THE WARMTH OF THE SUN saluted me as I stepped out onto the back veranda, where the guards dutifully attended their post. It was unusually quiet this morning. The chatter and singing of the slaves were absent on this beautiful morning. The absence of Jones and his men from the plantation did not hinder its operation, as the slaves appeared to be effectively running the place themselves. Their dedication amazed and puzzled me.

A group of women with baskets on their hips passed me on their way to the river. A thin, pleasant-looking woman called out to me as she passed by, “Bless you and your household, Mistress.” She curtsied.

“Morning, Sara.” I returned a small smile and a wave. Bless me?

I sat on the swing on the veranda and contemplated the last few days. I longed to be a child, unaware of the realities of an adult’s world. Becoming an adult brought with it an understanding of things I wished not to comprehend. Every day life seemed to become more of a mystery. I’d started to question everything. Father had been distant and hard on me since I’d reached the age where his word simply wasn’t enough. Never one to follow another person’s outlook on life, I began to search for my own answers. As I grew older his rules grew stricter and the isolation worsened. My questioning his love had been a constant, but yesterday when Rufus and his man had hurt me, I was convinced it was worry and love I saw in his eyes. Was the desire to be loved by my father the reason for that? Had I read more on his face than was truly there? It couldn’t be out of compassion for a slave.

What about the conversation I listened in on over his selling of live cargo? Did he care simply because Mary Grace and I belonged to him? Then what of the stranger? Who was he? And why had Father hired him to watch over me? This meant I was not crazy—I was being watched. Then there was what Rufus’s man had said about my mother. I reflected on his words: “Maybe she should suffer the same fate.” What had he meant by this? Had they hurt my mother too?

I could never get any information from Father, Jones, or Mammy or any other slave on this plantation. I’d gone over the ledger of slaves purchased before my mother’s death and questioned them all. I’d tried endlessly over the years, but their lips remained sealed. Had Father threatened them? As steadfast as I was in my need for answers, I couldn’t help the gripping fear settling in me. Did I want to know? What if I didn’t like what I uncovered?

I tossed my distraught thoughts aside as Jimmy climbed the steps. His old knees creaked as he sat down on the swing beside me. “How you doing, Miss Willie?”

“I’m managing, but I’m fighting an inner battle.”

“What be de trouble?”

“You would be here for weeks if I told you all that is tormenting my soul,” I said grimly.

“De slaves are calling you de ‘angel up in de big house.’” He smiled proudly.

I frowned. “Why’s that?”

“Dey knowed you tried to save dat slave gal from what happened. Dey say you never left her and ’cause of et you take dis here beatin’. Your name’s falling from all deir mouths today.” He gestured broadly, encompassing the plantation.

The slaves didn’t see me as the failure I feared I was, and their understanding humbled me. I twisted my hands in my lap, fighting back the tears.

Jimmy patted my back. “Dere, dere, gal, et be all right.”

“I’m going to hold onto that hope.”

“I have a birthday present for you.” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a slender piece of wood. A tiny hole at the top had been cut and a thin, worn red ribbon was threaded through, tied, and left long. “I know you lak to read, so I made you dis.”

I received it in awe at the thoughtfulness and the beauty of the craftsmanship. It was a bookmark. He’d engraved wings on either side of the words:

Fly, my little angel,

spread your wings and soar

Above the trees, may you find freedom,

A slave no more.

I was dumbfounded. He could read and write! The words were misspelled, making it dearer to my heart. “I didn’t know you could read and write.” I looked at him, shocked at his willingness to share his secret.

He lifted one of his bent shoulders in a small shrug.

He trusted me! The realization filled me: Jimmy trusted me. My heart leaped with pleasure.

“It’s beautiful, Jimmy, and the words are lovely.” I ran my fingers tenderly over the wording, absorbing the meaning.

“I used to sing dat to my girl, Mag, from de day she was born.” His shoulders slumped. “Some days I can’t recall her face.”

“I’m sorry, Jimmy, that life did this to you.” Saddened by his sorrow, I wished I could ease the pain imprinted on his heart.

“Et is what et is.”

“You chose to put her song on a gift for me.”

“You’re de only thing keepin’ me gwine most days.”

His honesty swelled my heart with unrestrained love. “You’re as dear to me, Jimmy.” I stroked his hand, resting on the swing between us, and today he never flinched from my touch.

“I don’t know, Miss Willie. I’ve bin seeing dat dere Armstrong boy paying a lot of visits nowadays.” He gave my hand a squeeze.

I laughed at his teasing. “Well, you two came storming in like the troops trying to take over the fort I built. My faulty walls have weakened, and I realized he isn’t so bad.”

“You can’t fool ol’ Jimmy. Dat young man’s a li’l more all right den dat.” He winked, then rose and sauntered away.