Mistress Annabelle’s scream tore through the silence of the big house like a blade through silk. The scalding milk ran down her face, melting the pale skin that had never known the sun of the cotton fields. Hannah held the iron pot with both hands, her muscles taught from years of hauling weight, her eyes fixed on the agony of the woman who had ordered her son drowned.

Now you feel what it is to burn from the inside,” she whispered, pouring the rest of the milk over the mistress’s chest. The sweet aroma of fresh milk mingle with the acrid smell of burning flesh. Annabelle tried to scream, but her lungs would not obey. Her desperate hands clawed at her own face, spreading the blistering liquid into her eyes, her mouth, her neck.

Please, for the love of God, she managed to murmur between convulsions. God. Hannah dropped the pot on the stone floor. Did you speak of God when you killed my boy? Did you speak of God when you sent Silas Cutter to rip Samuel from my arms? The mistress’s body writhed on the cold kitchen floor. The skin of her face was unrecognizable, red and swollen like overcooked meat.

Her eyes, once as blue as the morning sky, now looked like two open wounds. I I didn’t want to. Yes, you did. You smiled when you heard the splash. You smiled when my son stopped crying forever. Hannah knelt beside the agonizing woman. You know what hurts the most, Mrs.? It ain’t the boiling milk on your skin.

It’s knowing that my boy felt that cold water fill in his lungs. He felt the panic of not being able to breathe. He felt fear. Two months earlier, Annabelle had smiled as she gave the order that would change everything. Throw that boy in the swamp. There isn’t milk for two.

Now the same milk that was meant to nourish had become an instrument of justice in the calloused hands of the mother who lost everything. “You were just a negress,” Annabelle groaned, trying to crawl toward the door. My son was just a child,” Hannah replied, blocking her path. “But the difference between us is that I never forgot we are all mothers. You forgot you were human.

” Annabelle’s convulsion slowly subsided. Her limbs relaxed. Her eyes closed for the last time. Her breath ceased like a candle blown out in the wind. Silence returned to the kitchen, broken only by the drip of milk from the table to the floor. Hannah looked at her own hands. For 60 days, these same hands had prepared meals for the family that killed her child.

They had swaddled Samuel’s murderer, sung lullabies to the boy who grew fat on the milk stolen from her own. Now at last they had delivered justice. She wiped her hands on her apron, put the pot back in its place, and swept up the broken crockery that had scattered during the struggle. When she was finished, the kitchen was immaculate, as if nothing had happened. Only the mistress’s body in the center of the room bore witness to the revenge.

Anna walked to the door, looked one last time at Annabelle, and whispered, “Now my Samuel can rest in peace.” But this story was only just beginning. What had happened in that kitchen would echo through the Mississippi Delta like thunder on a stormy night, teaching every big house that the milk of an enslaved mother could become the deadliest weapon ever seen in those lands cursed by cotton and watered with the tears of Africa.

Act two, historical context and characters. Bumont Plantation, Mississippi Delta, 1851. The property stretched its damned dominion for leagues of land drenched in the sweat and blood of 300 captive souls. The cotton fields rippled in the wind like a white sea that hid the cries of those who toiled from sunrise to sunset.

The big house stood at top a hill like a white fortress, its blind windows eternally watching the suffering in the fields. It was here that Master Robert Bowmont had built his empire of cotton and tears, inheriting from his father not only the wealth but also the systematic cruelty that had turned this land into one of the most feared plantations in the state of Mississippi.

Anna had arrived from Lwanda as a girl only 12 years old in the stinking hold of a slave ship that had brought 120 Africans and delivered only 80 alive to the New Orleans market. She still bore the scars on her back from the first whippings received when she tried to stop them from separating her from her mother on the docks. “Forget that old woman!” the traitor had shouted.

You belong to Master Bowmont. Now, during her first years in the slave quarters, Hannah learned English through the lash of a whip. Learned to cook by watching the older slave women. Learned that open resistance meant certain death. But she never learned to forget her homeland, the sacred rituals her mother had taught her, the names of the ancestors who were to be honored even in a strange land.

