“I don’t usually like to sell off my slaves once they come on to my land. I like for them to think of it as home. It makes for better workers and a better yield if you let them be rooted to the place.”

The man nods, considering. “I see your point. And how long has she been with you?” he asks, tipping his head toward me.

“Nearly a year.”

“Pardon my saying so, but that’s hardly time to settle in. It’s more like passing through. What about these two? Have they been here any shorter?”

“Oh, no,” Missus says. “Willa was born here, and Annie came here as a little pickaninny, about three years old.”

He nods. “Then this one,” he says pointing to me, “seems indeed the best choice. I want to be fair about the price and your trouble. For my part, I sure am tired of eating baked beans.”

Master and Missus both laugh at that.

“I must say, I have heard about the poor diet of the Western settler,” she says.

“Well, whatever you’ve heard I can assure you the truth is much worse.”

They all laugh again and I start to worrying that they just might sell me to Tennessee.

“I’d like to help you,” Master says, “but I’ve just paired her off with a loyal and likely buck. I’d hate to do that and then sell her away.”

The man’s eyes flash to me and I read the disturbed surprise in his face. “Paired her off? How long ago was this?”

“Saturday,” Master says.

“Well, really, it was last week,” Missus says, “but we moved them in together on Saturday.”

The timber man takes a moment to recover his surprise. “At the risk of sounding impertinent, I wonder how strong a bond may have formed in a few days. Might he not be equally happy with someone else?”

Missus sets her napkin down and straightens her spine. “We wouldn’t pair them and then take her away, sir. That seems uncommonly cruel.”

“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, madam. And as I say, sir, I’m prepared to compensate you appropriately. Do consider how much the inconvenience may be worth to you.”

Chapter 70

Henry

When I come to, my face is throbbing, it hurts to move, and I can’t feel my arm, but at least there’s no sign of Mulch. The fog in my head keeps me from concentrating, but I know I have to do something about the knife gash. At the edge of the clearing, I see the plant Sarah used on my cut hand that first day in the thunderstorm. I crawl to it, chew the leaves like she did, and spit it on to my wound. I tie my arm tight with the strip of her dress that served as our binding cloth. The effort is immense and, when I’m done, I pass out in the grass.

The cicadas’ evening song wakes me, their harsh clicking and rattling passing into my dreams and jarring me into consciousness. Everything hurts, but I jolt upright with fear and urgency. I’ve lost the day. Aaron Newman will already be at the plantation.