"He's my kin. I ain't letting him die tied to no wall." Through the night, Josiah drifted in and out of consciousness. He thought of his mother's voice, of freedom, of the faces of those who had vanished before him.
Each memory felt like a candle burning low. He wondered if he would become another name whispered in fear, another lesson for the living. Rain tapped the roof harder. Wind moaned through the cracks in the boards. He lifted his head weakly, chains clinking, and whispered, "Lord, if you hear me, give me strength, not for mercy, but for justice." Outside, lightning split the sky, blinding white against the black clouds.
The thunder followed, shaking the ground as if the heavens themselves had finally taken notice. In that flash, the outline of the barn glowed for an instant, stark against the storm. It was a warning or a promise. The wind carried the scent of rain and something darker, something that whispered of reckoning still to come. And in that moment, even the night seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the storm that was about to break.
Not only in the sky, but in the hearts of those who had kindled it. The storm came down like a curtain. Rain hammered the roofboards of the barn. Drumming so loud it swallowed the groans from inside. Wind clawed through the gaps, carrying the smell of wet earth and lightning.
In the murk, a shadow slid along the wall, careful as a fox. Isaac pressed his shoulder to the door, listening for the overseer's boots. Nothing but thunder and the dull stamp of a nervous horse. He slipped inside and shut the door against the wind. A weak lantern guttered near the feed bin, throwing a sickly light over Josiah, shackled upright to the post.
The marks of the punishment were still visible across his back and ribs. His head hung, but his eyes, when they found Isaac, were steady. "Cousin," Isaac whispered. Josiah's lips twitched. Not a smile, just recognition.
"You came," Isaac pulled a small improvised tool from his pocket and worked at the old shackle with trembling hands. "Hush now," he said softly. "Ain't but a minute." After a tense struggle, the lock finally gave and the shackle opened. Josiah sagged forward. Isaac caught him and eased him to the straw.
"Can you stand?" "Enough," Josiah murmured. He drew a breath that seemed to rake his chest from the inside. Then he raised his head, and Isaac saw what lived behind his eyes. Not panic, not a blind rush for the tree line—something colder, balanced. "We run for the bayou," Isaac said quickly.
"I know a hollow by the cypress roots. We can hide till morning." Josiah shook his head. "No."
He looked toward the house, a pale rectangle of lamplight behind the sheets of rain. "They preach order like it's God's own law. Let them meet the law they wrote." Isaac's mouth went dry.
"What you talking about?" "I'm talking about balance," Josiah said, his voice low and even. "If God won't see justice, then I will make Him look." Isaac swallowed.
He heard in the next blast of thunder the memory of the riding crop cracking flesh. He thought of Margaret's cold eyes and of Edward's voice pounding the words 'shame my house' into Josiah's memory. He nodded once.
"What you need?" Isaac asked. Josiah told him only that they needed enough to start a fire and keep one upstairs door from opening. They moved like ghosts in the downpour, gathered what they required, and slipped toward the main house through the storm. Rain soaked them within seconds, and the dogs huddled beneath the porch, whimpering at the thunder.
At the quarters, Josiah warned the others to stay inside no matter what they heard. They circled toward the garden, where the roses bent low under the rain and Margaret's upstairs window glowed pale through the vines. Inside, the house breathed old wood, polish, and brandy while lightning briefly sketched the stairs, portraits, and long hallway rug in white. Edward snored somewhere in the distance, thick and graceless, unaware that anything had changed. Josiah deliberately set the parlor alight.
Within moments, the old fabric and dry interior began to burn, and the two men backed into the hall as the flames took hold. Josiah handed Isaac the wooden wedge. "Her room," he said, nodding toward the staircase. They climbed, the house groaning under them. Thunder rolled and the rain battered the roof like fists.
Margaret's door stood two-thirds open. She was at her dressing table, hair unbound, a candle painting her face in wavering gold. She turned at the whisper of footfall, eyes widening for a heartbeat, as though the figure before her had walked out of a nightmare with rain in his hair. "What are you doing here?"
Her voice cracked. "Get out!" Josiah stepped forward, shut the door, and jammed it so she could not follow.
He did not answer her accusations; he had already spent the price of words. Margaret lunged at the door, but it held. She struck it with her fists, screaming for Edward. Her voice skittered down the hallway like a dropped plate. They ran back to the landing.
Below the first parlor curtain collapsed in a blossom of flame. Heat rose like a living thing, alive and greedy. Edward shouted from the study and stumbled into the hall as the fire spread. Margaret screamed for him from upstairs. He tried to reach her through the smoke and heat, but part of the ceiling gave way and he fell back, unable to continue.