At 20, Hannah had become one of the most valuable slaves on the property. Tall with wide hips and generous breasts that promised abundant milk, she caught the eye of the overseer, Silus Cutter, known as such for the long scar that crossed his face from forehead to chin.

“This [ __ ] will birth strong sons,” declared Master Bowmont upon examining Hannah’s swollen belly. “If it’s a boy, he’ll work the fields. If it’s a girl, she’ll serve in the house. When Mistress Annabelle became pregnant for the first time at 35 after 10 years of a barren marriage, the family doctor recommended they find a young, healthy, wet nurse to ensure the heir’s proper nutrition.

Hannah, who was in her 8th month of pregnancy, was immediately chosen and moved to a small room at the back of the big house next to the main kitchen. You now have a sacred responsibility, Mistress Annabelle had said, her blue eyes shining with a chilling coldness. Your milk no longer belongs to you. It belongs to my son.

Any drop wasted will be considered theft. Hannah bowed her head but stored every word like a hot coal in her memory. On the night of March 15th, 1851, during a thunderstorm that made the walls of the big house tremble, Hannah gave birth to a dark-skinned boy with large eyes like his father’s. She named him Samuel, a name her African mother had whispered in her ear before dying on the slave ship.

“It’s a king’s name,” she murmured, holding her son for the first time. “You will grow up free, my son. I promise. A week later, on March 22nd, Mistress Annabelle bore the Bumont Air. The white boy was born robust and loud, demanding food every 2 hours.

Hannah slept in the small room with both babies, waking every dawn to feed them alternately. Samuel nursed first, then the white boy, then Samuel again. It was an exhausting rhythm that left Hannah always tired, always vigilant, always torn between the love for her own child and the fear of what would happen if she disobeyed the mistress’s orders.

The other house slaves watched with a mixture of envy and pity. Martha, the oldest cook, would whisper during meal preparations, “Child, you’re playing with fire. Mistress Annabelle ain’t a woman for sharing anything, not even what ain’t hers.” Anna pretended not to hear, but she knew the old woman was right. She noticed the mistress’s calculating glances, the way she examined the growth of the two babies, comparing their development. The white boy was always chubbier, more active, noisier.

Samuel, by contrast, seemed thinner each week, quieter, more fragile. Dr. Wallace, the family doctor and a distant cousin of the master, came to examine the children every Monday. He was a thin, pale man who treated the slaves like subjects of study, touching their bodies with the same coldness with which he would inspect cattle. “The milk is losing its quality,” he declared one May morning after weighing both babies.

“Your son is absorbing nutrients that should be exclusively for the air.” Mistress Annabelle received the news with a smile that did not reach her eyes. Doctor, what do you recommend? The solution is simple. Remove the obstacle. Hannah felt the blood freeze in her veins. She knew exactly what those words meant.

That night, she held Samuel tighter, whispering African chants her mother had sung during the dark nights in the slave ship’s hold. My son, if anything happens to me, remember you come from kings, she murmured in his ear. Remember that in your blood runs the strength of the ancestors. But not all the strength of the ancestors would be enough to protect a helpless child from the cruelty of a mistress who saw slaves as disposable property. The routine in the big house followed its immutable course.

At 5:00 in the morning, Hannah would wake to the cry of one of the children. At 6, she brought coffee to Master Bowmont, who read the capital’s newspapers, complaining about abolitionist pressures. At 8, she helped Mistress Annabelle dress, listening to sharp comments about the incompetence of the other slaves.

At 10:00, she supervised the heir’s bath, always under the watchful eye of the mistress. In the afternoon, when the heat became unbearable, she would return to her small room to nurse the children again. It was during these quiet moments, with both babies asleep in her arms, that Hannah realized her life had become a taut rope about to snap. Samuel was losing weight visibly while the white boy grew fat like a piglet destined for a Christmas slaughter.

