The letter arrived three days later.
Amara was in the parlor, reviewing the household accounts with Breechy, when Sally brought it in. The seal was unfamiliar—not Daniel's handwriting on the front, but a more formal script.
"From Williamsburg, Mistress. A Dr. Mercer."
Amara's stomach tightened. She broke the seal.
Madam,
I write to inform you that your husband's condition has worsened since his last correspondence. The fever persists, and he has developed a troubling cough. I have administered the standard treatments—purging, bleeding, and a course of calomel—but I confess the results have been disappointing.
Mr. Custis insists on returning home as planned, despite my advice to the contrary. He is a stubborn man, as I'm sure you know. I expect he will depart within the week, though I cannot guarantee he will survive the journey in his current state.
I recommend you prepare for his arrival with all necessary provisions for an invalid. A sickroom should be established, removed from the rest of the household to keep the foul air away from the children. I will send detailed instructions for continuing his treatment upon his return.
Your servant,
Dr. James Mercer
Amara read the letter twice, her mind racing.
Purging. Bleeding. Calomel.
She knew what those words meant. Purging meant inducing vomiting or diarrhea—supposedly to expel "bad humors" from the body. Bleeding meant opening a vein and draining blood—sometimes pints of it—to "reduce inflammation." And calomel...
Calomel was mercurous chloride. A poison. Doctors in this era used it for everything from constipation to syphilis, never understanding that they were slowly killing their patients with heavy metal toxicity.
They're not treating him. They're murdering him. Slowly, professionally, with the best intentions in the world.
"Mistress?" Breechy's voice cut through her thoughts. "Is something wrong?"
Amara looked up. She'd forgotten he was there.
"Master Custis is worse than we thought." She folded the letter carefully. "He'll be home within the week, but he's very ill."
Breechy's face remained neutral, but something flickered in his eyes. Calculation, perhaps. Or concern. It was hard to tell.
"Shall I inform the household?"
"Not yet. I need to think."
She dismissed him and sat alone in the parlor, staring at the fire.
Daniel is dying. The doctor's treatments are making it worse. And there's nothing I can do about it.
Except that wasn't quite true.
She knew things. Basic things that any first-year medical student would know, but that Dr. Mercer and his colleagues couldn't possibly understand. She knew that bleeding weakened patients rather than strengthening them. She knew that mercury was toxic. She knew that rest, clean water, and proper nutrition were worth more than all the purging and blistering in the world.
But how do I convince them? How do I tell an 18th-century physician that everything he believes is wrong?
She couldn't. Not directly. A woman challenging a doctor's authority would be dismissed as hysterical at best, dangerous at worst.
So don't challenge him. Work around him.
The thought crystallized slowly.
When Daniel arrives, I'll be the one nursing him. I'll be the one in the sickroom, day and night. Whatever Dr. Mercer prescribes, I can... modify. Reduce the bleeding. Dilute the calomel. Make sure he actually rests instead of being subjected to constant "treatments."
I can't cure him. I don't even know what's wrong with him. But I can stop them from killing him faster.
It was a thin hope. But it was something.
The next morning, Amara began her preparations.
She had Sally clear out a small room on the ground floor—away from the children's quarters, with good airflow from two windows. She ordered fresh linens, had the mattress replaced, and personally supervised the scrubbing of every surface with vinegar and hot water.
"Mistress, this is very unusual," Sally said, watching her work. "Normally the master would recover in his own bedchamber—"
"The doctor recommended keeping him apart from the household. To prevent the bad vapors from reaching the children." Amara didn't look up from the washbasin she was scouring. "Foul air spreads illness. Everyone knows that."
It was the kind of reasoning an 18th-century person would accept. Miasma theory—the belief that disease came from "bad air"—was the dominant medical model of the era. Sally didn't argue.
But Amara caught the look she exchanged with one of the other servants—a quick glance, there and gone. The kind of look that said: She's doing something strange again.
Let them look. Let them talk. I don't have time to care.
That afternoon, she visited the plantation's small herb garden. Old Jenny had maintained it for decades, growing plants for cooking and basic medicine. Amara walked the rows slowly, identifying what she recognized.
Willow bark—a natural source of salicylic acid, the active ingredient in aspirin. Good for fever and pain.
Chamomile—mild sedative, good for sleep and anxiety.
