Pinnacle Plantation, 1807.

Callie sinks onto the porch swing and pats the seat next to her. As soon as Alexandra settles beside her cousin, Callie clears her throat and drops her voice to a whisper.

“I want you to know how bad I feel about having to limit our concert audience to a handful of abolitionists and Quakers. My real father’s relatives remain forever loyal to y’all Degambia’s, so they’ll be there. But Mr. Ball struggles with the fact that you and I are blood-relations.”

“I didn’t know the audience would be limited,” blurts Alexandra.

“Like I’ve said a trillion times, whenever Daddy’s daddy came to visit, he told us the story about how your grandpa saved Pinnacle after that 1760’s hurricane washed away all of our seedlings. My daddy’s daddy bragged that your grandpa gave him so much of his fast-growing rice seed that he brought in a bumper crop the next spring.

“And then there was the time our daddies were fighting side by side with the Swamp Fox, and your papa pulled my daddy out of a pool of quicksand.”

Alexandra watches Callie squirm, all the wiliness bled out of her face, “Mama says, and I agree, it’s ignorant to lump your family together with common slaves just because y’all’s skin, yours and your daddy’s, that is, is black as night.”

Alexandra can feel beads of sweat forming on her forehead. She keeps her gaze steady, hoping Callie won’t notice.

“To quote Mama,” Callie tilts up her chin. “‘Post-revolution interlopers don’t realize that the Degambia family was the very first in this area to plant rice, the crop that brought wealth to the Carolinas, and hence to this nation.’”

Alexandra’s laugh is too shrill.

“You laughing at me?” Callie asks.

“You sound exactly like your mother.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Callie leans close and whispers, “I think the newcomers are ashamed of their common heritage. They simply can’t bear the thought that some of their dark-skinned neighbors are more skilled, and more accom¬plished and prosperous than they’ll ever hope to be.” Callie clasps both of Alexandra’s hands. “Tell me, how could someone who’s barely more intelligent than a monkey play Mozart?”

“When did you get the new girl?” Alexander asks, hoping to turn the conversation to a new topic.

“Day after Mama ordered the orchestra for my big party. Haven’t named her yet. Any ideas?”

“She didn’t come with a name?”

“We always give our slaves a new identity to match their new place.”

“How old is she?”

“Six or seven, I guess.” Callie pauses. “Sleeps on a nice little rug by my bed, holding tight to her fan in case I get hot and need some breeze.”

Callie’s voice fades. “Sometimes I wake up and hear her callin’ for her mama. When Mr. Ball asks if she’s giving me any problems, I don’t tell him about how she cries in the night.” Callie sighs. “Mr. Ball can be so overbearing. Mother says I must respect him, because he’s taken it upon himself to adopt me and offer me his name. If only Daddy hadn’t died.” Her voice drops. “I want to stay a Panier, but I’ve learned not to voice my opinion on that matter.”

Alexandra’s startled by the fear she sees flit across Callie’s face.

“No matter what anyone says, no man will ever replace my real daddy.” Callie looks around to make sure no one’s listening. “It chills me to the bone when Mr. Ball trains the pick-a-ninnies with his horse quirt.”

“Have you told your Mother?”

“I tried. She told me I must respect my new father’s ways. When I said he wasn’t my real father, she started crying, so I let the matter drop. Can you keep a secret?” Callie asks.

“You know I can.”

“Mr. Ball says your daddy spoils your slaves rotten by letting them plant private gardens and giving them Sundays free to use for their own purposes.”

“I told you, all the people who live in the village are free, like Papa. Their ancestors joined the Cofitachiqui Indians and chased their Spanish captors back to the Sugar Islands in 1526. And my father’s people . . .”

“Skip the history lesson. According to today’s law, if they don’t have papers to prove they’re free, they’re slaves.”

Does Papa have papers? Alexandra wonders.

“Truth to tell, y’all’ve bragged on your daddy’s African ways so long, you’ve convinced me that your daddy and his kin are real smart. He knows contented darkies work harder. That’s why your rice yields are the best in the low country, which brings me to my secret.”

Callie checks to make certain no one’s listening. “I’ve decided to follow your daddy’s example. Of course, I’ll never recreate an African village. But I can offer some rewards.”

As if on cue, Callie’s girl returns with the quilt. Callie works her face into a frown. “Try to be a little quicker next time,” she says as she raises one eyebrow and rains scorn down on the fearful child.

“Yes, Miss Callie.”

“Did you put the flowers in the silver vase?”

“Yes, Miss Callie.”

Callie takes a ginger candy from her pocket and drops it in the little girl’s hand.

“Thank you, Miss Callie!” The little girl trips over her own feet in her attempt to execute a presentable curtsey.

“Tell Mama and Aunt Josephine that Alexandra and I have gone to play hide and seek in the maze garden. Stand in the doorway like I taught you and wait for a lull in the conversation.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Hurry on, now!” commands Callie.

The little girl rushes into the house saying, “Hide-and-seek in the maze garden,” over and over to herself.

“She might have just shuffled along if I hadn’t given her that candy. Your daddy’s influence. See what I mean?”

Even without Callie’s experimental kindness, Alexandra can see that the little girl has a generous nature that would please Papa’s side of the family. But it’s her potential value on the property ledger that would impress Mother.

Callie pops up out of the porch swing, reaches behind the flower pot and produces her mother’s copy of The Dancing Masters. The complete book of contemporary dances includes instructions about how to execute the minuet, along with renderings of a daring new dance: the waltz.

“I borrowed it from Mama’s shelf in the library.”

“Does she know you have it?”

“I’ll put it back before she misses it. Come on, let’s go practice!”

