It was the murder of the children that finally made them join together in their struggle. Not when they all were taken, bound in chains and forced in ships across the water. Not when they were made to stoop and bend, naked, while checked for wounds, their skin pinched for the muscle underneath, their mouths pulled on to show their teeth. Not when their mothers and daughters and sisters and wives were groped as they danced and curtsied on the block before being separated forever. Nor was it when they were brought to the fields, many collapsing to their deaths from the work as the high-noon sun basted their rotting backs. The bullwhip crack hadn’t been enough. All the blood that soaked these fields hadn’t been enough. Even after death, when their desecrated remains were stolen from the graveyards meant to be their final place of rest, it had not been enough to make the others see. What it took was the murdering of a mother’s most loved—of finding them facedown in the murky river, bodies limp and floating, with their outstretched arms forever reaching for the other—before they finally understood.

XXI.

STANDING OUTSIDE IN the hallway, Mira watched as a group of women crowded together in the ballroom. Their skin stood in stark contrast to the blinding white of the room. Rococo white marbled mantels. Frieze molding, painted a brilliant ivory, lined the ceilings. Corinthian columns supported triple arches. White tiles on the floor. In the corner, a cream-colored piano.

The lace curtains that framed the windows were drawn. The women stood, shoulders slumped, faces downcast, their arms hanging limp by their sides. They ranged in age, but the oldest seemed to be in their forties. There were young girls, teenagers, maybe even younger, their thin frames lost in the fabric that covered them. All the women were dressed the same, wearing white cotton shirts with hems that fell to their hips. Their legs and feet were bare.

They made sure to keep their faces turned at the floor, refusing to look at anything in the room or at each other. Like statues they stood, silent and still, waiting for instruction from the men in charge. Occasionally, one of them, usually the youngest, would raise a hand to wipe the crust of sleep from their eyes, but soon after, another would remind them not to move and the hand was quickly lowered.