“Cruel?”
“No.”
“Capable of hurting me?”
“Never.”
He said it simply, without artifice. A fact, not a promise he thought would flatter her.
Then, as the strangeness of the moment seemed irremediable, Eleanor asked the question that had been troubling her since her father’s surprising mention of intelligence.
“Can you read?”
Fear crossed her face so quickly it was almost a shudder. Reading was illegal for enslaved people in Virginia; everyone knew it, and everyone knew why.
After a long silence, she said, “Yes.”
“How?”
“I taught myself. First with letters from old newspapers. Then with more. At first, I was slow. Now I’m better.”
“What are you reading?”
His expression changed despite himself, and she saw what enthusiasm meant in a man who had learned to hide almost everything.
“Anything I can get. Newspapers. Ledgers if they’ve been lost. A history book sometime. Some poetry. There’s a volume of Shakespeare in the library that’s missing the first few pages.”
Eleanor blinked. “Have you read Shakespeare?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Which play?”
His lips curved, almost involuntarily, into a slight smile. “The Tempest.”
“Why that one?”
He hesitated for a moment, then answered with growing conviction, “Because everyone argues about who belongs where. Because Prospero usurps dominion by calling it order. Because Ariel longs so much for freedom that she speaks in obedience until she can touch it. Because Caliban is called a monster by the man who stole his island and taught him to speak only to better control him.”
He stopped, perhaps self-aware, perhaps aware of her.
Eleanor realized she was staring at him.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “You asked me to, and I…”
“No,” she said. “Go on.”
And so he did.
