It was Friday evening. Sophie was practicing writing Omi Saide, slave of Mr. Franklin Preston of Rich Meadow Plantation, Georgia, with a half-burned stick on a bit of rag. It didn’t look much like Maître Jacques’s scrawl, but it didn’t look like her usual writing, either, and she was feeling pretty pleased with herself. She was trying a masculine flourish on the signature when Sally came tumbling breathlessly into the cabin. “Lord ’a mercy, Sophie, where Africa at?” Africa poked her head out of the back room. “What is it, Sally? What’s gone wrong?” Her skin went ashy. “They found her, didn’t they? They found my little girl.” Sally shook her head. “No, they ain’t found her, not yet. But they will tomorrow, sure’s Judgment Day.” “Tell me.” Africa sat down in Ned’s chair. Sally had launched into her story when Canny called out that she wanted to hear, too, which woke Saxony, who started screaming. Africa disappeared into the back and returned a few minutes later with Saxony hiccoughing on her hip and Canny hanging on to her arm.