Jedodiah Stone, the second overseer on the property, was even more feared than Silas Cutter. Tall and muscular with enormous hands that could snap necks like dry twigs. He specialized in making troublesome slaves disappear in a way they were never found. “That man knows how to handle problems,” the master would comment. “Whenever delicate matters needed resolving. He’s discreet and efficient.

” The slaves knew that when Jed Stone received specific orders, someone would simply vanish during the night as if they had never existed. Their bodies would be found weeks later by buzzards, if they were found at all. Silas Cutter, on the other hand, preferred more spectacular methods.

He liked his victims to serve as an example to the other slaves. His public executions in the main yard of the quarters were theaters of horror that kept everyone in line through pure terror. Discipline, he used to say while sharpening the knife that gave him his nickname. Without discipline, there’s no order. Without order, there’s no profit. The tension in the big house grew with each visit from Dr. Wallace.

His recommendations became more direct, more urgent, more threatening. Master Bowmont, your wife is concerned about the boy’s development, he said during his May visit. The divided milk is compromising the heir’s growth. Hannah pretended not to hear these conversations, but every word was seared into her memory like a branding iron. She knew a decision was approaching that would change everything forever.

At night, she would hold Samuel and plan impossible escapes, roots to freedom that always ended with them being recaptured and killed. She was trapped between the impossible love for her son and the brutal reality of being the property of people who saw enslaved children as disposable obstacles. In the last week of May, Mistress Annabelle finally lost her patience.

The air had lost weight for the first time since birth, while Samuel, though thin, remained alive and nursing. “I will not tolerate this for one more day,” she declared at dinner, in the presence of the master and Dr. Wallace. “That boy is stealing what belongs to my son.” “Hannah served the table as she did every night.

But this time, she caught every word, every intonation, every sign that indicated the end was near. When she returned to her room, she looked at Samuel sleeping peacefully and knew that this would be one of the last nights she could hold him in her arms. The gears of tragedy had begun to turn, and not all the love in the world could stop them. Act three, the breaking point.

The morning of May 30th, 1851, dawned with a heavy silence that seemed to portend doom. Hannah awoke before dawn to Samuel crying softly as if the boy sensed that something terrible was about to happen. She nursed him slowly, memorizing every detail of that moment. The sweet smell of her son’s skin, the small weight of his body against her chest, the tiny fingers that clung to her blouse as if they knew they had to say goodbye.

“Hush now, my little king,” she whispered, using the affectionate nickname she had given him. Mama’s here. Mama will always be here. But even she no longer believed those words. Mistress Annabelle came down for breakfast in an even darker mood than usual.

Her blue eyes shone with a cold determination that froze the blood in the veins of any slave who crossed her path. During the meal, she addressed her husband in a voice that bked no argument. Robert, you will resolve this situation today. I can no longer watch my son wither away while that boy thrives on what is ours. The master swallowed his last sip of coffee and nodded. Very well, Annabelle. I’ll send for Silus cutter.

Hannah, who was serving the table, felt her legs go weak. Her hands trembled so much she almost dropped the silver tray. Mistress Annabelle noticed the slave’s distress and smiled with a cruelty that seemed to come straight from hell. Oh, Hannah,” the mistress said, savoring each word like poisoned honey. “Did you really think I didn’t know? I thought you knew who was in charge in this house.

” The slave tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat. “Please, Mrs., he’s just a baby. He’s done no harm.” “Yes, he has. He has harmed my son, and that is enough.” Annabelle rose from the table, smoothed her French silk dress, and walked to the window overlooking the yard. “Silus cutter,” she shouted.

“Come here now.” The overseer appeared in minutes, bringing with him the acrid smell of sweat and tobacco that always accompanied him. He was a large man with muscular arms marked by scars, and a smile that never reached his eyes. The knife that gave him his nickname gleamed at his hip like a promise of death.

“At your service, Mrs.” he said, removing his straw hat. “Silas, you will take Hannah’s boy, and you will take him to the big swamp.” The mistress’s voice was as cold as mountain ice, and there you will do what you know how to do.” Hannah felt the world collapse around her.

