Page 56 of These Immortal Truths
Anna has to use both hands to close Jenny’s fingers around the offering. “You can.”
“But—”
“Jenny.” Anna smiles, but she can feel it trembling at the edges—a fragile thing. Born more from hope than happiness. It’s been so long since she’s allowed herself to hope for someone else’s future, and she’s unlikely to ever know if that hope is misplaced. She still can’t help but wish for it. “Keep running. Don’t stop. Not until you find the happiness you deserve.”
When Silas returns from delivering Jenny to the next safe house, he stays.
He doesn’t explain his reasons, but Anna doesn’t need him to. Every evening she catches him sitting on the front step, staring out over the bayou with his feet on the ground and his mind miles away. Waiting.
She still doesn’t know what sort of sign he’s waiting for; has never quite understood how he determines when it’s safe and when it’s not. Whatever he sees in the gentle sway of the trees and slow moving waters must read as warnings, though. It can’t be muchdifferent from the sense of danger she feels pricking the back of her neck when she makes a rare trip into town for supplies and information.
It’s worse than she thought.
Mr. Abel has not only started a movement, he’ssucceeding. Purchasing flour, Anna overhears one of the slave catchers in his employ bragging to the shopkeeper about his triumphs. When she stops by a clothier, she takes her time browsing fabric just so she can listen in on the town gossip. Abel is gearing up to take on the current mayor come election time. He’s doing everything he can to appeal to those with more than enough money to spend so he’ll have their support when it comes time to campaign. It’s no wonder he’s made it his mission to return runaway slaves—claiming ownership over the staff that keeps the house and the fields running is what the wealthy all have in common in these parts.
Anna goes home with dread pitting her stomach. Silas was right—it’s only a matter of time before the wrong eyes turn to her.
That week Silas helps her cut a hole in her bedroom floor. It takes him hours, following the seams of hardwood and installing hinges stolen off her barn door. When he’s done, the trap door blends in almost seamlessly. They adjust the rug to cover it, anyways.
Just in case.
They manage five more runs over the course of three months before a knock sounds on her door.
Anna doesn’t panic. She meets Silas’ eyes from across the room. Trouble is on the other side of her front door and there are six escaped men and women from the nearby plantation under her roof. Without a sound, Silas ushers them into her bedroom. Anna can hear the soft squeak of the hinges, the gentle scrape of the trap door closing, just as the final knock sounds.
She dries her hands on her apron and lets her voice ring clear. “Just a moment!” The words aren’t meant for the person on her front porch. She abandons her canning, half her peaches unsliced, and goes to turn the knob.
Mr. Gerald Abel stands on the other side, his tan suit cleanly pressed and his beard neatly trimmed. Anna knows the hands that provided those services weren’t paid. His smile is oil disguised as syrup; poison pretending to be sugar. “Sorry to barge in on you unannounced, Miss Lydia, but I’m afraid I have some rather serious matters to discuss with you.”
Anna glances at the sky, reds and oranges painting the clouds in ways that promise night will not be far behind. He’s calling on her far later than any respectable man should. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Abel. Might I ask what it’s about?”
He chuckles, hands hooking in his pockets. Behind him, his horse gives a rumbling, lippy sigh. “Why don’t we discuss it inside? I’m feeling a bit parched from the journey.”
Warning bells sound, as loud and jarring as a swarm of cicadas in summer. Anna’s pulse jumps, but her expression remains impassive. She has bought plenty of enough time for Silas to hide the others. She steps aside, gestures for him to come in. “Allow me to get you a glass of water.”
He steps over the threshold, eyes moving over her home with a scrutiny that makes her skin crawl. “A nice little place you have here,” he comments, but there’s nothing more than southern courtesy behind it.
Anna’s lived here long enough to learn the game. “Thank you kindly,” she says, handing him his glass. “I’m quite happy with it.”
He takes a long drink, draining the cup by half before patting the excess away from his mustache with a handkerchief. “It’s quite a ways out. I don’t reckon I realized how far removed you are.”
“It is,” she agrees. “I enjoy the quiet.”
He spots her half-prepared peaches on the table, plucking a slice from the decorative china bowl and plopping it in his mouth. “Mm, these from the Harlow’s place?”
Irritation flares, prickling and hot, but it’s nothing in the face of the fear she can feel beneath her feet. She knows each and every oneof them are listening, hands over their mouths to stifle the sound of their breathing. “Yes, sir, they are.”
Mr. Abel nods, as if he knew it all along. “You know, I’ve always found theirs to be the sweetest.” He picks up one of the whole peaches, turning it in his hands for her to see. “Something tender about the flesh. Course, the missus swears up and down that the Carlton’s are better.” His pale eyes pin her. “Have you had one of them Carlton peaches yet?”
Dread pools in her stomach, a foreboding weight. “I can’t say that I have.”
He hums. “Shame bout them Carltons. They’ve been having a problem with a lot of their slaves running as of late. Catchers keep losing them once they hit the swamp. They’re not too far from you, you know, the Carltons. Just a hop, skip, and a jump, really.”
“That so?” Anna’s hands fold in her apron, the picture of calm. “Can’t say I’ve ever really stopped to think about it. It’s so far to get anywhere, what with the road the way it is. I suppose everyone feels farther out than they are.”
“Of course, of course,” he says, nodding. He places the peach back among its brethren, meaty hands gripping the edge of her table. “You know, I must say, Miss Lydia, you should know now that it’s not proper for a pretty lady like yourself to be out here all alone. Why don’t you move on into town? I hear Mr. Hastings is looking for a new nanny.”
“Thank you, sir, but I am happy where I am.”
