I was concerned that Livie was not here to wake me as was usual, but it had been a difficult night for her, and I suspected she needed time alone with her thoughts and disappointment. Esther Mae filled my washbasin and brought me my clothes without comment, so I decided to let it be for the moment. Downstairs, I found the kitchen so crowded with Runians that they spilled out into the backyard as far as the cookhouse. Baskets of apples and bags of brown sugar were lined up on the table as Granny Morgan, her face beaded with perspiration, stirred a bubbling pot of preserves. A line of Runians carried wooden boxes filled with jars and stacked them in the corner of the kitchen. I ducked out before Granny saw me, knowing the production would be halted so she could make me breakfast. Besides, my knotted stomach had no desire for a meal. I had expected the whole of West Gate and Mud Run to awaken to the wrath of w.i.l.l.y Jack desperate to find the runaway that eluded him during his early morning chase. He had less than a fortnight until Twitch and Aunt Augusta returned. The chance of w.i.l.l.y Jack tracking the runaway would fade with each pa.s.sing hour, and the status given to him as a slave driver would not protect him from paying a dear price at Twitch's discretion. Yet I was puzzled when there was no buzz of urgency in the air.

I tugged my shawl up over my shoulders when I stepped into the cool afternoon air. Winston distributed horsehair brushes and buckets of whitewash to a group of Runians under his watch. Suddenly, I realized why he had not driven Aunt Augusta on her journey. It was not a stroke of generosity on her part, meant for him to partake in the shucking celebration. Instead, she wanted him used in other duties during her absence. The respect given him by the other slaves kept them on task. How viciously clever, and a subtle example of why the men of power in the community regarded her as a peer.

"Miz Hannah," Winston said with a drawl as smooth as mola.s.ses. "The boys is gonna whitewash de porch and colonnades. If you is gonna sit here awhile, I'll send 'em off to start de fences out yonder."

He came to me, hat in hand, his gentleness unmarred by the smudges of whitewash speckling his face. I still could not look into his loyal eyes without feeling guilt for the whipping he endured as a result of his kindness toward me.

"That will not be necessary, Winston. I shall do my best to stay out of your way. Perhaps I will go down and visit with Livie. Have you seen her out and about?"

Winston scratched his chin as he ran his eyes from the lower fields, across the hills beyond Mud Run, and then back to me. "You should prob'ly wait on goin' down de hill, Miz Hannah. Ma.s.sa Reynolds rode in from Kentuck early on this mornin'. Might be trouble fo' all of us if he sees you down there. If you don't mind an ol' fool like me thinkin' out loud to hisself, it might be best to let us folk look after Livetta fo' a spell. We know what she is feelin'. She is in de grip of de low-downs, and jes' like de rest of us, she gots'ta make peace with the way things is. No way round it. The Run is a flurry of folks tendin' to their personal ch.o.r.es. James is gonna busy Livetta. Might help stir her alive again."

Winston chuckled as he slapped the dust from his hat before putting it on his head. "Anyways, Esther Mae 'tain't goin' let no hands stay idle durin' fix-up time. Granny always tol' us it's best to keep movin' so yo' lowdown thoughts can't root too deep." Then with a wink he added, "Don't be fretful, Miz Hannah. Give Livetta a few days in de hands of de Runians, and she be fine."

"Winston," I said, before he turned back to his work, "what brought Uncle Mooney back so soon?" My first thought was that word of the runaway had reached him. However, nothing in Winston's demeanor indicated anything was amiss. The quarters were a whisper mill, as Granny Morgan called it. Why were they not abuzz with talk of one of their own breaking away? Especially since it would bring a harder hand down on the rest of them.

"Don't know fo' sure why Ma.s.sa is back so soon," he said after a moment of contemplation. "He's prob'ly itchin' to direct the slaughter."

Winston's matter-of-fact speculation ignited an image of hounds, frenzied by their thirst for blood, attacking the runaway I encountered only hours earlier. A shiver shook the bones beneath my skin, so I pulled my shawl tight around me to bridle the tremors released upon hearing the word slaughter slaughter mentioned so casually. Winston engaged me no further, and with an expressionless nod, strode away without a word of explanation. mentioned so casually. Winston engaged me no further, and with an expressionless nod, strode away without a word of explanation.