Her legs gave out, and she clung to the table to keep from falling. “No, Mrs., Please, he’s my son,” she screamed, all composure shattering into raw despair. “I beg you, do what you want with me. Kill me, sell me, but let my boy live.” The mistress looked at her with the same interest. She would, an insect, struggling on a pin. “You should have thought of that before you stole what wasn’t yours.” “I stole nothing.

He’s my son. The milk is mine. Nothing here is yours, Hannah. Not you. Not your son. Not a drop of milk that comes from your breasts. Everything belongs to this family. Annabelle made an impatient gesture with her hand. Silas, what are you waiting for? Your freedom papers? Silas Cutter laughed at the joke and walked toward the small room where Samuel slept.

Hannah ran after him, pleading, begging, offering anything in exchange for her son’s life. Silas, I’m begging you. You have children. You know what it is to be a father. I do. the overseer replied without breaking his stride. And that’s why I know a slave boyy’s place ain’t sucking on milk that don’t belong to him. But he’ll die. Should have died at birth.

Would have saved us all the trouble. Silas entered the room and picked up Samuel, who woke with a start and began to cry at the sound of the baby’s crying echoed through the house like a lament that struck straight at Hannah’s heart. My son, the mother screamed, trying to snatch the child from the overseer’s arms. Leave him be. Leave my son alone.

Silus cutter shoved her with such force that she hit the stone wall and fell to the floor. Stay quiet, Negris, or you’re going with him. Hannah staggered to her feet, blood dripping from a cut on her forehead. Then take me. Take me with him. I can’t live without him. You will live and you will take care of the mistress’s son as you’re supposed to.

Silas left the room carrying Samuel, who was crying louder and louder. Jedodiah stone appeared to help restrain Hannah, who was struggling like a wounded animal. The walk to the swamp seemed to last an eternity. Hannah was dragged by the two overseers, screaming her son’s name until her voice broke. Samuel, my king. Mama’s here. Mama won’t leave you.

The other slaves hid in their quarters, able to do nothing but pray in silence. Some wept quietly, remembering their own children who had disappeared in the same way. The big swamp was at the back of the property, surrounded by dense trees that cast a perpetual shadow over the dark water.

It was a place the slaves avoided, for they all knew that many who entered it never came out. The water had a strange almost black color as if it held secrets best left unknown. Hold her tight, Silus Cutter ordered Jed Stone. I want her to see everything. Hannah stopped struggling when she realized the overseer’s intention.

Silas, I beg you one last time, she said, her voice broken by tears. Have mercy. He’s just a baby. Mercy? Silas laughed aloud. Woman, you think I got where I am by showing mercy? Then the overseer walked to the edge of the swamp, holding Samuel with one hand. The baby had stopped crying as if he understood the gravity of the moment.

His large, dark eyes met his mothers one last time. “Silus, no!” Hannah screamed with a force that seemed to come from all the mothers who had ever lost children in that cursed land. “I curse you. I curse this whole family. May you feel the same pain you are causing me. Silas Cutter threw Samuel into the water with the same casualness one would discard trash.

The sound of the small body hitting the surface echoed like a gunshot in the afternoon silence. Hannah screamed with a pain that had no name, a pain that came from the depths of her soul and spread through every fiber of her being. My son, my king. She managed to break free from Jed Stone’s grip and ran toward the swamp. But Silas Cutter intercepted her and threw her to the ground. Quiet, Negris. It’s over.

The swamp water churned for a few seconds, creating small ripples that spread to the banks. Then silence returned. Samuel had disappeared forever into the dark depths, taking with him the last spark of humanity left in Hannah’s heart. The mother remained there, kneeling on the damp earth, staring at the water that had swallowed her child.

She was no longer crying, no longer screaming, no longer pleading. A sinister transformation had begun to work within her. Absolute pain was crystallizing into something far more dangerous. Pure, concentrated, lethal hatred. “Get up,” Silas Cutter ordered. “You have to go back to the house. The mistress’s son will be hungry.

