The Quill or the Ink (An American Monarchy Story Volume I ) ON HOLD

CHAPTER III (2/2)

I wake Moira before first light as planned. The dawn hasn't begun to twinkle due East. Her eyes open and they see me. She smiles so genuinely as she raises up and kisses my cheek. I balk nervously and her demeanor changes. Her pretty face distorts into worry. "What's wrong Andrew?"

"Nothing." I lie. "I'm just nervous about getting you to Aunt Bonnie's safely." The second part of what I say is not untrue but is a lie of omission. What we shared the night before complicated an already overly complicated matter and it worries me deeply. Maybe I am making more of it than there is to it. That it was just 'a thing that happened', like she had spoken of Hannah's father. But it doesn't feel that way. It feels like something. It certainly feels like more than just 'a thing that happened.' Whatever it is, it can't be. There is no hope for us, not in this world. So, it has to become, however much more it is, merely 'a thing that happened.'

*

Aunt Bonnie is one of only a few midwives in the growing town- and the only good one. Her profession has awarded her a stable income, and a townhouse, on the main thoroughfare of town in Charlottesville out of which she practices and lives. There's a general goods store, a few lawyers' offices, a doctor's office, and the Court House all within spitting distance of her front door. There's even a draper and a perukemaker now. The sheriff's office isn't far either. By now, there may even be a bulletin there baring the name of a runaway slave named 'Moira' from Mount Vernon- hopefully not. I know we can not get to Aunt Bonnie's at any hour unseen but we might be able to get there unnoticed- and unnoticed will have to do.

As it's a Thursday morning, and the last one before Christmas, the main thoroughfare of Charlottesville is already vibrantly buzzing with wealthy women strolling from shop to shop dawning fine gowns and furs more for being seen than function or warmth. Gentleman too line the streets in their fine hats, jackets, and waistcoats, tending either to their business or their wives. The more profuse of them even carry superfluous walking sticks of lacquered wood, adorned with precious metal caps cast into orbs, or lion's heads or birds-of-prey. And there are the slaves- the fancifully dressed ones that serve as valets and carriage drivers, some even with the white powdered periwigs of aristocracy, and others shivering in mere tatters of shack cloth as they load grain or cargo onto carriages. Charlottesville, like Alexandria, and Richmond, is a jewel in opulent Virginia's crown and a perfect portrait of the scourge of slavery. It is a town of the very richest and the very poorest- a economic hub, for many of the largest plantations in Virginia. For a town without a port, somehow the finest things find their way here.

As we enter town, I notice that the American flag flies full mast with the King's coat of arms above the court house. Word hasn't yet spread. These people are preparing for their yuletide celebrations with no knowledge that the king has died. The shops are festively decorated for Christmas and the lawn of the court house is decorated too- with freshly built gallows from which three slave men hang; to the middle one is a affixed a sign that reads in one word "RUNAWAY."

I walk the street, pulling Laird by the reins behind me. Moira sits atop his back wrapped in a blanket that hides her head and face. I hope we will be lost in the sea of horsemen and carriages. I stare at my feet and meander forward. Aunt Bonnie's house is in the middle of town. There are a lot of steps between where we are and where we are headed, shops to pass, lingering eyes of neighbors and childhood acquaintances to avoid.

"Andrew Gilchrist!" says a soft, feminine, and familiar from across the street. The sound of my name conjures the thought of a hang man calling it as I stand my final moment on the courthouse gallows just as he places the noose around my neck. As I make the long drop in my mind, and my neck breaks, I see her. The sight of her makes my heart strain and strike my ribs like I imagine a dying man's  really does at the end of the rope.