I went back inside to collect my thoughts, and once again I was swept up in the whirl of activity. I had long observed the self-serving purpose and calculation in Aunt Augusta's comings and goings, so it should not have surprised me when the epiphany struck me that the motivation for our pre-Christmas visits had little to do with holiday gatherings or meaningful tradition. It was no more than a contrived excuse designed to distance herself from the ma.s.s of Runians as they drained from the harvested fields and were given intimate access to every corner of our house and property for the purpose of scrubbing away a year's worth of weather and wear. Challenged by the shorter days that followed the first frost, Hillcrest was a burst of activity much like a bustling anthill. From afar, the ma.s.s was chaotic and feverish, but when closely observed, each worker focused on his or her individual tasks, knowing the greater community relied on each other to share the responsibilities. Esther Mae led a group of field women from room to room, washing floors and windows and polishing every inch of woodwork and bra.s.s that adorned the interior of the house. A litter of bare-foot pickaninnies, too young for dresses or britches but old enough to handle an oilcloth, joined in, using their oversized shirttails to add some extra shine.

"Gonna take a heap more to impress me enough to whisper yo' name in the missus's ear when she be lookin' fo' house help," Esther Mae called out with a tilt of her head as she scrutinized their work. "Now keep at it, you hear?" She hoisted her hands to her hips and shook an impatient head in the direction of a handful of little dark faces wandering wide-eyed and slack-jawed as they took their first steps inside the walls of the main house. Esther Mae gave them a few minutes to drink it in before hustling them along to their duties. " 'Tain't here fo' gawkin'. Get to work, or you be shovelin' manure out o' the horse stalls tomorr'y."

My presence distracted the little ones, so I withdrew to the sewing room, where Fatima was stacking the cloth and batting Aunt Augusta had acc.u.mulated for use in the winter months, when most of the quilting was done by women on temporary respite from the fields. "Sorry, miss," Fatima said, lowering her head as I entered. She set her work aside and scurried by me toward the door.

"Please stay, Fatima." I smiled. "Don't let me disturb you."

"Yas'sum, miss," she said with a grudging curtsy. Fatima generally went about her business in silent tolerance of the world around her. Her work was thorough and of high quality, particularly her sewing. She made extra clothing for the Runians with leftover cloth or castoffs from our wardrobes, and created most of my ball gowns, which were as fine as any shipped to my counterparts from London or Paris. She carried herself with genteel pride and dignity, rarely speaking to me unless coaxed. I felt like an awkward child as she observed me through golden, nonchalant eyes, even though her papers confirmed she was two months younger than I. During the winter months when Aunt Augusta allowed me to join the quilting circle, Fatima would sit upright and stoic while the other Runians shared stories and songs to accompany their busy fingers. She was meticulous with the st.i.tching and sequencing of her designs, as Aunt Augusta demanded; however, her serious demeanor made me uncomfortable.

Now, left alone with me, Fatima went back to sorting the quilt squares, all the while her unreadable eyes taking stock of me as I settled on the rocker in the opposite corner of the room. I turned my attention to some needlepoint, an uninspired ch.o.r.e of adding yellow, unopened rosebuds to a lace handkerchief meant as a Christmas gift for Aunt Augusta. Aware of Fatima watching me, I fumbled for a short while before losing interest three buds short of completion.

"Shorten the st.i.tch and the design will be tighter and richer."

"Pardon?" My one-word response was all I could muster in my surprise. Fatima came across the room and sat on the chair adjacent to me. I handed her the handkerchief and watched as she effortlessly sculpted a detailed bud from thread and needle. She laid the needlework in my lap and guided my fingers through the st.i.tches of the intricate pattern. I smiled as I watched the next flower take form and relaxed into the movement, until suddenly a horrifying scream filled the house. Fatima's hand jolted and sliced my finger with the needle.

