“They’re going to make millions off this land. It’s not even theirs. It’s ours. Yours, mine, and every black person. Our ancestors were the ones who built this place. They lived and died to make it, and what did we get in return? I don’t even know anything about any of them. I know nothing about who they were.”

Mira thought of the story of Marceline. “You know, my mother drove me out here once,” she told Jesse. “She took a shortcut on the way home and we went down this road and she pointed and said our ancestors were buried out here, so where are their graves? Where are they now? I didn’t remember seeing any graves when I took the tour earlier.”

“There is a graveyard. I can show you.”

They walked until they got to another smaller trail, leading into a thicket. Mira stopped but Jesse urged her on, saying they were close, and then they came across the graveyard. The area was gated, and seeing this, Mira was about to give up and turn around but Jesse stopped her. “Hold on,” he said, leaning down and feeling along a cluster of stones near the door. “They keep a key somewhere. I just got to find—Ah, got it.” Jesse unlocked the gate and they went inside. It was dark enough that they had to go to each of the markers and lean down close to see the names, but the graveyard was small so it didn’t take long. All Woodsmans, each of the names, and Mira sighed. She came across Roman’s plot. BORN 1817, DIED 1884. She passed by the other gravestones, those of his wife and the rest of his family members—brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews—but no one else. After they’d gone through them all, Mira looked back at Jesse, horrified. “This is it?” she said. “There’s got to be more. What about the slaves? Where are their graves?”

“Doesn’t look like there are any. Not marked, at least.”

Jesse circled the graves again. He stared down at one of the plots at the edge of the graveyard. He got down in the dirt to inspect closer.

“What is it?”

“This one isn’t like the others. I didn’t notice it before. It’s a fieldstone marker. The others are marble. You see?” Jesse said.

Mira looked. IN MEMORY OF MARCELINE, it read. BORN 1836, DIED 1885.

“I know this name. This is her. Or—it isn’t. I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?” Jesse asked.

“One of my ancestors had a relationship with one of the Romans. She had children, at least one, maybe others, I don’t know.”

“You think this is your ancestor?”

“It could be. Or his daughter. Or it could be someone else entirely. I don’t know.”