Thornwood Plantation crested into view atop a gentle rise. The main house was modest in scale compared to neighboring manors—a two-story residence of neat proportions, flanked by six white pillars and tall sash windows that caught the pale winter sun. Arrayed behind it were the operational structures of the estate: the gin house, the blacksmith forge, the carpenter’s shop, the smokehouse, the detached kitchen, and, set further back in rigid lines, the quarters. Sarah assumed she would lodge there.
She would learn that very night that Thornwood had arranged otherwise.
The head driver, a large man named Booker who had been on the property for eight years, received Sarah upon their arrival. He showed her the quarters, introduced her to several domestic hands, and outlined her duties and hours. The other workers were reserved, speaking softly and looking away whenever Sarah tried to catch their eyes. It was a familiar caution—the distance kept by people who knew of an unspoken horror they dared not voice, aware that intervening only brought collective misery.
An elderly cook named Dina, who ran the plantation kitchen, offered Sarah a pallet in the corner of the pantry along with a coarse wool blanket.
