Because of the quality of the light, the house seemed inordinately huge, oppressively empty, and bearing down like a menacing weight. Boards creaked, though there was no wind; the darkness had a whispering life of its own. David and Melissa stood by the mantel, his arm about her waist, his face taut and suspicious while her gaze appeared hypnotized by the low murmur of voices that accented the dance of the flames. Alice leaned back against the stove, her arms folded tightly over her chest; her face was impassive, her eyes slitted as if the narrowed vision would enable her to see through something she was not sure had substance. Cass sat at the table and listened. His name was Judah White. He was, as far as he knew, the only survivor of a second-generation slave family who had belonged to a tobacco planter in South Carolina. When, in January of ’63, word of the Emancipation Proclamation had filtered down to them, he and several of his friends had walked off the land to find the promise of riches implied in the message from Father Abraham.
