*****Content warning: This chapter takes place on a plantation in the antebellum south. I've avoided explicit depictions of violence and abuse, but the implications are there. One character also uses a derogatory term referring to people of color (it's not the "N" word or anything, but it is outdated, to say the least). I've done my best to write about this period authentically without being gratuitous, but please take care if this is a sensitive subject for you.*****

"And you didn't think to mention we'd have to stay with a family of enslavers?" JB almost shouted into the elucidator. It was a struggle to keep his voice down as he watched Sam shrink into a chair in the corner, hugging herself.

"It wasn't important," said Cira. "Our projections showed that this was the safest way for you to arrive in 1849. Simple as that."

He couldn't believe her. "Cira, you were the top of your class in time agent training. You, of all people, know how important it is to be fully prepared for any trip to the past. There was no reason to leave us in the dark about this."

"There was, actually," said Cira. "The Harts needed to like you enough to let you into their home. I know you're capable of hiding disdain, but time primitives don't have that kind of experience. Samantha could have easily thrown you off if she expressed any dislike for the Harts at the beginning. Besides, this won't be a slave plantation much longer."

"Sam's an actress. She wouldn't—" he began, but Cira's last sentence caught his attention. "Wait, what do you mean it won't be a slave plantation much longer?"

"That, I can't tell you," she replied, and JB heard a smirk in her voice. Grow up, Cira, he wanted to say. She might be in charge, but she still had some childishness leftover from her training days. It was obvious how much she relished her authority over him.

JB ended the call and joined Sam in the corner. "I'm so sorry," he said. "It's just unacceptable that Cira would hold back such a thing."

Sam shook her head. "I should have known right away. I mean, I've spent years studying history. It's 1849 in Virginia, after all. How did it not even cross my mind?"

"It didn't cross your mind because we trusted Cira to give us all the information." He was still furious.

"What do we do now?" said Sam. "We're going to have to go down for breakfast in a little while, but how can I eat anything when I know it was made with slave labor?"

"You have to eat," JB insisted. If what she'd said about last night was true, she'd need all her energy to resist the sinister glow if it ever came back. "You'll feel even worse without food. Trust me, I've seen you on an empty stomach."

"If only the people making our food had the luxury of deciding for themselves when they needed nutrients…" She rested her forehead on her knees.

"Let's just go downstairs and get an idea of how the place runs. We can't do anything if we hide up here all day."

Slowly, she lifted her head and nodded.

Downstairs, JB and Sam sat uncomfortably while a girl, probably no older than twelve, carried a teapot and cups to the table. JB tried not to stare as she poured the tea. Instead, he watched steam rise from his plate and inhaled the sweet smell of cornbread and sliced apples.

"It's a good thing I sent Ginny to the Atwoods' farm to fetch the fruit this morning," Mrs. Hart said, nodding toward the girl. "I hope the apples are a welcome treat."

Sam took a small bite of apple and said, "Yes, such a treat indeed. Thank you." She directed her thanks to the girl, who froze for a moment.

"I bought Ginny from New Orleans just last year, you know," said Mr. Hart, as though purchasing a human being was something to brag about. "The advertisement said she used to make beignets every morning. My wife still has yet to put her to work on some beignets for us!" He chuckled and playfully nudged Mrs. Hart.

Mrs. Hart did not smile back at him. She responded with eyes full of ice. "We already have a cook, my dear. I don't anticipate we'll need to replace this one, do you?"

Mr. Hart coughed into a handkerchief and looked away. "No. No, of course not."

Tom appeared just as confused as JB felt. Ginny hardly seemed to notice. Her eyes had returned to Sam, who all but sank under the table.

Mrs. Hart noticed this as well, and huffed, "Well, don't frighten the guests, Ginny. Go on, help Cook in the kitchen until we've finished." She sighed and shook her head as Ginny scrambled out of sight. "Strange little thing, isn't she? Looked like she'd seen a ghost. Anyway, I apologize for her rudeness, Mrs. Blythe. Are you all right?"

Sam shot up straight in her chair, looking flustered. "Oh, there was no need to scold her. I'm quite well," she said. The green tint in her face pointed to the contrary, however.

