But always keep the ledger. Every life saved, every death allowed, every choice made must be recorded and remembered. This is our power and our burden. We are not slaves, though they call us such. We are keepers of the old knowledge, and that knowledge makes us free in ways they cannot understand or take from us.
It was signed, Phoebe, and dated March 1838. Celia's mother, the woman who had taught her daughter not just healing, but a philosophy of selective mercy and calculated revenge. Thomas heard footsteps outside and barely had time to replace everything before Celia entered. She stopped in the doorway, eyes moving from Thomas to the bed to the hidden box. She knew.
"Your wife is asking for you, master." Celia said quietly. "You should go to her now." "I don't have a wife." "Don't you?"
"Then perhaps I misspoke. Hutchkins' wife, I meant. She's asking for him. Wants to see him before the end." "The end?"
"The end that comes for us all, master.
Some sooner, some later, but it always comes." She stepped into the cabin, closing the door. "You've been in my things." There was no point denying it. "I have."
"Find what you were looking for." "I found notebooks, records, a letter from your mother." "I know what you've been doing." Celia sat on the bed, moving with weariness. When she spoke, her voice was soft but clear.
My daughter's name was Sarah.
She was 17 when she got the pneumonia. Strong girl, smart, beautiful. Could have been anything if she'd been born free. She looked at Thomas, tears in her eyes for the first time. Dr. Vance came to see her.
He was drunk. I could smell it, see it in his eyes. But he was white and educated, and I was just a slave woman. So, my opinion meant nothing. He gave her calomel and ordered bloodletting.
I told him it was wrong. He had me whipped for contradicting him. Her hands clenched into fists. I watched my daughter die slowly over three days. Watched the calomel poison her.
Watched the bloodletting drain what little strength she had. She died in agony calling for me, and I couldn't help because they had tied me up in the barn to teach me respect for white medicine. I'm sorry. Thomas said, and meant it. Sorry doesn't balance the scales, master.
Sorry doesn't bring her back or punish the man who killed her through negligence and pride. So, I did what I had to do. Dr. Vance died from what looked like influenza complications, but Celia admitted she had used a toxic herbal preparation in a way designed to make his decline appear natural. Marcus died because he helped hold me down for the whipping. Kelly died because he laughed while they beat me.
And Peyton died because he owned us all. Because he created the system that let my daughter die while I watched helplessly. She stood facing Thomas directly. I'm not sorry for any of it. They deserved what they got.
And if that makes me a murderer in your eyes, then so be it. But I'm also the woman who saved 21 people during the outbreak. I'm the woman who's delivered 37 babies in the past year, losing only two. The scales balance, Master. That's all I'm trying to do.
Balance the scales. Thomas felt trapped between horror and something like admiration. What Celia had done was murder, cold and calculated, but she had also saved countless lives. Was she a monster or a healer? Could she be both?
What about Ruth? Ruth came to me for help. I gave her knowledge. She made her own choices. But I also saw in her what I've seen in others who take a life.
The guilt that comes after, the way it eats at the mind. I gave her peace, Master. Gave her a way out that was gentler than what she would have suffered otherwise. And Hutchkins' wife? Celia's expression was neutral.
Everyone dies eventually, Master. The question is when and how and whether they deserve their fate. She paused. Hutchkins was overseer at Peyton's place before he came here. He supervised my whipping, held the rope himself.
You didn't know that, did you? Thomas felt his stomach drop. No, he's not a bad man, just following orders. But my daughter died while I hung in that barn, and he's part of that chain. So yes, his wife is going to die.
Not quickly, not obviously, but inevitably. Call it murder if you want. I call it justice. The cabin seemed darker, though the candle burned as brightly. Thomas realized he stood at a crossroads.
He could report what he knew, try to have Celia arrested, but he had no proof beyond notebooks that could be interpreted as philosophical musings. And if he moved against her, who would care for Waverly's sick? "What happens now?" Thomas asked. "That depends on you, master. You can try to stop me, but you won't succeed.
Too many people depend on me, trust me. Move against me, and you'll have a rebellion. Or you can look the other way, let the scales balance themselves, and benefit from my skills. Your workers will be healthier, your profits higher. All it costs is your conscience and the lives of a few men who probably deserve what they get."
"And if one of those men is me?" Celia tilted her head, considering.
"Are you guilty of anything, master? Have you harmed someone who didn't deserve it? Killed someone through negligence or cruelty? Because if you haven't, you have nothing to fear from me. I don't punish the innocent.
I only balance the scales." Thomas thought about his treatment of the people he owned. By slave-holding society standards, he was decent, but he was still a master, still participating in a system built on human bondage. In Celia's eyes, did that make him guilty? "The Waverly plantation came to you from the previous owner," Celia said softly.