Jean Genie
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 46: Dreams of Freedom
Saint‑Pierre, Martinique, March 1678
A year has passed since Awa first stepped into Chantal Duverger’s household. The rhythms of the shop and courtyard have become familiar. They are predictable in their harshness, and steady in their demands. As usual, Awa rises before dawn, sweeps the courtyard stones, helps Fleur and Amée prepare breakfast, and sorts the fabrics in the shop with practised precision. Chantal’s nails still tap against counters and tabletops whenever she feels uneasy ... which is often. She still checks locks twice each night. She still watches Awa with the same brittle mixture of approval and suspicion.
Awa has changed. She has learned how to move through Chantal’s world without drawing attention. She has learned how to speak softly, how to keep her thoughts hidden, how to avoid the appearance of friendship with the other slaves. She has learned how to survive.
Today, the rear courtyard is warm and bright, the breadfruit tree casting soft shadows across the stones. Awa kneels beside a basket of sage, mint, and hibiscus, sorting the dried herbs into neat bundles for the shop. She glances toward the shop. Chantal is inside, speaking sharply to one of the casual shop girls. Alain is at the counter, tallying numbers in the ledger.
That means it’s safe.
Awa rests her hand lightly over the illusionary cuff. “I wish for help,” she murmurs.
The bracelet warms in response to her wish. A shimmer gathers beside her, transforming into a solid body. I step into the courtyard, barefoot as usual, my simple dress is one of the three I usually wear when I appear in a real body. My hair is tied back. I always appear as a nineteen year old woman, yet there is a depth in my eyes now, shaped by the small fragments of life I have lived in corporeal form.
“Buenos días,” I says softly, greeting Awa in Spanish, which has become our private tradition.
Awa smiles. “Buenos días. Help me with these.”
I kneel beside her, picking up a handful of mint leaves. I inhale deeply, closing my eyes. “I missed this.”
Awa watches me quietly. My moments in corporeal form are infrequent. Awa will only summon me in this form when she considers it safe, and she has a worthwhile task for me to perform. Each appearance is precious, fragile, and carefully rationed. Each appearance draws on Awa’s finite well of spirit magic. Fortunately that well is still large, but that doesn’t mean we should indulge in satisfying trivial whims.
I begin tying bundles with twine. My movements are steadier now, more confident. I’ve learned how to hold weight, how to balance my steps, how to exist in a body for hours at a time. Awa studies my hands as they tremble slightly when I concentrate. And something inside Awa tightens.
She sees me as a reflection of her own life. Awa sees my borrowed body, appearing only when allowed, disappearing when the task ends, living in fragments. It’s a mirror of Awa’s own existence. Awa’s life is permitted only in fragments too. Her movements are controlled. Friendships are forbidden. Her future owned by someone else. Her limited freedom rationed like my corporeal hours.
Awa swallows hard.
I look up. “Are you well?”
Awa nods. “Yes. Keep tying them.”
I continue, humming softly under my breath. It’s a tune I learned from Mireille at the market months ago. Awa listens, letting the sound settle into her bones.
“Your voice is gentle ... untrained ... but full of life,” says Awa.
I sense that Awa envies my ability to step into the world, even briefly, even under constraint. She envies the way I can laugh with Mireille, or speak with Jonas at the port. She envies the way I can move through Saint‑Pierre as if I belong here. Awa envies my borrowed freedom, but she fears it too. Because every time I appear, Awa feels the weight of her own captivity more sharply.
Approaching footsteps are coming from the shop, and I instinctively stop work.
Chantal steps into the courtyard, her gown crisp and her posture rigid. Her hazel eyes sweep over the scene. Her nails tap once against her fan in irritation.
“Keep your mind on your work,” Chantal says.
“Yes, madame,” Awa replies.
Chantal checks the storeroom bolts twice before turning sharply and disappearing inside the shop.
“She still frightens me,” I say.
“You, me and everyone else,” Awa murmurs.
We finish preparing the herbs in silence. When the basket is empty, I stand and stretch with sunlight warming my face. “What next?”
Awa hands me a small parcel of herbs. “Deliver this to Madame Lenoir.”
I nod, adjusting my dress. “I can do that.”
I steps toward the gate, moving with quiet confidence. Awa watches me go, the bracelet warm against her skin.
I disappear down the street, blending into the rhythm of Saint‑Pierre like any other young woman at work. Awa remains kneeling in the courtyard, staring at the empty basket.
My borrowed life is fragile. Awa’s own life is constrained. And both of us are bound by an invisible chain.
Awa closes her eyes. She is not alone. But she isn’t free.
In the stillness of early evening, after the front courtyard has been swept and the shop shutters drawn closed, Awa sits on the edge of her narrow bed. The air is warm, and heavy with the scent of dried citrus peel from the storeroom.
The rhythmic bumps from Amée’s room next door suggest that Alain won’t be visiting Awa’s bed tonight. Stopping Alain’s nocturnal visits to Awa’s bed would be easy if Awa wished it. But in the confines of L’Emporium Duverger, human company is a scarce commodity, and Awa welcomes Alain whenever he chooses to call.
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