"Oh, my," I said, jumping to my feet. Fatima scrambled toward me as I pressed my finger to my lips, releasing the taste of blood on my tongue. I cried out when she grabbed on to my hand. "What are you doing, Fatima? Release my hand!"

The screams multiplied into a hair- raising chorus that flowed through every window, but Fatima's eyes remained locked on mine. Gone was her nonchalance, replaced now with sparks of crisp determination. She pulled a quilt square from her ap.r.o.n pocket and pushed it toward my face. "Fatima, stop!"

She yanked my finger from my mouth. "Hold still, miss, so it don't hurt." She wrestled my hand toward her with unexpected strength. Before I could defend myself, she uncurled my finger and wrapped the quilt square around the scratch on my skin.

"So sorry, miss! Those dyin' hogs made me jump right out o' my skin." Her eyes glistened with fear. "I didn't mean you no harm, miss. Please don't tell Miz 'Gusta. She won't never let me near a needle again."

Confusion and utter relief blanketed me as Fatima rubbed her hand over mine. She was as shaken as I was as the bellowing cries reached a frantic pitch. I covered my ears, but the screams penetrated me from head to toe. "What is that dreadful sound, Fatima?"

"It's the hogs, miss. The slaughter has begun."

Is this what Winston was referring to? Uncle Mooney returned to supervise the butchering of the hogs. It had nothing to do with the runaway. The murderous cries sickened me, yet a glorious thrill came with knowing that the fate of the hogs meant hope was alive for the runaway. Fatima regained her dignified aloofness and shook her head in disbelief as I smiled at the deathly chorus.

The week dragged without Livie to share my days. Every evening, Esther Mae reported on Livie's improving spirits. Winston was right: The Runians were better equipped to heal Livie's pain in an area in which I had no knowledge or experience. The deathly squeals of the hog slaughter echoed through the hills night and day, until finally the shrieking subsided. The smokehouse was soon bursting with generous cuts of ham, bacon, and sausage, while a steady flow of wagons carried off what was considered by many to be the finest hams Virginia had to offer. The proclamation made Uncle Mooney's chest swell and his pockets bulge. The cleanup of the house and grounds was complete. Most of the women who were released back into Mud Run huddled around cook fires, boiling the excess hog fat to make soap and tallow candles. The older and less hardy Runian women weaved baskets and cornhusk dolls from remnants of the shucking celebration. December darkness fell early and brought with it long, empty nights. After a supper of pork chops and stewed apples, I went out on the porch to enjoy the peaceful stillness that had returned since the hogs were silenced. The alabaster moon was full with a bright ring illuminating the sky around it, a sure sign of winter taking hold of the mountain. Stars floated in every direction, elbowing each other for prominence in the sky. I longed to feel part of the vastness and beauty around me. A whip-poor-will beckoned from the distant fields, accompanied by the strains of a mournful mouth organ down in the quarters. Loneliness crushed me from all sides. I missed Livie, and could no longer sit idly by, so I set off through the shadows to see her.

The sounds of the quarters, once foreign and intimidating, welcomed me now. The heavy scent of ashcakes and fatback scorched the night air, enhanced by the aroma of tobacco puffed through corncob pipes. Candlelight and voices leaked through gapped frames of closed doors where families and friends congregated. Some laughed and told stories; others were pained with exhaustion from the day. The damp paths were empty because, at night, the Runians found refuge within the walls of their homes. The outline of Livie's cabin, bathed in moonlight at the end of trail, brought a smile of relief and antic.i.p.ation. Her shutters were closed and dark, but as I neared, the glint of firelight flickered from the crack of her door and invited me to where she was. I tapped lightly, thinking she may be asleep, but there was m.u.f.fled movement from within.

I nudged the door halfway open and whispered, "Livie?"