Hannah rose slowly like a spectre emerging from the earth. When she turned to face the overseers, something in her eyes had changed. They were no longer the eyes of a submissive slave. They were the eyes of a predator that had just marked its prey. “I will take care of the mistress’s son,” she said in a strangely calm voice. “I will take very good care of him.” and she smiled.

It was a smile that sent an inexplicable shiver down Silas Cutter’s spine. That night, Hannah did not sleep. She sat beside the cradle of the Bowmont Air, looking at the baby who grew fat on the milk that should have saved Samuel. Every time the boy cried for food, she nursed him with a tenderness that hid a deadly poison.

“Grow, son of a murderer,” she whispered as the baby suckled greedily. “Grow strong. You’re going to need a lot of strength for what’s coming. During the silent hours of the pre-dawn, while the big house slept in peace, Hannah methodically planned the most elaborate revenge ever conceived in those lands. It would not be a quick revenge.

It would be slow, calculated, devastating. Every member of that cursed family would pay with interest for the 60 days of life they stole from Samuel. And the collection would begin with the woman who had smiled when she gave the order of death. Act four, planning and revenge. For the two weeks following Samuel’s murder, Hannah became a consumate actress.

By day, she flawlessly played the role of the resigned slave, caring for the Bowmont heir with apparent dedication, preparing meals in the kitchen, serving at the table with feigned humility. But her nights were dedicated to a meticulous plan that would have impressed the most seasoned military strategists.

She observed every movement of the family’s routine, memorized every schedule, every habit, every moment of vulnerability. Mistress Annabelle had a sacred ritual she never broke. Every Thursday at 2:00 in the afternoon, she would go down to the kitchen alone to supervise the preparation of the desserts for dinner.

It was a moment of pride in which she dismissed all the other slaves, preferring to personally humiliate whoever was working there. “You people can’t do anything right,” she used to say, inspecting pots and pans with the disdain of a queen examining incompetent subjects. “All of you get out. I’ll show you how to make a proper cake.” It was during these moments that Annabelle felt most powerful, most superior, most cruel.

She liked to be alone in the kitchen because she could unleash all her anger without witnesses. Break dishes when something displeased her, scream at the walls as if they were disobedient slaves. Hannah discovered this pattern on the second Thursday after Samuel’s boom death, and knew immediately she had found her opportunity.

In the early hours of the morning, when the house was deep in sleep, she would slip down to the kitchen to study every detail of the environment that would become the stage for her revenge. The cast iron pots were heavy, capable of holding gallons of boiling liquid. The wood burning stove heated quickly and maintained high temperatures for hours.

The arrangement of the furniture created a natural path between the door and where the pot sat. Most importantly, the kitchen was isolated from the rest of the house, separated by a thick wooden door that muffled sound. It was the perfect place for a reckoning no one should hear. Hannah also began to study the family’s sleeping habits. Master Bowmont often left on Thursdays for business in Natchez, only returning late in the afternoon.

The heir slept soundly after his 2:00 feeding. The other slaves were afraid to approach the kitchen when mistress Annabelle was there, preferring to work in other parts of the house. During the third week, Hannah began her final preparations. She pretended to have trouble with her milk, complaining of soreness to justify the need to heat additional milk for the baby. Mrs.

The milk is coming slow. She lied perfectly. The doctor said warm milk helps it flow. Annabelle, always concerned with anything that might affect her son’s nutrition, immediately authorized the heating of extra milk. “Do whatever is necessary,” she ordered. “My son cannot want for anything.” It was exactly the answer Hannah had hoped for.

Now she had a reason to keep pots of milk always ready in the kitchen, heated to the ideal temperature for her revenge. On Wednesday, the eve of her chosen day, Hannah made her final preparations. During the pre-dawn hours, she went down to the kitchen and checked every detail one last time.