Elderflower—traditionally used for fevers and respiratory infections.
Peppermint—settled the stomach, helped with nausea.
Not antibiotics. Not antivirals. But better than mercury.
She gathered samples of each, tucking them into her apron. When she returned to the house, she found Oney waiting for her in the hallway.
"Mistress." The girl's voice was low. "May I speak with you? Privately?"
Amara glanced around. The hallway was empty, but that didn't mean anything anymore.
"My room. Five minutes."
She climbed the stairs, acutely aware of every creak, every shadow. The feeling of being watched had become constant now—a low hum of paranoia that never quite faded.
Oney arrived exactly five minutes later, slipping through the door and closing it behind her.
"What is it?"
"I heard something last night." Oney's face was serious. "From the kitchen. Sally was talking to someone—I couldn't see who. They were speaking very quietly, but I heard your name."
Amara's heart rate spiked. "What did they say?"
"Sally said..." Oney hesitated. "She said you've been 'asking too many questions.' That you're 'not yourself since the fever.' And the other person—whoever it was—said something about Mr. Grimes. About how he'd 'want to know.'"
Amara's mind raced.
Sally was involved. But how? Was she the one reporting to Grimes? Or was someone using her as a messenger—maybe without her even realizing it?
She couldn't be certain. The evidence was suggestive, not conclusive. Oney hadn't seen the other person. Sally might be the spy, or she might be an unwitting channel, or there might be someone else entirely pulling strings in the shadows.
Assume the worst. But don't commit to a conclusion I can't prove.
"Did you see who she was talking to?"
Oney shook her head. "It was dark. I could only hear voices. But Mistress—" She stepped closer, lowering her voice even further. "—be careful. Sally has been here a long time. She knows things. Things about the family, about the business. Whether she's working with Mr. Grimes or not..."
She's dangerous. Either way.
Amara forced herself to breathe.
"Thank you, Oney. For telling me."
"I—" The girl stopped. Started again. "I don't know why I'm helping you. I don't know if I should trust you. But..." She looked down at her hands. "My mother says you're different. She says maybe, just maybe, you mean what you say. And if there's even a chance that's true..."
"I understand." Amara reached out and touched Oney's shoulder—gently, carefully. "You don't have to trust me. Just watch. See if my actions match my words. That's all I ask."
Oney nodded slowly. Then she slipped out as quietly as she'd come.
Amara sat on the edge of her bed, mind racing.
Sally might be the spy. Or Sally might be connected to the spy. Either way, I can't confront her—that would reveal Oney's involvement and put her in danger. I can't fire Sally without cause—that would look suspicious and give Grimes ammunition.
I have to keep acting like I don't know. I have to keep feeding her information that helps me, not hurts me.
The thought was cold. Calculating. The kind of thinking she'd studied in history books but never expected to practice herself.
This is what it's like. This is what survival looks like in a world where everyone is watching and no one can be fully trusted.
She thought about Harriet Tubman. About the enslaved people who'd navigated systems of surveillance and betrayal for generations. About the courage it took to resist when resistance could mean death.
They did it. For years. For lifetimes. And I'm struggling after a week.
She stood up. There was work to do.
Two days later, Daniel Parke Custis came home.
Amara heard the carriage before she saw it—the rattle of wheels on the drive, the shouts of the servants. She was in the sickroom, making final preparations, when Sally appeared in the doorway.
"He's here, Mistress."
She walked to the front of the house, her stomach tight with nerves. This was the moment she'd been dreading since she arrived. The husband she'd never met. The man whose life she'd been living, whose children she'd been mothering, whose enslaved workers she'd been trying to protect.
The man who could undo everything with a single word.
The carriage had stopped in the circular drive. Two servants were helping a figure down from the interior—a figure that moved slowly, heavily, leaning on their arms like a man twice his age.
Daniel Parke Custis was forty-five years old, but he looked sixty.
His face was gaunt, cheeks hollow, skin the color of old parchment. His eyes were sunken and feverish, and his breath came in shallow, labored gasps. When he saw Amara, he tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace.
"Martha." His voice was a rasp. "My dear. I'm sorry to come home like this."
Amara stepped forward. Her body—Martha's body—seemed to know what to do: take his arm, support his weight, murmur words of comfort. But her mind was elsewhere, cataloging symptoms.