A h.e.l.lish orange aura smoldered from the cinders in the hearth, casting a glow across the interior, where it melded with the blackness of shadows that heaved against the far wall. My eyes perused the room for a touch point to make sense of the shimmering angles and tumbling silhouettes. I leaned in farther to better my view of Livie's corner, where her bedding was pulled tight and undisturbed across her pallet. The air was ripe with sweat and musk, accompanied by rhythmic snorts and grunts befitting a deprived swine attacking its swill. The ma.s.s of blankets shifted in the shadows, revealing Fatima's stoic, ebony face. Her acorn eyes, void of emotion, stared at the rafters above and winced when the rise and fall of the silhouette quickened. I stepped away in retreat, but the wood planks beneath my feet creaked as I shifted back against the door. Fatima's lifeless eyes shifted toward me, taking in my horror; only then did she surrender a lone tear into the night. As it trickled down the side of her face and into the straw beneath her head, her eyes closed, offering no more of herself. Though all was revealed in four pounding thumps of my heart, I felt frozen in time. One long, releasing moan jerked the covers one last time, toppling the quilt onto the floor and exposing the mound on top of Fatima. Even through the dimness of the cabin, it was evident that the haunches left bare in their burst of activity were pale and lank, although the face buried in Fatima's bosom remained masked by the long shadow of a chair. Again I stepped back, using the tip of my boot to find a solid plank that would not betray me in the now-silent cabin. However, as I bore my weight, the floor groaned in defiance. The startled figure rolled off Fatima and turned its blazing eyes toward me.

"Uncle Mooney!" His gasped name escaped me before I could stop it. Like a spooked deer, I sprang into the cool night air and dashed through the trees. I expected him to chase after me, but I whisked through the fauna without the echo of footsteps on my heels. The night opened its gullet and swallowed me whole. With tormenting pleasure, the trees rearranged themselves, and I stumbled from one to the other.

Is it the world, or is it I who is turned upside down? Where is the moon? Has it disappeared along with my belief in the moral standards by which I was raised and measured?

The branch of a hickory nearly swept me to the ground, but my legs refused to give way until more distance was put between me and the image of perverse ent.i.tlement disguised as my uncle. In my confusion, I strayed from the path, unsure if my direction was north or south. I slowed to catch my breath and bearing. I ran in the direction opposite the main house, up on the hill. If Uncle Mooney searched for me, he would begin there. Relief took my hand and led me deeper into Mud Run. I emerged from the wooded area of the living quarters. The earth sloped into the flatland where I had danced with Elijah the night of the shucking. A murky fog had settled into the belly of the valley, and if not for the pale lantern glow glimmering through the open door of the distant blacksmith shop, the world around me would have appeared in disarray. At odds with my presence, gauzy tentacles of mist swirled through the fauna and around my feet, bringing with it the p.r.i.c.kle of imminent danger. A twig snapped to my left, dropping my heart into the hollow of my stomach. I bolted toward the lanterns in the distance, but a hand pierced the fog and yanked me backward. My shriek ripped through the trees and echoed up across the ridge.

"Let me go, Uncle Mooney! Don't hurt me!"

The hand tightened and tugged me closer. The force spun my body to face him; however, the eyes leveled on me were not angry, vengeful, or Uncle Mooney's at all.

"Livie!" I flung my hands over my face, unable to catch my breath. Livie gathered me in her arms and bolstered me when my legs wobbled beneath me.

"Girl, you is shakin' like a mouse caught in a snowstorm. What'chu doin' out here by yo'self?"

Livie snuggled one arm firmly around me as she pulled her shawl from her shoulders and wrapped me in it. The night air chilled me, but when Livie pressed her cheek lovingly to mine, I was warmed by the care and concern in her embrace.

"What's happened, Hannah? I know you ain't spooked fo' nothin'."

"I was looking for you you, Livie." I panted. "I couldn't find you."

"Well, now you found me, girl," she said with a heavy sigh of relief. She led me over to a boulder so we could sit and face each other. "Hannah, your cries done scared me half to death."

"I went to your cabin."

"Oh, chile," she moaned. "You didn't go inside lookin' fo' me, did you?" We both knew the answer before the words were spoken.

"I saw something no eyes should ever see . . . something vulgar."

"So when I grabbed yo' arm jes' now, you thought I was Ma.s.sa, didn't you?"

