CHAPTER ONE

WHATEVER THE TERM

Although I had lived in this century for five weeks, I had still not grown accustomed to its vehicles. They moved too quickly and stopped too abruptly. Even now, as Mark drove me downtown, I pressed against the passenger seat, comforted by the belt strapping me in, and kept my eyes closed. It was best if I did not watch.

His truck lurched to a halt. The driver’s seat creaked. When Mark’s hand closed over mine, I turned to him.

“It’s going to be all right,” he said with a reassuring smile.

I tried to smile back. “Will it?”

“Yes. I promise.” The warmth of his hand slid away as the truck whined forward, its speed increasing at an alarming rate as it rushed toward a version of Raleigh I had never seen before.

I first visited the capital city in 1796, which had been only two months ago—or perhaps I should say two hundred and twenty years. The town in my memory held buildings of wood, huddled beneath tall oaks. Its air had been filled with the crack of hammers and the scent of fresh sawdust.

A different capital city stretched before me. Trees were dwarfed by large buildings of brick, glass, and stone. Wide streets of rough pavement divided the city into blocks. While my previous visit had been exciting, the Raleigh of today overwhelmed me.

There had been little opportunity to travel since my arrival in the twenty-first century. It had taken most of August to recover from my injuries. I’d stayed the initial three weeks at Mark’s grandparents’ lake house, soaking up the simplicity of the country as my body healed.

When Mark returned to high school near the end of August, I moved into his parents’ home. Their neighborhood rested along the quiet fringes of the city and felt nothing like downtown.

Mark turned the truck onto a driveway and through a large door in the side of a tall brick barn.

“What is this?” I asked.

“It’s called a parking garage.”

His answer was not helpful. We drove up and up a winding road, as if climbing a concrete hill.

We were in a building that contained nothing but cars.

He pulled into a parking spot and shut off the vehicle. I could sense his scrutiny on my face.

“We’re here, Susanna. The building we want is just down the street.”

I gave a nod. Why had I come? Was I truly ready?

“Hey. Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I said in a firm voice that belied the quivers in my belly.

He hurried to my door and held it open. I stepped out, smoothed the loose folds of my best gray skirt, and took the hand he offered me. As I walked beside him, my nose twitched at the smell of smoke and fuel.

We crossed a street and entered the tall building that housed the Register of Deeds. Mark preceded me through “security” and then strode toward two metal panels in the opposite wall. When he pressed a button beside them, the panels hissed open, revealing an empty closet.

He stepped in. I did not.

“Get in, Susanna, before it leaves.”

I stared at the small space he stood in, not trusting its ominous clanking. “What is the purpose of that closet?”

His forehead creased. “It’s called an elevator. It’ll lift us to a different floor, so that we don’t have to walk up the stairs.”

Two men pushed past me and waited beside Mark.

He gestured for me to come. “You don’t need to be worried. It’s the fastest way to travel in a building like this.”

“I prefer to travel slowly.”

One of the men cleared his throat. Mark stepped out. The panels hissed shut.

“All right,” he said, his expression patient, “we’ll take the stairs.”

We climbed to the third floor and stopped before a gray-bearded gentleman, sitting at a desk with a sign that read Check In. I waited until he looked up.

“Hello, sir. I am here to speak with Mrs. Heather Cox.”

“Name?”

“Susanna Marsh.”

He inclined his head. “Go down that hall. I’ll let her know you’re coming.”

The hallway had bright lights, plain walls, and a shiny floor. A woman appeared in the doorway at the hall’s end. I studied her as she beckoned to us. Mrs. Cox was tall and thin, with skin of dark brown and the most elegant hands I had ever seen.

“Please sit.” She gestured toward two chairs in the midst of many stacked boxes. “Don’t mind the mess. We’re going through renovations.”

I had never seen a black person or a woman in such a position of authority. Though the concepts were new to me, Mark claimed that it was common; Negroes had been free for over one hundred fifty years, and women had experienced increasing freedoms for not quite as long. After a too-long pause, I said, “Thank you.”

She gave a business-like nod and then donned a pair of glasses. “The circumstances of your case are difficult. I’ve never met anyone with such a complete lack of evidence of their birthplace or family. Do you know of an older relative or a doctor who was present at your birth? Their affidavit would be helpful.”

I frowned at the unfamiliar word. “An affidavit?”

“A written story of his memories,” Mark said under his breath.

I met her gaze calmly, glad that deception was not needed yet. “My father and mother were the only witnesses to my birth, and they are both dead.”

“Any older siblings?”

“My brothers Caleb and Joshua.”

“Would they be old enough to remember anything?”

“Caleb is ten years older than I. Joshua, eight.”

Mark broke in. “Susanna has no idea where her brothers are or whether they’re even alive.”

My lips tightened. He had promised to let me answer the questions until I stumbled, which I had not.

The woman laid her hands on the keyboard of her computer. “What is your father’s name and birthdate?”

“Josiah Marsh. I do not know his birthdate, but he was twenty-eight when I was born.”

“Your mother’s first name and maiden name?”

“Anne Barron. She was a year younger than my father.”

A long minute passed as Mrs. Cox concentrated at the screen, her hand clicking frequently on the mouse-device. “I can’t find either parent in the system.”

I said nothing. Had she found a trace of my parents, she wouldn’t have believed they were mine.

“Your parents were also in this cult?”

The lie stuck in my throat. I looked to Mark for help.

“They were,” he said. “We call it ‘the village.’”

Her gaze flicked over him and then back to me. In a kindly voice, she asked, “Can you contact anyone from the village to see if they might have school records or a family Bible?”

“I cannot.” I shifted on my chair, ill at ease whenever my thoughts strayed to my former life. “My master and his family are long gone.”

“Your master?” She blinked. “What does that mean?”

Mark leaned forward until his elbows bumped the edge of her desk. “Susanna’s stepfather gave her to another family. She was pretty much forced into slavery by the age of ten.”

A shudder passed through my body at the images his words evoked. Was slavery the right way to describe the way I had lived? It didn’t seem right somehow to compare my lot to what slaves endured, but my servitude had been wretched—whatever the term we used now.

The woman pursed her lips in sympathy. “Ms. Marsh, I believe that you were born in our state, but I’m not sure what we can do without acceptable documentation.”

While her words held a glimmer of hope, her dark eyes did not. “If you believe me, why is that not good enough?”

“My opinion doesn’t trump the law. As far as North Carolina is concerned, Susanna Marsh simply doesn’t exist.”