She locked the study door from within.
Working with methodical, unhurried precision through the remaining hours of the night, Sarah dismantled Marcus Thornwood. She used the heavy steel letter opener, a brass hearth poker, and various implements retrieved from his desk and cabinet. She worked in near silence, attentive to every sound from the floor below, mindful that no alarm must be raised before her work was finished.
She applied the very anatomical observations he had detailed in his papers—knowledge gained through her own suffering. And as she worked beneath the dim light of the replenished oil lamps, she counted.
She counted to one hundred and forty-three.
One piece for every enslaved person listed in the Thornwood ledgers. One piece for every life he had claimed the absolute right to break.
Whether the tally of one hundred and forty-three was exact or symbolic remained a matter of debate in the years that followed. But that was the number she maintained.
When the grey wash of dawn began to touch the windowpanes, Sarah set down her tools. Marcus Thornwood existed no longer; only separate, meticulously arranged remnants covered the study floor.
Sarah stepped out of the study and descended the stairs. Her dress was stiff with dried blood; her bare feet left red impressions across the floorboards, over the wide front veranda, and down the gravel lane toward the main road. She passed the detached kitchen where Dina would soon begin baking bread, passed the quiet quarters, and walked until she reached the dusty carriage road.
