Chapter 9 #2
Instead, the basket came with me down the path, swinging on my arm.
The south wall pressed close against the jungle’s edge.
Here, the air was thicker, heavy with the scent of wild growing things barely held back by human cultivation.
Vines crept over stone. Insects hummed in the undergrowth.
The sound of the plantation faded—no voices, no crack of whips, just the whisper of leaves and the distant call of birds I couldn’t name.
Margaret pointed toward the weeds choking the fence line. “Start there. Work your way along.”
She left.
Kneeling in the dirt, pulling at stubborn roots—and there, half-hidden behind an explosion of vines and wild jasmine, I caught sight of the gate.
The stone archway was almost completely obscured. More overgrown than in my own time. The vines weren’t random—they’d been trained, encouraged to swallow the old stones. Someone wanted it forgotten.
This was the way home.
If the magic still worked. If my own time waited on the other side. My apartment. My life, where children didn’t hang from trees, at least not in my country.
But not in daylight. Not with overseers and the widow’s eyes everywhere. One person had already died because I’d drawn too much attention, upset the natural order of things here.
The women at the washing lines would take Daniel down tonight, risking punishment. Thomas and Betsy had tried to teach me to be careful. Even Brodie, with his warnings and careful protection.
Now, it had to be now. I could leave. At least I hoped somehow the stone would take me back to my own time. I stepped forward.
“Maddie. Get away from there!” Margaret’s voice carried through the greenery. “What are you doing?”
“Just looking at the vines. They’re very thick here.”
She appeared, eyes narrowed. “That’s the gate to the old garden. Madame doesn’t like anyone near it.”
“Why not?”
“Because she doesn’t. That’s reason enough.” Her grip on my arm was surprisingly strong, pulling me back toward safer ground. “Whatever you’re thinking about that place, stop. Some doors should stay closed.”
The afternoon stretched on. More weeds. More baskets. Margaret’s orders followed while my mind kept circling back—Daniel hanging, the gate, a way home.
When she finally dismissed me, the sun was setting in shades of amber and blood. I walked back toward the house through the lengthening shadows, my dress filthy, and my hands blistered and raw.
Daniel was still there. Still hanging as I walked past, keeping my eyes down.
“Miss Carter? You all right?”
Thomas. One of the house servants, older than me, with kind eyes and careful manners. He stood near the kitchen entrance, watching me with the same expression the women at the washing lines had worn—sympathy mixed with wariness.
The lie rose automatically. “Yes. Just tired. The heat.”
He studied me for a moment, then glanced toward where the tulip tree stood in the distance against the darkening sky. His expression shifted—understanding, resignation, something that might have been sympathy.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you inside. Betsy’s making tea. You should sit down before you fall down.”
Refusing would draw more attention. He was already guiding me through the servants’ passages, and exhaustion had turned my bones to water.
The small room near the kitchen was warm and close, smelling of bread and herbs and too many people in too small a space. Betsy was there, arranging food on a plate. She took one look at me and pulled out a chair.
“Sit.”
The wood was hard beneath me. The cup she pressed into my hands was hot enough to burn, sweet enough to cut through the numbness. Steam rose, carrying the scent of something I couldn’t name—herbs, maybe, or spices.
“First time?” Betsy asked, sounding thirty instead of fourteen.
A nod was all I could manage.
“It doesn’t get easier. Anyone who tells you it does is lying.” She sat down across from me, her hands folded on the scarred table. “But you learn to carry it.”
“His name was Daniel.”
“I know. Bess told me. She’s hurting too—she tried to keep him safe.” Betsy’s voice was gentle, but there was steel underneath. “But you can’t save anyone here. All you can do is remember.”
“He was eight years old.”
“I know.”
“He didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Doesn’t matter. Wrong and right—they don’t work the same way here as they do wherever you came from.” She poured more tea into my cup, the dark liquid catching lamplight. “Here, wrong is whatever Madame says it is. Right is staying quiet and staying alive.”
Thomas leaned against the doorframe, keeping watch. “You need to be careful. More careful than you’ve been. The widow’s watching you now. Philippe’s watching you. One more mistake and—”
He didn’t finish. Didn’t need to.
The tea helped. Or maybe it was just sitting down, having people treat me like I mattered. Like Daniel had mattered.
“I saw the old garden,” I said. The words came out quieter than intended. “The one near the south wall.”
Betsy and Thomas exchanged glances.
“Don’t go there,” Betsy said. “Madame has rules about that gate.”
“Why?”
“Because she does. That’s reason enough in this house.” Betsy’s tone carried finality.
The door from the main house opened. Margaret stepped through, her expression tight with disapproval. “There you are. Madame wants you in the library. Something about organizing books.”
The teacup left a ring on the table where I’d set it down. “Thank you,” I said to Betsy and Thomas. “For the tea.”
“Remember what I told you,” Thomas said. “Be careful.”
I walked through the house again, following Margaret. The corridors were darker now, lit by candles that cast moving shadows on the walls. The scent of beeswax and old paper grew stronger as we approached the library.
It was one of the few rooms I actually liked—floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with leather-bound volumes, most in French but some in English. A writing desk near the window.
And Brodie stood near the shelves with a stack of books in his arms. He glanced up when I entered, and something shifted in his expression.
