Mira stared at the marker, frustrated at the lack of answers she’d been given. There was no mistaking that this grave was not like the others, but she struggled to understand the reason for the distinction. Why was this the only marker of one of the slaves, if that’s even what it was? Who had this Marceline been to the rest of them? Had she been Roman’s lover? Or was she his daughter? She was important enough to be buried in this graveyard with the rest of the family, but Mira wanted to know why, understanding she probably never would.

“She died after the war, so she made it through that at least,” Mira said, noting the date. “A small comfort. She died free, whoever she was.” She ran her fingers along the engraved name before dropping her hand. “If it’s her, and she’s buried here, that means he must have cared for her, right? That has to mean something. God, I don’t want my story to have come from rape. I don’t want how I came to exist to have come from tragedy.”

“If you look hard enough at any one of our stories you’ll find some tragedy lurking.” Jesse held out his hand to help Mira up. “I don’t think we’re going to find the answer you’re looking for. Not tonight, anyway.”

They left the graveyard. Jesse locked it back up and hid the key. After, they continued walking around the rest of the grounds, killing time because neither wanted to leave the other, to let the evening end. They passed the majority of the other outbuildings and were near the slave cabins. Mira leaned against a railing and peered into a darkened window.

“I’ve spent my entire life doing what I could to avoid being seen in the way visitors have looked at the black people who work here. I’ve watched as their faces betray their real desire—for all this to be more than replication. They want us serving and smiling and this place delivers. No wonder it’s popular. You realize this, right?”

Jesse walked up to the railing and leaned against it with her. “Yeah, I know,” he said solemnly.

“Why do you stay?”

Mira asked the question because, the way she saw it, he had no ties left in Kipsen, not anymore, and she wanted to know what kept him living in a town that hated him. “After your uncle,” she continued. “You could have left again, gone back to Louisiana. Or anywhere. Why stay? And not just come back, but work here of all places?”

“We do what we have to,” he said. It was a pithy platitude meant at dodging any kind of real answer.

“Come on, you can do better than that.”