Breathing rapid—maybe twenty-five, thirty times a minute. Skin dry, lips cracked—severe dehydration. Sweat on the forehead despite chills. When he coughs, the phlegm sounds thick and wet.
Could be typhoid. Could be tuberculosis. Could be a dozen other things. Impossible to know without tests that won't exist for another century.
"Don't apologize," she heard herself say. "Let's get you inside. I've prepared a room—away from the children, where the air is cleaner."
They half-carried him to the sickroom. By the time they laid him on the bed, he was barely conscious, his breath coming in rattling wheezes.
A man followed them in—middle-aged, wearing the black coat of a physician. Dr. Mercer, presumably. He set down his bag and began examining Daniel with brisk efficiency.
"As I feared," he said after a moment. "The journey has weakened him further. We'll need to bleed him immediately—perhaps sixteen ounces to start. And another dose of calomel tonight."
Sixteen ounces. A full pint of blood. From a man who was already half-dead.
"Doctor." Amara kept her voice calm. "Is bleeding really necessary? He seems so weak already—"
"That's precisely why we must bleed him, Madam." Dr. Mercer's tone was patient but condescending. "The fever has inflamed his humors. We must draw out the excess heat before it overwhelms his constitution."
"But surely rest and fluids would—"
"Mrs. Custis." The doctor straightened, fixing her with a stern look. "I understand that watching a loved one suffer is difficult. But I have been practicing medicine for thirty years. Please trust that I know what I'm doing."
You're killing him. You're killing him with your ignorance and your mercury and your medieval superstitions.
But she couldn't say that. Not here. Not now.
"Of course, Doctor." She bowed her head. "Forgive me. I'm simply worried."
"Entirely understandable." His expression softened slightly. "I'll perform the bloodletting now. Perhaps you'd prefer to wait outside?"
"No." The word came out sharper than she intended. She modulated her tone. "No, I'd like to stay. To learn how to care for him."
Dr. Mercer hesitated, then nodded. "Very well. Watch closely."
She watched as he opened a vein in Daniel's arm and let the blood flow into a porcelain bowl. Dark red, almost black. Daniel barely stirred—he was too weak to protest, too far gone to understand what was being done to him.
Sixteen ounces. She counted the drips. Felt her stomach turn.
When it was over, Dr. Mercer bandaged the wound and mixed a dose of calomel in water. "He should take this every four hours. I'll return tomorrow to check on his progress."
"Thank you, Doctor."
She walked him to the door, her mind already racing ahead.
I have to stop this. I have to find a way to reduce the damage without being caught.
When she returned to the sickroom, Daniel's eyes were open. Barely. He looked at her with an expression she couldn't quite read.
"Martha." His voice was a thread. "Come here."
She approached the bed. Sat in the chair beside it.
His hand found hers—hot, dry, the grip of a man holding on to consciousness by sheer will.
"I know," he whispered.
Her heart stopped. "Know what?"
"That I'm dying." A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "Don't lie to me. I've known for weeks."
Amara said nothing. What could she say?
"The children," Daniel continued. "Promise me you'll take care of them. Whatever happens. Promise me."
"I promise."
"And the estate." He coughed—wet, rattling. "Don't let them take it from you. You're stronger than they think. Smarter. I've seen it, these past few years."
He paused, catching his breath. His eyes drifted toward the window.
"I've tried to be a good master," he said quietly. "A fair one. I know some men are cruel, but I've never—" Another cough. "I've never been needlessly harsh. Keep things running smoothly, Martha. Don't let the order fall apart. That's all they understand—order. Routine. If you lose that..."
He trailed off, exhausted.
A good master. A fair one.
The words sat in Amara's chest like splinters. He wasn't cruel—she believed that. He probably had never whipped anyone with his own hands, never sold a child away from its mother for profit, never committed the most obvious atrocities.
But he still owned eighty-four human beings. He still believed that "order" and "routine" were what "they" understood—as if the people he enslaved were animals who needed structure rather than human beings who deserved freedom.
He's not a monster. He's just... ordinary. A man of his time. And that's almost worse.
"Rest," she said. "We'll talk more when you're stronger."
His eyes closed. His breathing steadied into the rhythm of exhausted sleep.
Amara sat beside him in the dimming light, still holding his hand.
