He says I should go west, so I go south because I don’t trust him. He could easily turn me in as the murderer and get the law after me.

Fast, but not so fast that I look suspicious, I ride out of New York thinking of the dead man whose clothes I still wear, and this new dead man whose forge and horses I now own. I shudder. Seems I’m climbing out of poverty, but I pray to Christ I’m not losing my soul as I go.

Chapter 8

Maple

If there’s one job I can’t stand it’s clothes scrubbing. I hate the hot water full of lye soap that makes my hands red and rough for days. I hate that Miss Martha wants every dress washed after she done worn it only two times. I hate that nobody makes that child wear clothes for play and clothes for good, like we got nothing better to do all day than wash and mend for a six-year-old. And I hate washing the drawers of the master who never learned to clean his backside right. Soon as I got put in charge here, I gave that job to Annie and Willa ’cause it wasn’t gonna be me doing it.

They wash, but they only do it right if I check on them. Otherwise they’ll rinse everything in cold water and call it clean, no matter what it comes out looking like. Or smelling like.

When I get in from hollering at Miss Lazy and Miss Slow-and-Lazy, I come in the kitchen house to get some black-eyed peas simmering for supper and looky here who’s poking around my kitchen. Miss Spicy-pot.

“Oh, no you ain’t,” I say. “You get yourself away from my pots. I ain’t gonna let you get me again.”

Sarah jumps when I speak up, but she don’t step back from what she’s doing. Instead, she tosses some dried-up green something into the pot and stirs.

“This ain’t no game,” I say.

“I’m making something to help Ben,” she says. “He can’t get a breath in good.”

I sniff at the pot and the smell goes straight up my nose. I snort and straighten. “Your stinky soup ain’t gonna help that man. Let him pass on in peace.”

“Bessie asked me to make something to ease him.” She stirs in the pot and tosses in some more shriveled plants.

“Well, I don’t want none of your witch’s brew in my kitchen house, you hear?” I wave at her like swatting gnats. “Go bother someone else. I’m not gonna be looking over my shoulder while I’m fixing supper, trying to keep you from slipping something in again.”

“You know that was Bessie.”

“I don’t want you in here,” I say.

She act like she don’t even hear me talking, just stands there stirring her weed-water.

My blood boils and I reach over and pop her upside her head.

“Ouch.” She ducks and whirls around.

“Don’t make me march up to the Big House and tell Miss Martha I got a problem with you,” I say.