The baby was warm as a chick, staring up at me, sucking on the heel of its hand.

Dundus. That’s what the others would call it. Nothing but bad luck. They thought I was bad luck too ‒ another malformed creature. Coo ’pon her! Drifting ’tween that porch and that coach-house. Like she own the place! That passel of dried-out old goosetail feathers in the crook of her arm, like firewood. Like she forget she a slave. She a neger, for all she might talk white.

I listened to the scratching at the door.

Then I crouched next to it, and spoke. That silenced her. ‘Tomorrow. Wait for the house to go dark. Then wait an hour. Find a clock. Beg one, thief one. Go get him from down next to the bridge. Get him quick. Don’t know where you can go after that. That’s going to be your problem. Whatever you do, don’t bring him back.’

Next night, down to the coach-house, Langton and Miss-bella asleep. Started with the cabinet, stood back to let the torch press against the window sashes. I had to take myself back to the house quick, after that, but I stopped on the path, just for a moment, and let myself look. The smoke came in small fists, then slackened out into the night air. The wood burning clean. The sight of it froze me where I stood, struck such a queer chime in my heart. Swarms of ash spooled up out of it, like small black birds.

Intention had flown in, when I’d held that baby. I knew I was going to set that fire. Spring myself from that trap.

Chapter Forty-Eight

I feel as if I’ve been struck a blow. The judge droops the black cloth over his wig. He glances across at me. I grip the railing tight, because otherwise my hands will fly away. All my limbs will fly away, all parts of me. I can’t look at you, couldn’t bear to see one of your careful smiles, or, worse, nothing at all. I can hardly hear the judge’s words. I must keep my eyes on his face. There’s still hope, until a thing happens, that it could happen a different way. But then it happens and it is nothing but memory.

The jurors’ verdict echoes while we wait. I allow myself to look at you. You sit, and stare straight ahead, like a man at a tomb. I follow your gaze and see that you’re staring at the stone columns behind the judge’s bench, at the sword, at the gold letters.

The truth is that I am a murderer.

‘Frances Langton,’ says the judge. ‘The scriptures say that whoever spills a man’s blood, his blood shall also be spilled. I have no choice but to give you the sentence of the law. I hope you will make use of your short time remaining on this earth and repent, and I pray that the example you are about to set by your suffering might have a good effect on others and deter them from committing the same grievous sins. In saying so, there is nothing left for me to do but to pass on you the dreadful sentence which the law requires and direct that you, Frances Langton, be taken from here to the place whence you came and thence to the place of execution where you will be hanged from the neck until you are dead.’