Chapter 45: L’Emporium Duverger

Saint‑Pierre, Martinique March 1677

The first days of Awa’s enslavement at L’Emporium Duverger pass in a blur of heat, noise, and new routines. Awa rises before dawn, as Chantal commands. The courtyard is cool at that hour, and the breadfruit tree casts long shadows across the packed earth. She sweeps the stones, fetches water from the cistern, and helps prepare the morning meal. She briefly sees one of the two house slaves, Fleur and Amée, but Chantal’s rules forbid the three of them to engage in conversation not related to the work in hand. It’s a regime designed to enforce each slave’s isolation and insecurity, making her more submissive and compliant. Chantal watches Awa closely, nails tapping against the kitchen table whenever Awa moves too quietly or too quickly.

“You work neatly,” Chantal says one morning, her tone clipped. “Better than the last girl.”

Awa bows her head. “Thank you, madame.”

Chantal’s eyes narrow, as if praise itself is dangerous. “Don’t grow complacent. I have allowed you to keep your own name. That’s a privilege I can easily remove. Fleur and Amée can attest to that.”

In the shop, Awa learns the arrangement of the linen, muslin, cotton, and silk fabrics, each folded with precise corners. She memorises the spice jars, the weights, the ledgers. Awa is not allowed to touch the stock of jewellery kept under lock and key. Only Madame Chantal and Alain can handle those. Chantal notices Awa’s handwriting and pauses, tapping her nails once against the counter. Awa’s handwriting is steady, each stroke deliberate. Her sudden ability to write and do the ledgers is the result of a wish she made as soon as we were alone. Anyone who knew Marie de la Roque’s handwriting would find it strange that Awa’s writing is identical.

“You write like someone educated,” says Chantal.

“I learned in Nantes, madame,” lies Awa. “I was a servant in a merchant house, and I sometimes handled the household accounts.”

Chantal’s gaze sharpens. “Useful. But do not forget your place.”

Awa does not. She prepares herbs into small packets for the shop. She is forbidden to go beyond the iron front gates, but she can still smell the citrus peel and roasting fish drifting from the market. Awa keeps her head down and works diligently. She’s tempted to make wishes to ease her situation, but she knows that such relief would be temporary, with a high risk of unwelcome consequences. The bracelet’s magic can do many things, but granting Awa freedom is beyond its abilities.

A few days later Awa stands at the shop counter working in the ledger, copying numbers from the week’s inventory. Chantal enters without warning. Awa doesn’t hear her until she is already in front of her. The sudden presence makes Awa’s shoulders tense and cry out in surprise. Chantal’s nails tap sharply against the wood ... once, twice, three times ... a now familiar rhythm of irritation and unease.

“What are you doing?” Chantal demands.

Awa bows her head. “The ledger, madame.”

Chantal steps closer, her eyes scanning the page. She leans in too quickly, briefly touching Awa’s forehead, startling herself. Awa sees the brief flicker of fear in Chantal’s expression, immediately masked by anger.

“You should pay attention when I enter,” Chantal snaps.