I want to buy her from you. Thomas felt his stomach tighten. Celia is not for sale. She's a valuable worker, essential to my plantation's operations. I'll pay five times what you paid. $60.
Still no. Peyton leaned forward, his expression hardening. Let me be direct. That woman murdered my uncle and three other men. I have no proof that would stand up in court, but I know it as surely as I know my own name.
She's dangerous, Mr. Peete. Every day you keep her here, you're putting yourself and everyone on this plantation at risk. Those are serious accusations without evidence. Evidence? Peyton laughed bitterly.
My uncle died three months after that woman's daughter passed. His overseer, his driver, his personal physician, all dead within weeks of each other. You call that coincidence? I call it unfortunate timing. People die, Mr. Peyton.
It's the nature of life. Don't patronize me. I've done my research. I know about the outbreak here last October. How 23 people fell ill and she saved most of them.
I know about the field hand who died of poisoning in December. I know about a girl named Ruth who threw herself down a well. Or tried to. Right before Christmas. And I know Hutchkins' wife just died last month.
Peyton's voice dropped. See a pattern yet? Thomas felt cold spreading through his chest. When laid out like that, the deaths did form a pattern. But he kept his voice steady.
Celia saved 21 people during that outbreak. She's delivered dozens of healthy babies. She's the best medical practitioner in Chatham County. And I'm not selling her to satisfy your vendetta against someone you blame for your uncle's death. You're a fool.
Peyton stood abruptly. My uncle was a fool, too. He thought he could control her. Could use her skills while ignoring the danger. He's dead now.
His overseer is dead. Everyone close to him is dead. How long do you think before she decides you're next on her list? I appreciate your concern. But my answer is final.
Celia stays at Waverly. Peyton stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head slowly. When you end up like my uncle, don't say you weren't warned. That woman is a plague, Mr. Peete. And plagues don't stop until they've consumed everything in their path.
After Peyton left, Thomas stood on the portico watching the man ride away. His hands were shaking, not from anger, but from the creeping realization that Peyton was right. Thomas was in danger. He had known it since finding Celia's journals, since understanding what she was capable of, but hearing it confirmed by someone else made it real in a way it hadn't been before.
That evening, Thomas did something he had been avoiding for months. He went through his plantation records systematically, documenting every death and illness since Celia's arrival. The pattern Peyton had mentioned became even clearer when written down. Samuel, dead from poisoning in December, but Celia had been treating him days before for a minor injury. Ruth, driven to madness and death after confessing to Samuel's murder, with Celia present at her breakdown.
Hutchkins' wife, wasting disease that Celia treated for months, always keeping her alive just long enough to extract maximum suffering from Hutchkins. And there were others Thomas hadn't considered. An elderly field hand who had died in his sleep in November. Natural causes, everyone said, but the man had been in perfect health the day before. A house servant who had fallen down the main house stairs in January, breaking her neck.
An accident, surely, but the servant had complained to Thomas about Celia just days earlier, saying the herb woman frightened her. Five deaths in six months, possibly more if Thomas expanded his search to include less obvious cases. But balanced against that were the 21 saved during the outbreak, the 37 successful births, the countless minor ailments treated and cured. Celia's ledger was working exactly as she had described. Lives saved, lives taken, the scales constantly balancing.
The question Thomas couldn't answer was where he fell on those scales. Was he guilty in Celia's eyes? Had he done something or failed to do something that warranted a death sentence? He treated his slaves better than most masters, didn't he? He provided adequate food, shelter, medical care.
He rarely used the whip. He didn't separate families unnecessarily. But he was still a master. He still legally owned human beings. He still profited from their forced labor.
In Celia's philosophy of absolute justice, was that enough to condemn him? Thomas began taking precautions. He stopped eating food prepared by the house servants unless he watched it being made from start to finish. He locked his bedroom door at night and kept a loaded pistol on his bedside table. He avoided being alone with Celia whenever possible.
He inspected everything she sent to the main house, tonics, herbs, teas, looking for signs of tampering. Though he had no idea what those signs would look like. But he didn't send her away, didn't sell her, didn't restrict her movements, didn't even confront her about Peyton's visit because doing so would be admitting he was afraid. And a master who showed fear to his slaves had already lost the battle for control.
April brought warming weather and the beginning of planting season for the next cotton crop. The fields needed to be prepared, seed sown, irrigation ditches cleared. It was demanding work that required every able body on the plantation, and Thomas threw himself into it with an intensity that bordered on obsession. Physical labor helped him avoid thinking about Celia, about the growing list of suspicious deaths, about the moral compromises he was making daily. But Celia wouldn't let him forget.
On April 15th, Thomas woke to find something on his doorstep. A small cloth bundle tied with twine. Inside were dried herbs he didn't recognize and a folded piece of paper. The handwriting was Celia's. For your health, master.
Steep one spoonful in hot water each morning. It will ease the tension you carry and help you sleep better at night. Consider it a gift from someone who wishes you no harm, as long as you continue to deserve none. The message was clear. Celia knew about his precautions, his fears, his avoidance of her, and she was telling him in her own way that he was safe for now.
The conditional clause at the end was the real message. As long as you continue to deserve none. Thomas stared at the herbs for a long time. Was this a genuine offer of help? A medicinal tea that would actually ease his anxiety?
Or was it a test? A way to see if he would trust her enough to consume something she had prepared? Or worse, was it the first step in a slow poisoning? Something that would take months to kill him while appearing completely natural? He threw the herbs into the fireplace and watched them burn, the smoke carrying a bitter, acrid smell.
That night he slept with his pistol loaded and his door barred, but the gesture had achieved its purpose. Thomas was now constantly aware that Celia knew his routines, his fears, his weaknesses. She had access to his bedroom door. She could leave things for him to find. The message was unmistakable.