Alexandra and Callie have sneaked down to the river and danced barefoot on the hard-pan since they were seven years old. The adventure has always been heightened by the black satin river that rises and falls with ocean tides. But Callie has changed. Alexandra feels afraid to go down to the river alone with her cousin.

“I don’t think I have enough energy left to dance today,” lies Alexandra.

“You don’t know how to waltz yet. You do want to make a favorable impression at your first real ball, don’t you?”

Mother has invited Monsieur Martin to attend the coming-out. She imagines dancing with him before bedazzled spectators. She panics. He’s an accomplished dancer. What if the orchestra does play a waltz? She’ll make a fool of herself.

“I guess I could go down and dance for a little while,” Alexandra says, rising from the porch swing.

Before the young women reach the bottom of the stairs, they see a stranger wearing the sheriff’s badge galloping toward them from the back road. Three of his deputies ride hard on his heels.

Callie leans close to Alexandra. “Let’s duck behind the snowball bush before they see us,” she says. She sets the quilt on the porch swing and hides the Dancing Masters behind the geranium planter.

But the men are coming too fast. The girls are only half way down the stairs when the men rein their lathered horses to a stop.

The new sheriff, who wears a top hat too small for his head, points at Alexandra.

“Girl! Git me some water.”

Alexandra edges toward Callie and reaches to take her hand. Callie moves away. Cold sweat drenches Alexandra.

“You deaf? Git me some water. Now!” The stocky man’s eyes graze over Alexandra’s body. He clucks his tongue and turns to Callie, “You’re too old to be dressing your slaves in your own clothes like they was dolls. I recommend you burn that fine dress to avoid being tainted by the sins of Hamm.”

“These are my clothes!” says Alexandra.

The sheriff and his deputies laugh.

“Tell him, Callie! These clothes are mine.”

“You let your girl speak to you in that tone?” The sheriff asks.

“I’m not her girl!”

Alexandra plants her feet. Callie backs toward the door.

“Callie! Tell him.”

Callie edges into the house and eases the door shut. Alexandra faces the sheriff. “My daddy will want a word with you,” Alexandra says, her fire rising.

When she sees a vein on the sheriff’s neck pump the venom that makes men crazy, the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She sighs with relief when Tante Isabelle glides out the back door like a cool breeze. Mother follows, arms akimbo, lips pressed tight.

“Where’s Sheriff Adams?” asks Tante Isabelle in her blue-velvet voice.

“Heart attack. He’ll recover more than likely, but he won’t be back to work for a long time, if ever. Traveling judge deputized me. I’m following up on a slave who escaped from the George¬town jail. You seen a big, black buck with a crooked nose and a little finger missing on his left hand?”

“I haven’t made the acquaintance of such a man,” says Tante Isabelle. “How are Mary and Margaret getting along?”

“Who?” asks the sheriff.

“Sheriff Adam’s wife and daughter.”

“Don’t know ’em.”

“Y’all are new to the Georgetown area, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Surely, you’ve heard of Heaven Hill, the oldest plantation on the Santee,” continues Tante Isabelle.

“Yes, Ma’am,” says the sheriff.

Alexandra can tell he’s lying from the way he shifts in his saddle and looks to his men to provide him with the correct answer.

“Well then, I am pleased to present the mistress of that famous plantation, Miss Josephine Degambia.” Mother curls her lips into her Mona Lisa smile and nods.

The sheriff tips his hat.

“And her daughter, my niece, Alexandra Degambia,” Tante Isabelle continues.

The sheriff’s eyes bulge as Alexandra forces herself to curtsey.

“Carolina Gold, the most sought-after rice in the world, is shipped all over the world from Heaven Hill, but I’m sure you knew that, Sheriff. Where’d y’all say you’re from?” Tante Isabelle doesn’t wait for his answer. “Now, if all y’all are still thirsty, you and your men are welcome to use the well in back of the blacksmith’s shop. The water’s fresh and sweet, sure to cool you down on a hot day like this. When you’re done, be so kind as to show yourselves to the main road.”

The sheriff turns his horse and kicks it to a canter. When he and his deputies are specks on the horizon, Callie slips onto the porch from the back door followed by Alexandra’s mother. “Shall we stroll in the maze garden?” Callie asks Alexandra.

“I don’t feel up to walking with you,” Alexandra snaps as she pushes back her tears and draws a ragged breath.

“Don’t you young ladies allow that rude man to dampen your plans,” says Tante Isabelle. “He’ll be dismissed as soon as I have a talk with the mayor. Aunt Josephine and I are address¬ing the invitations to your Christmas concert. Come in the house and have congratulatory lime-and-lemon.”

“Already had some,” says Callie. “We’d prefer to soothe our nerves in the garden.”

Alexandra starts to protest, then thinks better of it. Callie’s still liable to see to it that the concert is canceled if she’s riled.

“A walk through the garden will do you good. Just stay away from the roses in those dresses, and don’t go down to the river. Understand?” Tante Isabelle waits for a response. “Did you hear me, Callie? I said not to go to the river.”

“Yes Ma’am, I heard you,” Callie says, offering her best Sunday-School smile.

Callie skips down the path that leads toward Tante Isabelle’s garden maze—and the river. Alexandra lags behind. She fantasizes punching her cousin in her perfect upturned nose. But that would ruin her chance to play in the concert. She carefully summons her words. “Why didn’t you tell that new sheriff I’m your cousin?”

Callie digs holes in the gravel with the toe of her boot. “I went in to get Mama. You could have come inside instead of provoking that man.”

“And let him think I was your slave?” Alexandra glares at Callie. “The color of my skin never used to bother you.”

“It doesn’t bother me now. I held your hand in front of my new slave, didn’t I?”

“She’s a little girl.”

Callie’s voice deepens. “The sheriff could hurt us.”