By April, the strain took its toll. Sarah found the days blurring together. She struggled to keep track of the day of the week, lost her appetite, and could barely sleep. Dina noticed the change, occasionally leaving small portions of cold cornbread or salt pork on the pantry shelf, but the cook never asked questions. Everyone at Thornwood understood that survival depended on averting one’s eyes.
Sarah also began to note details about the property that had previously escaped her. The other rooms on the third floor retained that faint, sickly sweet chemical smell. The root cellar beneath the kitchen was permanently padlocked; Thornwood kept the only key, though Booker was occasionally dispatched there with tools, returning with soiled clothing and a grim, shaken demeanor. Furthermore, the plantation ledgers Sarah occasionally dusted listed one hundred and forty-three hands, yet her own counts around the quarters accounted for only one hundred and thirty-eight. Five individuals were missing from the roll.
Then there were the names Dina had whispered over the months: Hannah, who had lasted four months before disappearing; Rebecca, who had survived three; Elizabeth, who had endured nearly six; followed by Clara, Judith, and others. A roster of ghosts.
