“Bring this pitcher of sweet tea out to Master and his guest on the porch,” she tells me with a look of trying to stir up trouble.

Master sits on a rocker waving his hat in his face to fan the heavy air. A second man sits beside him perched on the edge of a chair like a chipmunk testing the branch for its weight. He’s a tall man, and hungry-thin with worn-out clothes that droop near about as much as his jowls.

“Ah, good, yes,” Master says when he sees me with the glasses and the pitcher of tea. “That’s just what we need.”

I fill the glasses and set the pitcher down and turn to go.

“Sarah, get the fan and give us some air. It’s far too hot today.” He takes a big drink.

“Yes, sir,” I say. I duck down to the carry-through and back to a side room searching for the wicker fan with the long wooden handle. I find it leaning next to a fishing pole and hurry back. Stepping up to the porch, I wave it at their heads. Maple’s going to be spitting coal that I’m not back to help her get the meal ready, but I guess it’s her own fault for sending me.

“I’m not too concerned that you’ve never worked as an overseer, Mister Laramie, though you understand your pay will reflect your lack of experience. My slaves are well behaved and compliant. I don’t anticipate a problem.”

“You seem to have them under control, sir,” Mister Laramie says.

“The secret to keeping slaves is righteous rules. When a horse is ill-treated, we aren’t surprised when it bolts at the first opportunity. And when a master insists on arbitrary beatings and starvation rations, we shouldn’t wonder that his slaves long to be free of him and cause mischief at every opportunity. My slaves are well-treated. They are fed and clothed. I encourage pairings and I almost never break up families. If they work hard, they can expect a peaceful life. It makes rebellion unnecessary.”

“Yes, sir. They look right peaceful. But I never heard of a slave who don’t need a whipping now and then.”

“We whip when it’s necessary, but I prefer to reward good behavior. Take cotton picking. It’s reasonable for a prime hand to pick two hundred pounds of cotton a day. If someone picks more, I might lay on some meat at the end of the week. Or a traveling pass on Sunday. You draw more bees with honey, Mister Laramie.”

“Well, I’ll take your word for that.”

“Yes, you will, sir. If you work for me, you certainly will.”

The sun bakes my skin and the sweat runs down my neck. I swipe at it and draw Mister Laramie’s attention.

He watches me as more sweat beads up and rolls along my skin. I don’t dare touch it. Just let it crawl on down my throat.

“I believe in rules,” Master says, and Mister Laramie snaps his attention back over to him. “I set up rules and I expect them to be followed.” He waves at me to refill his glass. “My last overseer, and others,” he glances at me, “chose to break my rules. I don’t tolerate that.”