The slow squeak of a wooden door opening little by little. The mysterious noise came from the downstairs in the dark plantation house.
Bina’s sleepy head rose off her straw mat.
On this warm June night in 1780 there was little breeze on the banks of the Santee River in South Carolina’s Low Country. She heard nothing but a chorus of cicadas singing under the azalea bushes.
Closing her brown eyes Bina rolled over onto her stomach. She hoped to find a cool spot somewhere on the wide pine planks of the second story landing where she lay.
Then came the metallic creak of a door handle.
Someone was downstairs and she was fully awake.
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© 2010 Linda J. Bottjer