She tested the weightbe of the pots, calculated the time needed to heat the milk to a boil, and mentally rehearsed every move she would need to make. There could be no mistake. She would have only one chance, and if she failed, she would die before she could avenge Samuel. As she stirred the milk warming slowly on the stove, she whispered a prayer her African mother had taught her, “Ances, give me the strength to do justice. May the blood of Samuel find peace through my vengeance.

” The milk bubbled softly as if answering her words. Thursday, June 19th, 1851. Hannah awoke at 5 in the morning with a serenity that surprised her. She felt no fear, no nervousness, but only a cold determination that seemed to come from far beyond herself.

She nursed the air one last time, looking at the baby’s face, growing fat on the milk stolen from her dead son. You will grow up an orphan, she murmured as the boy nursed. Just as I grew up far from my mother, just as Samuel will never grow up at all. At 8:00, she served coffee to Mistress Annabelle, who was particularly irritated because the master had left for Natchez before dawn.

“That man has no consideration,” the mistress complained, slamming her cup on the saucer. “He leaves me alone in this house with a pack of incompetent negroes.” “Yes,” Hannah replied with the feigned submissiveness she had perfected over the past weeks. “It’s Thursday. Will you be going down to make the cakes? Of course, none of you can do anything worthwhile.

Annabelle finished her coffee with sharp movements. And you see to it you improve that milk. My son woke up three times last night hungry. I’m already preparing some warm milk, Mrs. It will be ready when you come down to the kitchen. Good. At least one thing will be done right in this house. At 2:00 sharp, Hannah was in the kitchen adjusting the stove’s temperature when she heard the familiar footsteps descending the stairs.

The largest pot had been on the fire for half an hour, the milk boiling with small bubbles rising to the surface like promises of justice. She gripped the pot’s handle with both hands, testing the weight one last time. It was heavy, but her arms had been strengthened by years of carrying water buckets and flower sacks. it would be enough.

“Where are the others?” Mistress Annabelle asked as she entered the kitchen, looking around with her usual disdain. “I sent them to work outside, Mrs. You always say they get in the way.” Anna kept her voice calm, her hands steady on the handle. “For once, you’ve done something sensible.” Annabelle approached the stove, inspecting the work as she always did.

“And this milk? Why is it boiling? It’s for the air, Mrs.” The doctor said very hot milk helps too. I don’t care for explanations. Annabelle interrupted, moving even closer. I only care that my son has the best. She was now just an arms length away, exactly where Hannah had planned for her to be. And he will, Mrs. Hannah said, lifting the pot from the fire with a smooth motion.

He’ll have exactly what he deserves. Something in her tone made Annabelle look up at the slave’s face. For the first time, she saw in Hannah’s eyes not the usual submission, but something far more dangerous. What are you? The mistress never finished the question. The boiling milk hit her face like a cascade of liquid fire.

The scream that followed echoed off the stone walls of the kitchen, a sharp, desperate sound that seemed to come directly from the center of hell. Annabelle clapped her hands to her face, trying to wipe away the milk that was melting her skin, but that only spread the scalding liquid over more areas.

“Now you know how my son felt when that cold water filled his lungs,” Hannah said, pouring the rest of the milk over the mistress’s chest and arms. “You, you lunatic,” Annabelle managed to scream between convulsions of pain. “You will die for this.” I will, Hannah agreed, placing the empty pot on the floor. But you will go first.

Annabelle tried to run toward the door, but tripped on her own skirts and fell heavily on the stone floor. The milk had created slippery puddles that made any movement perilous. Her hands scratched at her own face in a desperate attempt to relieve the pain, but this only worsened her injuries. “Please,” she begged, crawling toward the exit.

I have a son. I had one, too. Hannah retorted, blocking the way. Until you decided he didn’t deserve to live. It It was necessary, Annabelle groaned, leaving a trail of blood and milk on the floor. “My son needed. Your son has been a murderer since the cradle,” Hannah interrupted. “He grew up suckling on my boy’s blood.

