Plantation, South Carolina, 1836 The woman arched forward in attempt to escape the claws that tore at her insides, stifling her moan into the rolled cloth between her teeth. She saw the fire in the hearth leap, licking at the wood with its fiery tongue—in the same manner that pain scorched her womb—splitting her in two. She couldn’t bear this, she thought. No, that wasn’t true. She would bear this. She must. What she couldn’t bear—was what must happen, after. When her contraction subsided, the aged witch who worked over her brought cool water to her lips—before following it with a hot liquid that smelled of something strong. Simmone tasted the bitter herbs in the drink and nodded her thanks to the old crone who was her grandmother. “You do well,” the old woman told her. “It won’t be long now, granddaughter.” Tears sprung to Simmone’s eyes. For nine months, she’d carried her daughter under her heart, but now her time had come—and with it—a time when she must also let ...