"You know about Uncle Mooney?"

"Know what, Hannah?" Livie's mouth twisted with disgust. "Know about Ma.s.sa Reynolds's late-night visits to the quarters? Why do you think I am out here in the dark, pa.s.sin' the time?"

"Oh, Livie . . ."

"I fetched some biscuits down to James because Ma.s.sa Reynolds got him workin' night and day makin' extra shoes fo' the horses of some town folk. That p.i.s.s-a.s.s driver, w.i.l.l.y Jack, chased me off, saying James can't be bothered on the job. No good will come to me if I show up back at the cabin before Ma.s.sa is finished with his business."

"Uncle Mooney's done this before?"

"Folks say he used to lay down with young Maude over at his place, but she done dried up after she lost a baby in childbirth last spring. Ma.s.sa is partial to light eyes and almond skin, so since the harvest, he's been layin' down with Fatima."

"My G.o.d . . ." I sputtered. "Does Aunt Augusta know?"

"Don't know how she couldn't," Livie said, matter-of-fact in her words, but her eyes lit with contempt. "Where do white women think their men is goin' when the shadows fall and darkness veils their whereabouts? Jes' one more ch.o.r.e we colored gals do fo' the mistress."

"Livie, I have been so naive." I blinked indignant tears I had no right to cry. "Has he . . . has anyone . . . hurt you like that?"

"Not yet," she said, letting me take her hand in mine. "But Ma.r.s.e Twitch has been watchin' me hard lately."

"I would never let him hurt you, Livie."

"I know you mean that with all of yo' heart." Livie's smile was forced with the hint of resignation. "But you can't protect me any more than you can protect Fatima and t'others. Livin' together in the cabin, Fatima is like family to me. So they is hurtin' me bad without layin' a finger on me. What they do to one, they is doin' to all of us. That's jes' the way of it."

"Then I will find a way to protect Fatima as well."

Livie patted my hand, and we sat quietly, watching the moon peel its way through the heavens. One by one the stars revealed themselves once more. Sharing it with my friend, I felt at one with the miraculous display. The stars seemed to look down at us with the same appreciation that we felt looking up at them. We held our breath and each other until the distant clank of hammer hitting anvil shifted our thoughts to James.

"He's a fine man," Livie sighed. "James don't say much, but there is a heap of gentleness inside him."

"He cares for you, Livie."

"He stayed by me night and day since the shucking, when I was mighty low down. At first he didn't say a word; he jes' stroked my hair when I cried and kept fresh logs on the fire. One mornin' I got p.r.i.c.kly and told him to get on out and leave me alone, but he jes' lit his pipe and kept on rockin' in the chair alongside my bed. Finally, I cried away the last of my tears and lay wrung out on the bed. I watched him as he stared at the fire, and wondered what he was thinkin'. James said, 'Livetta, we all gots'ta do our livin' in the now. No good comes from livin' in the past or waitin' fo' a life somewhere down the road. All we got is here and now, girl.' Then he looked over at me, his eyes flickerin' with feelin', and I knowed he wasn't jes' talkin' about me. He was talkin' 'bout hisself too."

I smiled, seeing her face come alive as she spoke of James. "You love him, don't you, Liv?"

Livie closed her eyes, letting the tap, tap, tap tap, tap, tap of James' hammer serenade her. "My ache was so heavy, it sank me into a sorrowful pit. That man lifted my heart and me right along with it. He been so busy with Ma.s.sa's work since then, ain't been much time fo' love." Livie settled a wide grin on me. "But he sure do like it when I bring him biscuits and sit by his forge while he finishes his ch.o.r.es." of James' hammer serenade her. "My ache was so heavy, it sank me into a sorrowful pit. That man lifted my heart and me right along with it. He been so busy with Ma.s.sa's work since then, ain't been much time fo' love." Livie settled a wide grin on me. "But he sure do like it when I bring him biscuits and sit by his forge while he finishes his ch.o.r.es."

