"Did you ever wonder how he died?" Thomas's mouth went dry.
"Natural causes. That's what I was told." "He did?" "Heart failure from years of hard living. I had nothing to do with it.
I wasn't here yet. But when Peyton's estate was liquidated, I knew where I would end up.
Word travels among slaves faster than among masters. I knew Waverly was being sold to a new owner from Charleston. I knew you were young, inexperienced, ambitious. I knew you would need a skilled healer. She moved closer.
So, I made sure no one else bid on me. Told the other slaves what happened at Peyton's. Let them spread the word to their masters. Made myself seem dangerous, cursed, bad luck. Also, that you, who didn't know any better, would buy me cheap and bring me here, where I could work, heal, teach, and yes, occasionally dispense justice that white courts won't provide.
You manipulated me from the beginning. I use the tools available to me, just like you use whips and chains and bills of sale to control us. We each have our weapons, master. Mine are just less obvious. Thomas realized he was trembling.
Whether from anger or fear, he couldn't say. I could sell you, send you south, away from everyone you know. You could try, but who would buy me now? Everyone from here to Mobile has heard the stories. And if you sold me, who would care for your sick?
Who would deliver your babies? How many people would die before you found someone half as skilled? She smiled without warmth. I've made myself necessary, master. That's the real power, not the ability to kill, but the ability to save.
People forgive almost anything from someone who can save lives. The truth struck Thomas like a physical blow. Celia had made herself indispensable, and in doing so, secured a kind of freedom no legal document could provide. She couldn't be sold because she was too valuable. She couldn't be punished because too many people depended on her.
So, what do you want from me? Thomas asked, finally. Nothing you aren't already giving me. Freedom to practice my healing, access to herbs and plants, respect for my knowledge, and one more thing. Look the other way when the scales need balancing.
Don't ask questions you don't want answers to. Don't investigate deaths too closely. Let nature take its course, even when nature has a helping hand. You're asking me to be complicit in murder. I'm asking you to be complicit in justice.
There's a difference, though I don't expect you to see it. But think on this, how many slaves die every year from the cruelties of this system? How many are whipped to death, worked to death, bred like animals, sold away from families? And how many masters ever face punishment? The law protects you, not us.
So, we make our own justice in the only ways available to us. Thomas had no answer. The moral foundation he had built his life on was cracking, revealing contradictions he had never wanted to examine. He was a slave owner who considered himself humane, a participant in an inherently inhumane system. Get out.
He said quietly, "Leave me alone." Celia nodded and moved toward the door. But before she left, she turned back. Hutchkins' wife will die within a week. After that, Hutchkins will be different, quieter, less efficient. He'll start drinking.
The guilt of failing to save her will eat at him. You'll need a new overseer within a year. I'd suggest promoting Daniel. He's smart, fair, and the workers respect him. How do you know all that?
Because I've seen it before. Grief follows predictable patterns, especially when mixed with guilt. Hutchkins knows deep down that he's done bad things in his life. His wife's death will make him confront that, and he won't survive the confrontation. She left then, closing the door softly.
Thomas stood alone in the cabin for a long time, surrounded by jars of dried herbs and bottles of tinctures, feeling as if he had just touched something ancient and dangerous that he would never fully understand. That conversation in early January marked a turning point. Thomas didn't report what he had learned, didn't try to sell Celia or restrict her movements. He told himself he was being practical, making the best of an impossible situation. But late at night, alone in the master's chamber, he knew the truth.
He was afraid. Afraid of what Celia might do if he moved against her. Afraid of losing the only competent medical care his plantation had. And perhaps most disturbing, afraid that her philosophy of balancing scales might contain more truth than he wanted to acknowledge.
Hutchkins' wife died on January 9th, exactly as Celia had predicted. The woman simply faded away over the course of a week, growing weaker each day until her breathing stopped one cold morning just before dawn. Hutchkins was devastated. He had sat vigil by her bedside for three days straight, watching helplessly as she slipped away despite Celia's attentions. Or perhaps, Thomas thought darkly, because of them.
The change in Hutchkins was immediate and profound. The lean, efficient overseer who had managed Waverly with iron discipline, became a hollow shell. He still performed his duties, but mechanically, without the sharp attention to detail that had made him valuable. He began drinking heavily, starting with a glass of whiskey at noon and continuing throughout the afternoon until he was barely coherent by evening. Thomas tried to address it several times, but Hutchkins would just stare at him with red-rimmed eyes and say, "She shouldn't have died, Mr. Peete.
She was only 43, strong as an ox until she wasn't. Doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense.
By February, Hutchkins was useless as an overseer. Thomas had no choice but to promote Daniel, just as Celia had suggested. Daniel accepted the promotion with quiet dignity and proved surprisingly effective at managing the other workers. He was firm, but fair, respected rather than feared, and production actually increased under his supervision. Celia's influence continued to grow.
Women from neighboring plantations began appearing at Waverly, sometimes with their masters' knowledge, sometimes without, seeking Celia's advice on matters ranging from difficult pregnancies to mysterious ailments that white doctors couldn't cure. Thomas found himself in the peculiar position of running what amounted to a medical practice, with Celia as the primary practitioner and himself merely the owner of the facility. The fees from these consultations were substantial.
By March, Celia's medical work had brought in nearly 800, more than some field hands generated in an entire year. Thomas kept careful records, depositing the money in his account at the Planters Bank of Savannah, telling himself he was simply managing his plantation's resources efficiently. But, he knew better. Every dollar earned from Celia's healing tied him more tightly to her, made her more indispensable, more protected. He was becoming complicit, not through action, but through acceptance, through the slow erosion of principles in favor of profit.
In late March, something happened that forced Thomas to confront just how far he had fallen into Celia's web. A man arrived at Waverly one afternoon riding an expensive horse and dressed in the fine clothes of Charleston's merchant class. His name was Robert Peyton, and he was the nephew of the late Dr. Harold Peyton, the man who had owned Celia before Thomas. Thomas received him in the main house parlor, offering bourbon and the careful courtesy that southern hospitality demanded, but Peyton waved away the drink and got straight to his purpose.
"Mr. Peete, I understand you purchased a woman named Celia at auction last August."