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Her eyes met mine, dark brown, surprisingly soft for such an imposing face. “I… I don’t know what I want, miss.” The truth was harsh and fair.

My father closed the door and said, “Perhaps it would be best if you spoke privately. I’ll be in my office.” Then he left and closed the door, leaving me alone with the enormous, seven-foot-tall slave who was supposed to be my husband. We didn’t speak for hours.

Finally, I asked her, pointing to the chair in front of me: “Would you like to sit down?”

Josia looked at the delicate piece of furniture with the embroidered cushions, then at his enormous frame. “I don’t think this chair will hold me, miss.” “Then the sofa.” He sat down carefully on the edge. Even sitting down, he was much taller than me.

Her hands were resting on her knees, each finger a small, hardened, and marked lump.

“Are you afraid of me, miss?” “Should I be?” “No, miss.” I’ll never hurt you, I swear. “They call you a monster.” I trembled. “Yes, miss.” Because of my size, and because I look scary. لكنني لستُ وحشيًا.

I’ve never hurt anyone, not intentionally. “But you can, if you want.” “I can,” she looked at me again, “but I won’t.” Not for you. Not for someone who doesn’t deserve it.

Something in her eyes—sadness, resignation, a sweetness that didn’t match her appearance—convinced me. “Josiah, I want to be honest with you. I don’t want this any more than you probably do. My father is desperate. I’m not suitable for marriage.”

But if we’re going to do this, I need to know: are you dangerous? “No, miss.” “Are you cruel?” “No, miss.” “Are you going to hurt me?” “Absolutely not, miss.” I swear on everything I hold dear. The seriousness was undeniable; I believed what she said. Then I have another question.

“Can you read?” The question made him tremble. Fear crossed his face; reading was forbidden for slaves in Virginia. But after a long moment, he said calmly, “Yes, miss. I taught myself.” “I know it’s not allowed, but… I couldn’t help it.”

Books are gateways to places I’ll never go.