“Miss Carter.” His Scottish burr was softer than usual. “The widow wants the military histories reorganized. I’m meant to help ye with it.”
Miss Carter. Not Maddie. Of course. Two servants who’d drawn attention, who’d shown too much spine, now assigned to work together. A reminder. A warning.
“Fine.” The word came out sharper than intended. “Where do we start?”
Silence settled between us while we worked. Him pulling books down. Me sorting them by date and subject. The familiar rhythm of the work was almost comforting in its normalcy.
Almost.
“Ye saw him.” Brodie’s voice was quiet, barely audible over the sound of pages turning.
No point pretending. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.” The word came out sharper than intended. “Don’t apologize. Don’t try to make this better. Just—don’t.”
He was quiet for a moment, then set down the books he’d been holding. “Come here.”
“What?”
“The window. Come here.”
The request was strange enough that I obeyed, crossing to where he stood. From here, the view took in the gardens. The slave quarters in the distance. The jungle pressing close against the cleared land. And somewhere, hidden behind vines and time, the gate.
“See that?” He pointed toward the western edge of the property, where the land sloped down toward the sea. “That path there, the one that’s barely visible?”
A nod.
“That’s where the runaways go. When they can’t take it anymore.
They head for the hills, for the communities in the mountains where plantation owners can’t reach them.
” His voice stayed low, careful. “The widow loses three or four people every year that way. She sends overseers after them sometimes, but even she’s afraid to go too far into the mountains, so she just marks them as dead in her ledgers and moves on. ”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because ye need to know there are choices. Even here. Even when it feels like there aren’t.” He turned to face me, and his eyes were more grey in the lamplight. Serious. “What happened to Daniel—that wasn’t your fault.”
“I helped him.”
“Aye. And that’s what got him killed. But not because helping was wrong.” He paused, choosing words carefully. “Ye need to understand something. If ye blame yourself for every cruelty committed in this house, ye’ll break. And breaking won’t bring Daniel back.”
“So what do I do?” The question came out raw as I sniffed.
He reached out, then seemed to think better of it and let his hand drop. “Don’t draw attention. Get through your time here and go.”
“That’s not who I am.”
“Then learn to be someone else. At least while ye’re here.”
“And what about you?” I met his gaze directly. “You protected me. You drew attention to yourself. You didn’t stay quiet.”
Something flickered in his expression—pain, maybe, or recognition. “No. I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m daft.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “I can tell ye all the ways to survive, all the rules about keeping your head down and not interfering. But when it comes to it, I can’t seem to follow my own advice.”
The moment stretched between us.
“The books,” I said finally, pulling back from the window. “We should finish.”
“Aye.”
Back to the shelves, and to the comfortable fiction that organizing books mattered. That any of this mattered compared to the cruelty happening just outside these walls.
But as I handed him another volume—some memoir—our fingers brushed. The contact lasted less than a second, but something passed between us.
Understanding, maybe. Or recognition.
Both of us trapped here. Both trying to survive. And both failing in different ways.
“Maddie?” His voice was careful. “That gate ye were asking about. The old garden.”
My hair had come loose from the head wrap as I pushed it behind my ears. “What about it?”
“Stay away from it.” His expression was harder now. Closed. “Whatever ye’re hoping to find there—it’s not worth the risk.”
“How do you know what I’m hoping to find?”
“Because I’ve seen that look before.” He turned back to the shelves, voice dropping. “In others. In myself, when I first came here. There’s no easy way out of this place. Even those who run, most die.”
“And if I can’t accept that?”
“Then ye’ll—”
The library door opened. Margaret stood in the entrance, face pinched with disapproval and something else. Fear, maybe.
“Madame wants you both,” she said. “Now. In the drawing room.”
The words sent ice through my veins. Both of us. Summoned together.
Brodie’s expression went blank, but his hand tightened on the book he held. “Did she say why?”
“She doesn’t explain herself to me.” Margaret’s voice was tight. “But I’d suggest you come quickly. She’s in a mood.”
The book went back on the shelf. Brodie’s movements were controlled, deliberate, but tension radiated from his shoulders. He glanced at me once—a warning, maybe, or reassurance—then started toward the door.
No choice but to follow.
We made our way through the corridors. Margaret walked ahead, her pace just a fraction too fast. The candles seemed dimmer now, casting longer shadows. The house felt smaller, the walls pressing closer. What had the widow seen? What had someone reported?
It could have been any number of things. The discovery at the gate. The way Brodie and I had stood by the window. The conversation that must have looked too familiar, too comfortable for servants.
Or maybe someone had seen me staring at Daniel’s body. Maybe—
“Wait here.” Margaret stopped outside the drawing room door. “She’ll call you when she’s ready.”
She disappeared inside, leaving us in the corridor.
Brodie stood with his back to the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable. But his jaw was tight, and he wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“If she asks about today—” I started.
“Don’t.” His voice was barely a whisper. “Don’t say anything ye don’t have to. Answer only what she asks. Nothing more.”
“But if she—”
“Miss Carter.” He finally looked at me, and the intensity in his gaze made my breath catch. “Trust me. Say as little as possible. And whatever happens—”
The door opened.
“Mr. MacLeod,” the widow’s voice drifted out, honeyed and sharp. “Miss Carter. Do come in.”