"You do love him!" I giggled and looped my arm around Livie's, jostling her until she giggled too. "Why, Miss Livetta, you are so full of him I can practically see it spilling out of your ears." Livie laughed and jostled me back. Instantly, our giddiness was shattered when a thunderous voice echoed through the trees.

"Hannalore! I know you are down here. Show yourself at once."

With swift reaction, Livie pulled me behind the rock. "It's Uncle Mooney," I whispered frantically. The path of his search was traced by the flicker of his lantern winding down the hillside and into the far edge of the quarters.

"I have searched the house, so I know you are here. Come, now, Hannalore. You are not in trouble; I simply want to talk with you." Uncle Mooney's voice was tight with harnessed anger. The charm he attempted to wrap around his words was as transparent as a butcher coaxing a plump hen to the chopping block. "I don't know what you think you saw," he continued in a forced melodic voice. "But it won't matter one way or the other if Augusta suspects you have been down here mingling with the chattel."

His lantern wove among the bare trees and closed the distance between us. Crouched against the rock, Livie tucked around me like a coc.o.o.n. She whispered in my ear, "Stay quiet and let him pa.s.s." The glow from his lantern crept toward us, bathing the brush and fauna surrounding us. We shrank into the shadow cast by the rock and remained locked together so securely it was impossible to distinguish where Livie's trembling frame ended and mine began. The thick stench of whiskey announced his presence, and as he moved nearer, we nudged our bodies with the shifting shadow to stay out of sight. The heavy clank of tin crashed above us as Uncle Mooney slammed the lantern down on the rock.

"d.a.m.nation on you, girl," he grumbled as the lantern teetered above our heads. A glimpse of Uncle Mooney's hardened figure revealed him hastily dressed, with the b.u.t.tons of his vest crooked and out of order. His neatly groomed muttonchop whiskers were moist with perspiration and his eyes were ablaze. Taking stock of himself, he loosened and reordered the b.u.t.tons of his vest, then tugged his lapel and collar into alignment. The glow around us swirled as he s.n.a.t.c.hed his lantern and panned the darkness in front of him, unable to contain his fury a moment longer.

"This is not over, Hannalore," he snarled as he stepped beyond us and descended the hill toward the flats. "No one crosses me without retribution-least of all the orphaned offspring of darky-loving traitors. I harbor no family obligation toward you or your parents, so you would be wise to remember who you are dealing with, or you will meet the same fate as them."

My jaw dropped in confusion and fear. All I could do was shudder in Livie's arms as Uncle Mooney disappeared from sight, his words delivering a blow that knocked me breathless.

Chapter 16.

By the time Aunt Augusta returned from Roanoke, the Yule log had been raised from the swamp along the Horse's Bend, lifting the mood of the plantation as it did every year leading up to Christmas. To my surprise and utter relief, Uncle Mooney did not reappear or confront me during this time. Perhaps he had been too intoxicated to remember the incident, or simply too busy with the sale and distribution of his hams to dwell on the matter. Still, Livie and I had doubts about Uncle Mooney's intentions, so she came and stayed with me in my room, sleeping on the trundle bed as she did when she first came to Hillcrest. I halfheartedly resisted, but was inwardly grateful when she prevailed in her faithful concern for my well-being.

No outward proclamation was ever made about the slave who escaped from Uncle Mooney's stock, which was highly peculiar and piqued my curiosity about the crooked building behind West Gate. I fought the temptation to reveal my back-lot discovery to Livie. I did not want to stir her melancholy back to the forefront of her mind by rehashing the night she had mistaken the fleeing man for Marcus. James became a steady fixture by her side as the lessening burdens of the holiday season allowed the Runians a little extra time on their own. Soon, the annual holiday ball hosted by Aunt Augusta was upon us. Winston headed a group of Runians sent into the highlands to cut the blue spruce most worthy of our hearth, where it was then trimmed with candles and ornaments of fine silver.

