Back in the darkness of the foyer, I carefully folded the print and leaned it against the banister. I heard a rustling behind me and turned to see Ti Me. At her hip was a wicker basket, loaded down with linens. She stared steadily at me, holding my gaze. I smiled back at her. She did not move, did not blink, only looked into my eyes with a kind of curiosity.

I did not know what to do. But the way she stared at me, I began to think I understood. I bowed my head to her and made a short curtsy. When I raised my head, she looked at me a moment longer, then turned on her heel and was gone.

“YOU SHOULD TOUCH it,” he whispered.

“I can’t,” I whispered back.

“You did on the ship, without asking.”

His voice whistled in my ear.

“We were alone then.”

“We were not alone. All around us were tens of men who watched my pretty wife walk up and down the deck—”

“Emmanuel!”

“And still I had her all for my own. But in my own house, she won’t touch it.”

“I would,” I hissed, “but they can hear every word.”

He rolled his head back on the pillow, looked at the gap in the ceiling above us.

“They are asleep.”

“I can hear them breathing.”

“I did not take you for a nervous one, Libertie.”

“I am not nervous.”

“Nerves will not do well in our life here.”

“I am not nervous.”

“I thought you had a strong temperament.”

“I do.”

“Then prove it on me. Kouche.”

He took my hand in his, guided it between his legs, where he wished it to go. I did not think I would ever get used to that. The wonder of it—rigid in my hand, not like any other organ. It was a curiosity. I had seen between the legs of more women than I could count, but this, this was strange. It was almost as if it did not belong on a body. As if it was some kind of a prank. I pulled my hand away from his, pressed hard on the end of it to see what he would do. He groaned. Why Mama hadn’t told me of this, in all her anatomy lessons, the little bit of power here, I did not know. I wished that I could discuss it with her, or with someone. I could not even write it in a letter to the Graces, I thought. They would not understand.

Beneath my hand, Emmanuel was very slowly thrashing his legs under the sheet, as if the fit itself was luxurious. He was whispering something, too, low and deep: “Bon lanmou, bon lanmou, bon jan love.”

“Emmanuel!” It was another hiss, higher than Emmanuel’s voice, that seemed to fill the whole room.

His legs immediately stilled, but he could not calm his breathing.

“Emmanuel!” That hiss again, so shrill.

He put his mouth close to my ear.

“Go to the door,” he gasped. “If you do not, she will try the lock. She won’t leave till you answer.”

“Who?”

“Just go! Hurry!”

When I opened the door, Ella was before me. In the light of the candle she held, her face was haggard and overly pale, as if the muscle beneath her skin was inlaid with lime. She did not tie her hair up for bed, like any other Negro woman would. Instead, she had set on top of the mass of it a yellowed nightcap, which threatened to slide off of it all.

She jumped back slightly when it was I who opened the door. Then she recovered.

“Is Emmanuel all right?”

“Of course, he is,” I said. “Why would you think he was not?”

“I heard strange noises. As if he was in distress.”

“He is not.”

She sighed, exasperated, then strained her neck, as if to see around me.

“Emmanuel, did the food not agree with you? You have been so long away—”

“I am fine, Ella,” he called back.

“Are you sure?”

“He is fine,” I said, and made to close the door.

“You do not know him as I do. He has a sensitive stomach. Anyone making noises like that cannot be well.”

“You could not know what those noises meant. You are not married,” I said without thinking.

She breathed in heavily at that, so much so that her candle flame shook. I looked at her, aghast at what I had said.

“Ella, I apologize …”

But she turned and made her way back down the hall. I watched the back of her, the nightshirt and the wobble of the flame as she walked. I did not want to face Emmanuel.

When I turned back around, he was still in bed but sitting up on his elbows. He was grinning.

“I knew you were the right one,” he said. “I knew you were not nervous.”

“Your sister now hates me.”

“It does her good.”

“It doesn’t do me any good to have her hate me.”

“Ignore her. She doesn’t matter.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. Only we are twins, but we have not shared the same life for a very long time. Not since we were children.”

“What does that mean?”

“Come back,” he said, “and I will whisper it to you.”