I'm not doing this for him. I'm doing it for Jacky and Patsy. For my own survival. For the eighty-four people whose fates depend on what happens next.
But maybe—just maybe—I can do it without letting him die in agony from treatments that are supposed to help him.
She stood and walked to the medicine table where Dr. Mercer had left his supplies. The calomel was in a small glass bottle, the dose clearly marked.
Amara picked it up. Looked at it. Thought about the mercury coursing through Daniel's bloodstream, destroying his kidneys, his liver, his brain.
She glanced at the door. Listened. No footsteps. No sound.
Quickly, she carried the bottle to the chamber pot in the corner of the room. She poured out half the calomel—slowly, carefully, watching the white powder dissolve into the contents. Then she wiped the rim of the bottle with her sleeve, refilled it with water from the pitcher, and swirled gently until the remaining powder redistributed.
She set it back on the table exactly where it had been. Adjusted the angle. Stepped back to check.
Same level. Same position. No one will know.
Unless someone was watching.
Sally might be involved. Or someone else. I can't keep doing this forever—sooner or later, someone will notice.
But for now, it buys time.
Then she went to find Old Jenny.
"Willow bark tea," Jenny said, her voice low. "For the fever. Elderflower for the cough. Peppermint to settle his stomach after... after the doctor's medicines."
They were in the kitchen, alone. Amara had sent the other servants away on various errands, buying herself a few minutes of privacy.
"Can you prepare them without anyone knowing?"
Jenny's eyes were sharp, assessing. "You want to give him these instead of the doctor's treatments?"
"Alongside them. To... support his recovery."
They both knew it was a partial truth at best.
"The doctor won't like it," Jenny said slowly. "If he finds out—"
"He won't find out. Not if we're careful."
Jenny was quiet for a long moment. Her hands, gnarled with age, rested on the kitchen table.
"You're taking a big risk, Mistress. For a man who—" She stopped herself.
"For a man who what?"
"Nothing." Jenny shook her head. "It's not my place."
"Please. I want to know."
Jenny looked at her—really looked at her, with an intensity that made Amara want to look away.
"Master Custis isn't a bad man, as white men go. He's never laid a hand on any of us. Never sold anyone just for profit. But he's still—" She hesitated. "He still owns us. He still looks at us and sees property. And when he dies, whoever comes next might be worse."
Whoever comes next.
The words echoed in Amara's mind.
She means me. She's wondering whether I'll be better or worse than Daniel.
"I understand," Amara said quietly. "And I can't promise you anything. Not yet. But I'm trying. That's all I can say."
Jenny studied her for another long moment. Then she nodded.
"I'll make the teas. Tonight, when everyone's asleep. You can give them to him yourself."
"Thank you."
Jenny turned to go, then paused.
"Mistress?"
"Yes?"
"Be careful who you trust." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Not everyone in this house wants you to succeed."
She left before Amara could respond.
That night, Amara sat in the sickroom while Daniel slept.
The house was quiet. Rain tapped against the windows. A single candle burned on the bedside table, casting long shadows across the walls.
She'd given him Jenny's willow bark tea instead of the calomel—told Sally it was a "soothing draught" to help him sleep. Sally had accepted the explanation, but her eyes had lingered a moment too long on Amara's face.
She suspects something. She just doesn't know what.
Daniel's breathing had steadied over the past hour. His forehead was still warm, but the sweat had broken—a good sign, maybe. She'd been monitoring him the way she would have monitored a patient in a modern hospital, using the only tools available: counting breaths per minute, checking the color of his lips and nail beds, noting when he urinated and how much.
Eighteen breaths per minute now. Better than thirty. Urine darker than it should be—still dehydrated. But the fever seems to be coming down.
It might mean nothing. It might be a temporary improvement before a final collapse. She had no way to know.
All she could do was try.
She leaned back in her chair, exhaustion pulling at her eyes.
How long do I have? Days? Weeks? History says he died in July. It's late May now. Six weeks, maybe. Eight at most.
Can I keep him alive that long? Can I keep him alive long enough to secure my position, to make the changes irreversible, to build something that survives his death?
She didn't know. She couldn't know.
The candle guttered. Outside, the rain continued to fall.
And somewhere in the house, Amara knew, someone was watching.
Waiting.
Reporting everything she did.
[End of Chapter 12]