Phebe

She pretended ignorance of what they'd done, even as her mind whirled with it. She imagined discovery, shock and screaming anger. But they were careful, and Mrs. Randolph saw nothing.

Not careful enough though. Phebe had seen it in her sister — the tiredness, the nausea and the sign that forced her to speak up.

Miss Nancy was at her window, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Phebe set down the clean linen she'd fetched. "May I speak?"

"You don't need to ask, Phebe. What concerns you?"

"It's the sheets, miss. I gave Sarah mine in place of yours. For washing."

Confusion rippled across her mistress's face. "Why? I don't understand."

Phebe swallowed. Her leg trembled. "You have not bled, Miss Nancy. Not for weeks." She watched her grow pale. "I didn't want Sarah knowing something before you know'd it yourself, miss."

Months passed. Visitors came and went. Mrs. Randolph gave birth to a healthy son, and Miss Nancy's condition remained hidden. Phebe didn't speak of it again, but her mind rang with questions. She longed for her mama or Old Cilla to confide in. The temptation to whisper to Syphax, to tell him what she knew, was strong. Turned out, he knew it anyways.

August. Twilight. She was under the porch, leaning her back against the cold stone wall, listening to the cicadas whine, trying to put Miss Nancy's troubles out of mind. She heard the door open above, a heavy step and the creak of wood as someone sat down on the porch up to her left. Mr. Randolph, most likely, she'd have heard skirts swish if it were Miss Nancy or her sister. Whoever it was sat in darkness. No light filtered down between the boards above her head, but the smell of tobacco burning reached her, and soon, in the distance, she saw a lantern sway, heading toward the house. The tap of his stick told her it was carried by Syphax. He stopped before the steps of the porch and spoke softly.

"Mr. Randolph?"

The boards creaked. The master's feet must be only inches from her now. She pictured him leaning over toward Syphax. "Well?"

"I've found someone that will take it. But it must be a boy. A girl is no good to no one, but a boy? They'll take a boy."

"A good family?"

"Johnson will say it's Rachel's. She's carrying. Last chil' was pale. Twins they'll—"

"Spare me the details."

They were quiet for a moment. Then the master spoke again.

"And if it's not a boy?"

Phebe held her breath.

"I'll manage it, Mr. Randolph. Trust Syphax. Trust me."