Then she nodded and darted away without a word.
Jonas was in the carriage shed, sleeves rolled, arms deep in a wheel he had half taken apart to keep it from collapsing on the next trip to town.
He was not the biggest man in the quarters or the loudest.
He survived by paying attention.
He noticed which boards sagged before they broke, which hinges squeaked before they snapped, which mules favored a leg days before they dropped.
He listened when men muttered about new overseers, when the driver came back from town with rumors about the bank and the sheriff and which plantations might not see another Christmas under the same name.
He had learned early that when you could fix things, doors, carts, pumps, fences, you became harder to sell.
A man who could keep a place from falling apart was worth more on paper than a man who could only swing a hoe.
Essie relayed the order.
Miss Marion wants you in her room.