Tom pointed across the table at Sam. "What's wrong with her, Ma?"

Mrs. Hart gasped at her son. "Goodness, Tom, have you no better manners than the darkies?"

JB bolted out of his chair as Sam abruptly covered her mouth with a napkin, heaving quietly. "Excuse us, please. I think Caroline needs some air."

JB escorted Sam out of the dining room and through the front door. Her hairline glowed with perspiration and her pupils were slightly dilated, but by the time they were out in the courtyard, she no longer looked on the verge of vomiting. JB reached for her hands and slowly rubbed his thumbs in a circular motion against her palms. This seemed to calm her and he stood with her in silence as her breath steadied.

"The girl, Ginny…" Sam said finally. "She's the one who was watching me this morning. The way she stares at me, it's like she knows me. But that doesn't make any sense!"

"You mean it's like she recognizes you?" He tried his best to keep an even tone.

"I know it's impossible, but yeah."

Oh, it was most certainly possible. But was it worth it to try and investigate at this point? Sure, the original mission was to find out Sam's historical identity, but now that there was a lunatic on the prowl who was actively murdering people and disrupting history, what was the greater threat? Besides, Ginny could recognize Sam from any of her former lives, not necessarily her first one. It would be best to just make a note of this incident and worry about it later, he decided. Maybe at that point the agency would find a way to save the present without leaving Sam in the past. Or at least, if Sam couldn't safely return to the twenty-first century, he could convince the agency to let her live in his time. She'd love the realism of modern museums and he'd get to show her things like the famous music hall on Saturn or the revived Library of Alexandria. He could just imagine the look on her face at the sight of so many history books. The more he thought about it, the more perfect it sounded—a life where he could see her every now and again, maybe run into her at the grocery store every week…or meet her for coffee every afternoon…dine with her every night…wake up beside her every morning…

"At least Pip doesn't discriminate," said Sam, interrupting his brief moment of insanity. She was smiling at some activity beyond the courtyard. The dog from last night was out in the field, trailing behind a boy, who carried a bowl of meat and who bore an uncanny resemblance to Tom…only, Tom was fair-skinned, and this boy didn't look nearly as well-fed. His expression, however, was cheerful. Pip gazed up at him adoringly and the boy gave the dog an affection scratch behind the ear. He set the bowl of meat on the ground and Pip dove for it nose-first. The boy laughed as Pip devoured the offering. When Pip finished, he leapt up on his hind legs and thanked the boy with a million licks on the cheek. For a minute, the joyous scene almost made JB forget where he was, until Tom barged out of the house and approached the boy.

"Fred, what was you up to last night?" Tom sneered. "Not doing as you was told, that's what!" He waited for the boy to speak, but he just looked confused and frightened. Tom pointed at Pip and said, "It's your job to control the pup, ain't it?" Fred nodded. "Well, what was you doing when Pip got into the house and stole my boot?"

Fred started to mumble something in response, but JB couldn't hear him over the sound of Pip's growling. The dog had planted itself in front of Fred and now stood with its ears pinned back, snarling at Tom. Tom backed away and tore back inside the house, sobbing.

"That's right," Sam muttered. "Run off, you little brat. Dogs are loyal to the people that care for them. They don't care about humans' stupid made-up hierarchies."

Something was still bothering JB. "Sam, did you notice how closely Tom and Fred resemble each other?"

Sam blinked at JB. "What?" She turned back toward the stunned-looking Fred and squinted. "Oh, no." She looked like she might be sick again. "You don't suppose Mrs. Hart's hostility toward the previous cook is related, do you?"

JB swallowed. He didn't want to think about it, but he knew very well that forced labor wasn't the only thing enslaved people had to endure. The women, especially, had much more to fear—both the advances of plantation owners and the contempt of the plantation owners' wives were very real threats. He wondered if it actually took Mrs. Hart ten years to suspect Tom had a half brother, or if she'd only spoken up about it recently. Did the Harts feel nothing when they sold off the boy's mother? How did Mr. Hart reconcile the fact that he had a son out there, sweating in the Virginia heat and working himself to death while his other son went to sleep with a full stomach and a bedtime story from a loving mother every night?

Sam summed up his thoughts perfectly: "It's abominable."