For me, the holiday brought wistful thoughts of Christmas past. A warm, festive cabin filled with laugher and hugs. Happy people with faces I could barely remember, playfully tousling my hair and kissing my cheeks. I ached for the snugness I felt when tucked in my bed in the cabin's loft, with the sound of song and dance swirling below me. Each year those memories faded a little further, keeping me awake through restless nights, trying to fill in the lost pieces of those days. Although Uncle Mooney's denigration of my parents raised questions within me, I refused to allow his a.s.sault to dampen my mood.

What a pleasant surprise to find myself looking forward to the holiday at hand. Colt arrived home two days earlier, after spending five months in Richmond under the guidance of his mentor Dr. LaValle. Colt was euphoric upon his return and filled with stories and experiences of treating the ill and downtrodden, and seemed more of a man than when he left for the city. As I stood with him at the parlor window, watching a small line of snow geese follow the flow of the river south, it was as though he had never left. After Colt's first month gone, I had written asking him to purchase a ring on my behalf as a surprise for Livie. I carefully traced a circle on paper as measure for size, and printed detailed instructions for a ring of simple pewter with the letters L and H etched side by side in delicate balance. I was delighted with his choice, and it pleased him when I kissed his cheek in grat.i.tude.

"If I had known payment was to be so sweet, I would have bought the entire display of fine baubles and presented them to you day after day until your heart was mine, Miss Hannalore Blessing."

I giggled at his teasing remark as I ran my gloved thumb over the letters of the ring, bringing forth more l.u.s.ter. When I looked up into the gold dust sprinkled in Colt's dark eyes, they were soft and penetrating, without a hint of boyish silliness. I realized Colt was not teasing me. My heart and breath failed me, leaving me motionless until I willed them back to life. Suddenly, I was flushed and unbalanced. I opened my mouth to speak, but my words fell over themselves, unable to find root in the emotion Colt was hoping to pull from me. I loved Colt, dearly and completely. In his absence, I often ached for the comfort his nearness afforded me. But did that make him a potential suitor or a brotherly confidant? I had never seen sincere desire looking at me through a man's eyes, but my instincts recognized it now. He leaned closer to me, searching my eyes for invitation. My heart wobbled, unsure whether to retreat from him or protect his vulnerability. He lifted a finger and placed it gently on my lips.

"Say nothing for now, Hannah. I am surprised by these feelings as well. But given time to digest them, you will realize as I have, the affection has been seeded and growing for years."

His finger hesitated before leaving my lips, then brushed along my cheek and up under my chin, tilting it upward to catch my mouth with his. My eyes never closed as I watched him savor the taste of my lips. His kiss ached with tenderness, raising a warm tingle within me where his hands caressed my face, releasing like a wave down the nape of my neck and across my breast. I stepped back with cheeks flushed where his hands had stroked me.

"I must go and ready for tonight," I gasped in full retreat. "There is much to do, and I need time to prepare."

Colt brushed his hand from my elbow to my fingertips, bringing them to his lips before releasing them with a smile. "Go then, Hannah. Take all the time you need to ready yourself. Preparation is vital. The celebration will be all the more memorable and enriching once you are ready."

Colt's meaning was clear and had little to do with the night's festivity. As Colt made his leave, the sliver of composure I had held on to left me. I sprinted up the steps, stumbling twice on the hem of my dress as I navigated the stairs as awkwardly as my journey between girl and woman. I did not know what to expect or feel. Common sense told me to stop, slow down, and get my footing under me. First the stairs, and then whatever else followed.

Alone in my room, I sat at my vanity, gazing into the looking gla.s.s without notice to the perplexed image fretting back at me. My thoughts continued to swirl with confusion, until the chorus of banging pots and clanking dishes echoed from downstairs, reminding me the house was humming with last-minute preparation for guests on the brink of arrival. The door swung wide and Livie came rushing at me from across the room.

