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the stairs.
    Uncle Clem’s house has a similar small space. He stores winter clothes there in summer along with household items seldom used. The governor swings a metal latch and opens the door cautiously, as if some wild animal might escape. I tilt my head to one side and try to peek around the door, but I can’t see into the dark alcove.
    The governor motions into the blackness with his thick finger. No response. He reaches his hand under the stairs.A shape the color of coffee grounds emerges from the darkness and rests on the governor’s palm. It’s a hand.
    A barefoot boy, dressed in mis-fitting pants and shirt, steps out from the darkness. He’s exactly my height, but thinner. His hair, although cropped short, curls tightly against his scalp. His eyes are dark and flash with fear as they dart quickly around the room, taking in his surroundings, especially me.
    â€œThis is Clay,” the governor says, bringing him farther into the room.
    â€œHello, Clay,” I say, extending my hand.
    Clay averts his eyes to the floor. “Bonjour, Ami,” he whispers.
    â€œWhat are you doing under the stairs?” I ask.
    No reply.
    â€œCan he speak English?” I ask Governor Morton.
    â€œAsk him,” the governor insists.
    â€œSpeak English?” I say slowly, enunciating each word. Clay looks at the governor and shrugs.
    â€œParlez-vous Anglais?” the governor translates for Clay with a wink.
    â€Naturellement, je vivais dans Louisiana,” he says.
    â€œMy goodness. What did all that . . .?”
    Clay interrupts me before I finish, “Of course, I do. I’m from Louisiana.” He smiles.
    I look at the governor and then over to Clay. The pair slap their thighs and laugh together, proud of the trick they’ve played on me.
    â€œYou knew what I was saying?” I ask Clay.
    â€œNaturellement.” Clay nods. “Naturally.”
    â€œHow do you do that?”
    â€œDo what?” Clay asks.
    â€œIs that French you’re speaking?”
    â€œOui.”
    â€œHow do you do that?” I ask again.
    â€œDon’t know how I do it. Been doin’ it since I was born near New Orleans fourteen years ago on John Burnside’s plantation along the mighty Mississ—”
    â€œNo, no, no,” the governor interrupts. He waves his hands back and forth quickly. “No names, Clay. Remember?”
    Clay closes his eyes and bows his head, ashamed of his mistake.
    Governor Morton grabs Clay and pulls him close for a hug the same way Dad hugged me when I did something wrong and was sorry for it. “It’s okay,” he assures Clay with a pat on his back. “It’s okay.”
    A slight smile returns to Clay’s face.
    â€œWhat’s the Mississippi River like?” I ask.
    â€œThey don’t call it the Mighty Mississippi for nothin,’” Clay responds.
    â€œCotton is big down there in the South, isn’t it?”
    â€œ Non, sucre —sugar where I lived. Brings in more money than cotton. We worked the sugarcane fields from ‘can to can’t,’” Clay says.
    â€œCan to can’t?”
    Governor Morton explains, “Slaves work from when they can see the sun until they can’t .”
    Two loud knocks on the front door send Clay scrambling to the small space beneath the stairs. He dives in and quickly pulls the door shut. The Mortons scoot the chest back in place along the wall. Lucinda walks to the door and glances over her shoulder at the governor. She stands patiently, waiting for his signal. Governor Morton looks toward the chest, places his fingers against his lips, and nods to his wife that it’s okay to open the door

CHAPTER NINE

    George Peckham steps into the house. He’s alone. He looks at the governor, tilts his head back and arches his eyebrows. The governor nods back at him. Mr. Peckham peers into the darkness and motions with his hand for someone outside to come