She stands in front of the window with the sun shining in all around her, worrying her hands. “She didn’t pass,” she says with a heaviness in her voice.

“Best tell me,” I say, sitting myself on the bed.

She flicks her eyes to the door, the dresser, then to me on the bed. “She got sent to the fields,” she says.

I want to laugh. It just would never happen. “Momma ain’t no field hand,” I say. She’s been in charge of the house since before I was born. And she’s been Master Jeremiah’s favorite all that time. “He’d never put her in the field.” Lord knows his wife was screaming for it every week. That, or sell her. If he wouldn’t do it while she lived, why would he do it now she’s dead and gone?

“Times’ve changed, Maple.”

The skirt of Kitty’s dress sways as she walks to the bed. When she sits beside me, her feet poke out from under the hem, showing matching blue silk slippers. He never dressed Momma up like that.

I don’t know how to feel. Momma hated being in his bed, but if getting out means picking cotton with a whip singing overhead from sunup to sundown, then it’s a hard price. And I don’t know what to think about him dressing Kitty up like a doll.

“You look real pretty,” I say.

She smooths her hands down the front of her dress. “I got three more just like this.” She flashes me a smile that dies on her face before it reaches her eyes.

When I climb back downstairs carrying the tea tray to the parlor, Miss Martha’s sitting rod-straight across from Master Jeremiah’s slug-slouch. Both of them look ready for this visit to be over.

I set the tray on the table between them and pour the tea.

Master Jeremiah hands his cup back to me saying, “Maple, sugar, get me some fire for this, would you?” He means a shot of whiskey.

I look over at Miss Martha, who clears her throat. “We don’t serve spirits until after supper at Jubilee.”

He looks at me like he’s waiting for me to fetch his whiskey anyhow.

“Maple’s got to follow our rules now,” she says. “Matthew’s and mine.”

He bristles at that, and so do I. I hold his tea, not sure what to do with it.

“If I’d known he’d turn out to be no better than a Puritan Yankee, I’d never have let you marry Matthew Johnson.”

In the strained silence I set his cup back down on the table.

“Might as well take that away,” he says, shoving the cup. “Without fire it tastes like piss-water.” Tea sloshes over the tray and spills on the wooden table, and I take off my apron to sop it up.

“Welcome, Jeremiah,” Master says, entering the room with Master Thomas scurrying beside him. “This is certainly a surprise.” He offers his hand to his father-in-law, who doesn’t stand to shake it. Master shoots Miss Martha a look.