"I jes' knowed you be up here dawdlin', girl," she said as she loosened the pins in my hair so she could stroke my locks into order. "Folks will be comin' soon. I am helpin' Esther Mae downstairs. Everything is fine and fanciful. Never see'd nothin' like it. Ma.s.sa Charbonneau's cold heart never felt nothin' special 'bout Big Times. He say the sun come up and go down like any other day. Sometimes we worked, or sometimes Ma.s.sa be gone and the overseer saw fit to give us a day to tend to our own ch.o.r.es. Folks on ol' Ma.s.sa's plantation said t'other ma.s.sas roundabout don't even call their properties out fo' work fo' two, even three, days in a row come Big Times. Some said that no workdays come with a jar of blackstrap mola.s.ses fo' each cabin, and visitin' papers fo' them with family scattered on other plantations. I shrugged 'em off as tall tales, since nothin' seemed no different from where I was sittin'."

"Charbonneau? Is he the cruel owner you ran away from?"

Livie halted, realizing she let slip a detail of her past that had remained unknown even to me. Anxiety wrenched her face, so to make light of her revelation, I fought back my curiosity and shifted our conversation to what she could expect of Christmas at Hillcrest.

"Tonight's festivities will be grand, with the finest families of the county invited to join us for a Christmas Eve feast followed by dancing and singing in the parlor. Shortly after sunrise tomorrow, all the Runians from oldest to youngest will gather around the front porch. Winston stands midway on the steps, greeting everyone, and when all heads are accounted for, he begins playing cheerful tunes on his fiddle. The littlest pickaninnies are lifted onto wooden crates placed along the porch, where they dance and clap with the music coaxing us from the house. When Aunt Augusta and I hear the fiddle, we come out onto the porch and are entertained by the singing and dancing. When the last note floats up the mountain, Aunt Augusta formally acknowledges the Runians for their loyalty and the year's production. She instructs Winston and two chosen field hands to open the crates and disperse two pounds of salted pork, two jars of mola.s.ses, and a peck of cornmeal to the head of each family or cabin. Each slave receives a new pair of ox-hide shoes and a coat for the coming year. The men stand in line to receive a set of wool trousers and cotton shirt, while women receive a pair of wool stockings and skirt with cotton shimmy. Chambray cloth is given to each household for the women to make additional clothing as needed, and each child is given two oranges delivered north from the warm groves south of Georgia."

Livie had stopped brushing my hair and stared at my reflection, as if I were telling her a bedtime fairy tale. I thought she would squeal with glee, but she stood more like a woman than I had ever seen her. She soaked it in, as if needing time to understand the motive. So I continued.

"I love the excitement, although some Runians are simply dutiful in their partic.i.p.ation. It is a brief moment of being connected to each other, usually soiled by Aunt Augusta's expectation that each Runian come forward to thank her for her generosity and for being such a fine mistress. Satisfied with their well-orchestrated reverence, she dismisses them with the promise of no call to duty while the Yule log burns. Of course, the house slaves find no reprieve in this decree; however, their duties are lightened greatly once tonight's party has concluded. Only then will they have time to spend with their families."

"Do Ma.s.sa Reynolds do the same over at West Gate?"

"Of the two plantations, Aunt Augusta is held with better regard for her treatment of her slaves-a wise calculation in her mind. When Uncle Mooney scoffs at her allowances, she tells him, 'Loosen the reins enough to allow them to gallop and prance. Then when the reins are pulled tight again, both mind and muscle will be ripe in the bridle.'"

"Does he follow suit?"

"No, he simply sucks his cigar and puffs smoke rings into the air, as if considering her suggestion, then snorts in amus.e.m.e.nt at her yearly urging." Disappointment dulled Livie's eyes as she took in my words, so with a coy smile I sparked them bright again. "Uncle Mooney may not gift his stock as much as Aunt Augusta; however, his slaves are not called to duty during the burning of the Yule log as well. You and James can enjoy your own Big Times this week."

Livie's smile radiated enough pure joy to keep it glowing several hours later as she joined the ranks of the kitchen help in serving warmed spiced cider to our guests as they arrived. Uncle Mooney's carriage rumbled onto the property first. As Winston opened the door, Uncle Mooney walked in full stride from the porch.

"Winston, why aren't these lanterns lit? If not for the full moon, we would have misdirected the horses into the side yard."

"Sorry, sah," Winston said, dipping his head as he removed Uncle Mooney's coat. "De wind must have snuffed 'em."