” She knelt beside the dying woman. Do you know what the worst part was? It wasn’t watching my son die. It was having to feed his murderer right after. Annabelle’s convulsions gradually lessened. Her breathing became more labored, more ragged. The milk had burned not only her skin, but also her airways, making every attempt to breathe an agony.

“You, you are the devil,” she whispered with what little voice she had left. No, Anna replied coldly, observing the mistress’s torment. I am just a mother who lost her child. You are the devil. Annabelle’s eyes slowly glazed over. Her breath stopped, then returned in irregular spasms, then stopped for good.

Silence fell upon the kitchen like a heavy shroud, broken only by the dripping milk from the table to the floor. Anna stood there for a few minutes looking at the body of the woman who had ordered Samuel’s death. She felt no pleasure, no relief, no victory. She felt only a cold satisfaction, as if a long overdue debt had finally been paid. But the revenge was far from over.

Annabelle had only been the first. Silas Cutter was still alive, walking the property with the knife that had executed her son. Jedodiah Stone continued to terrorize other slaves with his murderous hands. Master Bowmont continued to profit from the blood and sweat of hundreds of captives. And the air, that baby growing fat on stolen milk, would one day become a master as cruel as his parents.

Hannah wiped her hands on her bloody apron, fixed the hair that had come loose during the struggle, and walked calmly to the kitchen door. When she opened it, she found Martha, the oldest cook, standing in the hallway with eyes wide with terror. “Child,” the old slave whispered. “What have you done?” “Justice,” Hannah answered simply.

“And I’m not finished.” Martha looked at Annabelle’s body sprawled on the kitchen floor, then at Hannah’s serene face, and understood that she was witnessing something that transcended common revenge. It was the manifestation of an ancestral fury that had finally found its vessel. “They will kill you,” she warned in a low voice.

“They will kill you slowly.” “Perhaps,” Hannah admitted. “But before they do, I will finish what I started.” She walked down the hallway with firm steps, leaving behind the body of the first victim in a series that would make history in the Mississippi Delta. The echo of Mistress Annabelle’s screams still reverberated through the big house as Hannah climbed the stairs toward the room where the air slept. She was in no hurry.

She knew no one would dare enter the kitchen for the next few minutes, as everyone feared the mistress’s moods. That would give her enough time for the next phase of the plan. The baby slept peacefully in his carved mahogany cradle, oblivious to the fact that he had just been made a motherless orphan. Hannah looked at him for a long moment, remembering Samuel at the same age, the innocence that all children share before the world teaches them of cruelty.

“You are not to blame,” she murmured, adjusting the blankets around the boy. “But you cannot be allowed to grow up to be like them. It was a terrible but necessary decision. This baby carried in his blood the seed of the evil that had killed Samuel.

If he grew up, he would become another slavemaster, another murderer protected by unjust laws. Hannah took the feather pillow and held it over the baby’s face. For a moment, she hesitated. There was still enough humanity in her heart to feel the weight of this act.

But then she remembered Mistress Annabelle’s smile when she learned Samuel had been thrown in the swamp. She remembered the despair of holding her dead son in her arms. She remembered 2 weeks of feeding her child’s murderer. The hesitation passed. The baby struggled for a few seconds, then grew still. Hannah checked his breath, confirmed it had stopped, and placed the pillow back where it belonged.

To anyone who examined the body, it would look like a sudden crib death. “Something unfortunately common for infants of that era.” “Now you two can play together in the hereafter,” she whispered, stroking the boy’s cold forehead. “Samuel will look after you there, even though you’re the son of his killers.

” When she went back down to the kitchen, she found a small group of house slaves whispering in the hallway. Martha had told them what she had seen, and the news had spread like wildfire. “The MS is dead,” said Mary, one of the younger laresses. “What are we going to do?” “We will work as always,” Hannah replied with unnerving calm.