I returned to bed. I pulled my knees up to my chin and turned away from him. He pressed at me for a few minutes, pleading. “It is not so bad, Libertie. She will understand in the morning.”

But I stayed tucked into myself, even after I heard him turn over onto his own side, his hands moving fast, before he thrust one arm over to grab at my shoulder and then fell asleep.

I DREAMT THAT night that a million tiny white feathers broke through the skin of the palms of my hands, and when I waved, I felt the breeze flow through them. When I awoke, Emmanuel was gone and his side of the bed was already cold. From the looks of the sun, it was still early in the morning. I had not been so derelict as to sleep in. I dressed as quickly as I could and opened the door, and tiptoed down the hallway and to the stairs. There was no sound of Ella or Bishop Chase. Or even Emmanuel.

The foyer was empty. Bishop Chase’s office was empty. I went to stand in the dining room, to look through the windows at the back courtyard. A group of children played there—a few in burlap shirts, another few completely naked, none in pants or shoes. They were slapping their hands together and shouting. I could just hear a bit of their song.

Li se yon esklav ki damou

Li se yon esklav ki damou

Li se yon esklav ki damou

Libète moun Nwa!

They sang it a few more times before I recognized, with a start, my own name. I turned away from the window, my cheeks burning, and moved through the rest of the house.

In the sitting room, Ella was already composed on the lone divan—a battered wooden structure with the horsehair falling from the bottom. Emmanuel sat at the table, writing. Ella was bent over some sewing in her lap.

“There she is!” Emmanuel called, and put down his pen to come and press my hands into his. Ella would not look up.

“Good morning,” I said, to both of them.

“My love, I must go see Monsieur Colon, my mentor here in Jacmel. I have not seen him in so many years, and he would be offended if I did not see him first.”

“I will come with you.”

“It is not necessary,” he said.

I looked from his face to Ella’s bent head and back again. I narrowed my eyes.

“You will go with Ella and Ti Me to market. When I return, we can begin to unpack the things for my office,” Emmanuel said. “Monsieur Colon is a very intelligent man. But he is suspicious of women, especially a woman as beautiful as my wife. I will have to be gentle with the news of our marriage.”

“He, at least, warrants that consideration,” Ella said to the sewing in her lap.

“You will be happier here, Libertie, than coming with me.”

I said nothing, only glared at him.

“You will have time enough to meet the rest of the neighborhood. Half of them know you are here already. Did you not hear the song the children have already made up in your honor?”

I shook my head.

Emmanuel smiled and began to snap his fingers, slightly out of time. “Li se yon esklav ki damou, li se yon esklav ki damou, li se yon esklav ki damou, Libète moun Nwa! Which means, of course, that I am a slave of love to my black Libertie.”

My eyes shot through with pain as I felt tears form, but I forced myself not to cry. He looked at me expectantly.

“Very clever,” I murmured.

“Ha! You will learn. Anything here that happens at midnight is known by dawn. And by morning, the neighborhood has turned it into a song.”

He bent his head to kiss my fingers. I bent my own to meet his.

“Please don’t leave me with her,” I whispered.

“I thought you were brave,” he murmured back.

And then he was gone.

I turned to Ella, who had not moved from the divan. I sat down, primly, on Emmanuel’s chair.

“What are you sewing?” I said.

She unbent her head and looked at me. She held up a lady’s jacket—black fabric with red thread she was embroidering. The embroidery was so thick and close together in some places that the jacket looked crimson. In others, it was nearly black, with only a bit of red curled over.

“Very nice,” I said.

“You cannot possibly understand it.”

“It is a jacket.”

“Yes, but you can’t know it.”

I frowned. “I do not understand,” I said.

“Exactly,” she said. She set aside the jacket, as if in a rush. “We must get to market.”

“Ti Me!” she called suddenly. “Ti Me!”

Ella and I sat there in the quiet. She glared at me, her nostrils flaring slightly. Today, her hair was pinned up, but two tendrils framed her face. One still held the paper curler she must have put in last night, after she left our bedroom. The other was valiantly trying to hold on to a curl but was losing in the humidity of Haiti.