errand of great urgency, and off we set in the new cabriolet.
The city was abuzz that day with talk of an astral event—a comet storm, it was said. Even sensible people like Father and Thomas had been speaking about the apocalypse, but I knew my scandal with Burke was being discussed in parlors throughout Charleston with more fervor than the end of the world. The cabriolet was new enough, however, to be unfamiliar on the streets, and with its hood up and Mary’s hat on, I didn’t see how I could be recognized. With any luck, Mother would never know I’d broken my seclusion.
Feeling anxious about Nina, I closed my eyes and imagined scooping her into my arms. Then there was a terrible jolt, and the carriage came to a shuddering stop on Coming Street, the right wheel sunk into a mud hole.
Goodis coaxed the horse with the whip, then climbed down and tugged at the bridle and collar. The mare, known for her keen spirit of revenge, jerked her head and stepped backward, sinking the carriage further. I heard Goodis quietly curse.
He went to the rear of the carriage and shoved, causing it to rock forward a little, but nothing more. “Stay put where you is,” he told me. “I gon get us some help.”
As he lumbered off, I surveyed the street. Despite the sogginess, there were ladies out strolling, men huddled in conclaves, Negro hawkers carrying troughs of shrimp and baskets of French coconut patties. I reached up nervously and touched the veil at my face, and it was at that moment I glimpsed Charlotte, walking toward Bull Street.
She picked her way like a ropewalker, moving along a narrow shelf of grass that ran beside a brick wall. She wore her red bandana low on her forehead and carried a basket bulging with cloth, unaware of me or of the finely dressed woman with white skin who approached her on the same grassy ledge from the opposite direction. One of them would be forced to turn around and retrace her steps all the way back to where the brick wall began, or else yield way by stepping off into the muddy roadway. Face-offs of this sort played out on the streets so regularly a city ordinance had been passed requiring slaves to give deference. Had the slave been anyone other than Charlotte—had it been Binah, Aunt-Sister, Cindie, even Handful—I wouldn’t have worried so much, but Charlotte.
The two women stopped a few feet apart. The white woman lifted her parasol and tapped Charlotte’s arm. Move along now. Off with you.
I didn’t detect the slightest movement in Charlotte. She seemed to solidify as she stood there. The woman’s umbrella thumped at her again: Shoo. Shoo.
They exchanged words I didn’t understand, their voices rising, turning into jagged antlers over their heads. I looked around frantically for Goodis.
A man wearing a City Guard uniform reined his horse in the middle of the street. “Step aside, Negress,” he yelled. He climbed from his horse, handing the reins to a slave boy who’d wandered up pulling a dray.
Before the guard could reach the scene, Charlotte swung her basket. It moved in an arc, spilling what I realized were bonnets, then crashing against the woman’s arm, knocking her sideways. The mud in the street was like pudding, viscous and pale-brown as tapioca, and when the woman landed, perfectly seated, it made a little wave on either side of her.
I leapt from the carriage and ran toward them with no thought of what I might do. The guardsman had seized Charlotte by the arms, assisted by another man whom he’d enlisted. They dragged her down the street, while she spit and clawed.
I chased them all the way to Beaufain where the men commandeered a wagon and forced her into the back, pushing her flat onto her stomach. The guardsman sat atop her. The driver snapped the reins, the horses jerked, and I could only stand there spattered with the pudding from the street.
I swept back the veils on my hat and screamed her name. “Charlotte!”
Her eyes found me. She did not make a sound, but held my gaze as the wagon rolled away.
Handful
Mauma disappeared two days after we watched the stars fall.
We were standing in the work yard near the back gate. She had the red scarf on her head and wore her good dress, the one dyed indigo. Her apron was pressed to a crisp. She’d oiled her lips and borrowed Binah’s cowrie shell