“When the master returns, we will tell him she had an accident.” An accident, repeated Joseph, the slave in charge of the garden. No one will believe that. They will, Hannah assured them. Because you will all confirm my story. And why would we do that? Because now you are all accompllices. Anyone who does not help hide the truth will be named as a participant in the murder. It was cold but effective blackmail.

The slaves knew knew that any suspicion of taking part in a crime against their masters would result in certain death. Besides, Hannah continued, do you really want me to be caught? Do you want Silus Cutter and Jed Stone to stay alive to kill more of your children? The question hung in the air like poison smoke.

Everyone there had lost family to the cruelty of the overseers. Everyone carried physical and emotional scars inflicted by the Bumont family. The idea that someone was finally taking justice into her own hands awakened a thirst for vengeance they had learned to suppress but had never managed to eliminate. What do you want us to do? Martha asked after a long silence.

Help clean the kitchen. When the master arrives, we’ll say the Mrs. slipped and fell into the hot milk. Accidents happen and after after I will handle the rest. Hannah’s eyes gleamed with a determination that made everyone take a step back. Silas Cutter and Jedodiah Stone will have their accidents, too.

And when I am done, this plantation will know a different kind of peace. The cleanup was done in reverent silence. They removed Annabelle’s body, washed the floor, and rearranged the furniture so that everything looked like the result of an accidental fall. Hannah supervised every detail, ensuring there was no evidence of a struggle or premeditated violence.

When they finished, the kitchen was spotless, as if nothing had happened. Only the sweet smell of milk that still permeated the air betrayed what had truly occurred there. Now we wait,” Hannah said, sitting calmly in the chair where she used to peel vegetables. And when the master returns, all of you remember it was an accident. The Mrs. slipped in the milk she herself was heating.

And if he doesn’t believe it, if he doesn’t believe it, he will die along with his overseers. The simplicity with which she spoke these words made everyone understand they were no longer dealing with the submissive Hannah they knew something had died inside her along with Samuel and something far more dangerous had been born in its place.

Master Bowmont returned from Natchez at 6:00 in the evening as he always did on Thursdays. He was in a good mood having closed a profitable contract for the sale of the next season’s cotton crop. He expected to find his wife waiting for him on the porch as was her custom, but the house was strangely quiet.

“Anabel!” he shouted upon entering. “Where are you?” It was then that Hannah appeared, carrying the air in her arms with an expression of profound sadness that immediately alarmed the master. “What has happened?” he asked, his stomach tightening. “Master?” Hannah said in a trembling voice, perfectly playing the part of the distraught slave. A terrible tragedy has occurred.

The news of the deaths of Annabelle and the baby struck the master like a lightning bolt from a clear sky. Hannah recounted the rehearsed version. The mistress had gone down to prepare desserts, slipped in the hot milk she was heating, burned herself severely and died before they could help her.

The baby found dead in on his cradle a few hours later had apparently succumbed to the shock of losing his mother, something the doctors called death by sympathy. “But how is this possible?” the master repeated, pacing his office. “How could my wife have slipped? She knew that kitchen better than anyone. It was fate, master,” Hannah replied, her voice still laden with feigned grief.

Sometimes God tests us in ways we cannot understand. God. The master stopped pacing and looked at her with bloodshot eyes. What God would permit such a tragedy? The same God who permits innocent children to be drowned in swamps, Hannah answered. But so softly the master could not quite hear.

What did you say? I said the ways of the Lord are mysterious, master. The funeral was set for the following Saturday. The entire elite of the Delta attended to offer condolences to Master Bowmont, who had lost his wife and heir on the same day. During the ceremony, Hannah remained in the background, dressed in mourning, feigning the appropriate grief for a slave who had lost her masters.

But her eyes never stopped searching for two specific faces in the crowd. Silas Cutter and Jedodiah Stone. The overseers were there looking awkward, talking in low voices about the future of the plantation. With no heir, the master will sell everything, Silas commented. Or he’ll marry again, quick to get another son, Jedodiah replied. Neither of them imagined that their own funerals would be very soon, and that the grieving woman watching them from a distance had already begun to plan their deaths.