“Elijah,” he barked from the yard, “hurry with that basket!”
“Yes, sir,” I said, because “no” was not a word we were allowed to keep.
I moved faster, the laundry basket heavy on my arms, counting the minutes until I could slip back into the mansion’s shadow. The big house wasn’t comfort to me, not really. It was a cage with lace curtains.
As I climbed the steps, the front door opened without a sound. Mrs. Vivienne Cross stood there like she’d been waiting for me, though she had no business waiting for anyone except her husband’s temper.
“Elijah,” she said softly.
I froze. It wasn’t fear that pinned me, not at first. It was the way her voice did not match the plantation’s rules. The world spoke to me in orders. She spoke to me like a choice.
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