.
"Breechy," Amara said, "I want you to work with Jenny and the other senior workers to draw up a plan. What repairs are most urgent. What supplies are needed. What the new food rations should look like. Bring me a report by this evening."
Breechy nodded slowly. "Yes, Mistress."
Amara turned to leave, then paused.
"One more thing." She looked back at the assembled crowd. "I know you have no reason to believe me. I know you've probably heard promises before that came to nothing. All I can say is: watch what I do. Judge me by my actions, not my words. And if I fail—if I don't keep these promises—then you'll know I was just another liar."
She walked back toward the main house, feeling eighty-four pairs of eyes on her back.
That was either the bravest thing I've ever done or the stupidest. Probably both.
[End of Chapter 9]