December 15, 1856. Josiah and I were in the library, lost in each other, kissing with the freedom of those who believe they are alone. We didn't hear my father's footsteps. We didn't hear the door open.
“Elellaner.” His voice was icy.
We broke apart abruptly. Guilty. Exposed. Terrified. My father stood in the doorway, his expression a mixture of shock, anger, and something else I couldn't quite decipher.
“Father, I can explain.”
“You're in love with him.” Not a question, but an accusation.
Josiah immediately knelt down. "Lord, please. It's my fault. I never should have..."
"Silence, Josiah." My father's voice was dangerously calm. He looked at me. "Elellanar, is it true? Are you in love with this slave?"
I could have lied. I could have claimed that Josiah had raped me, that I was a victim. It would have saved me and condemned Josiah to torture and death. I couldn't.
“Yes, I love him and he loves me. And before you threaten him, know that the feeling is mutual. I was the one who initiated our first kiss. I was the one who sought this relationship. If you have to punish someone, punish me.”
My father's face went through a series of expressions: anger, disbelief, confusion. Finally: "Josiah, go to your room immediately. Don't come out until I send for you."
"Gentleman-"
"No."
Josiah left, casting me one last anguished look. The door closed, leaving me alone with my father. What happened next? My father's words in that study changed everything, but not in the way I expected.
“Do you understand what you’ve done?” my father asked in a low voice.
