How he'd named it that because veritas was Latin for truth, because he'd learned that as long as a man because he'd learned that as long as a man searched for truth and fought deception, he didn't need anything else in life.įather leaned against the door of the stall. How he'd fought and bargained to build a tiny, one-acre plot of land into what was now the two hundred acres of Veritas Estate. I clenched my jaw, waiting for him to tell me about how, when he was my age, he'd moved to Virginia from Italy with only the clothes on his back.
But then there's the point when it's time for a boy to stop playing and become a man." Father hit Mezzanotte on the flanks, hard. "There's a time and a place for having fun with horses.
"I know," I said, feeling as though I'd disappointed him. His eyes flicked over me, and I felt suddenly embarrassed for him to see me caked in sweat and dirt. Even though he'd lived at Veritas for years, he'd probably only been in the stable a few times, preferring to have his horses prepared and brought straight to the door.įather picked his way toward the back of the stable. "Stefan?" Father called, glancing around the stalls. His face was lined with wrinkles that only added to his authority, and he wore a formal morning coat, despite the heat. A tall man, Father carried himself with so much force and presence that he easily intimidated those who crossed his path. Just then, the stable door creaked open, and Father stepped in. I plucked Mezzanotte's brush from the wall and began combing through her smooth, coal-black coat. The steady rhythm of the breathing and snorting of the horses relaxed me instantly. "Well, then, I hope one of those stray dogs doesn't find you when you're out riding alone like you do every day." With that, Robert strode off toward the pasture. A breeze picked up, causing the horses to stomp their feet nervously. "Could have been a stray dog that killed them," I told Robert with an impatient wave of my hand, parroting the words I'd overheard Father say to Robert last week. Everything was changing, whether I wanted it to or not. I didn't believe that, but it was one more reminder that the world wasn't the same one I'd grown up in. Usually, the animals were small, mostly chickens or geese, but in the past few weeks someone-probably Robert, after four or five tumblers of whiskey-had begun a rumor that the attacks were the work of demons. All summer, reports of strange animal attacks had emerged from neighboring plantations. I paused mid-step, the hairs on the back of my neck rising on end. The folks over at Griffin's lost five chickens. Robert shielded his eyes from the sun as he shook his head. What's General Groom doing now?" I asked, even though conversation about the war always left me uneasy. "Heard the latest?" Robert asked, abandoning the horse to walk toward me. Robert was nice enough and one of Father's most trusted advisers, but he was so loud and brash that even a ten-minute conversation could leave me exhausted. What I desperately wanted was to meet someone who could understand me, who could discuss real things like books and life, not just the weather. That was another problem: While I yearned for someone to talk with, when presented with a conversation partner, I was never content. "Gonna be a hot one!" our overseer, Robert, yelled from the edge of the barn, where he was watching two stable boys attempt to bridle one of the horses Father had purchased at auction last week. Damon, my brother, was with General Groom's army down in Atlanta, most of my boyhood friends were either about to be betrothed or on faraway battlefields themselves, and Father was constantly in his study. The worst part was that I had no one to talk to. I was no longer a boy, not quite a man, and utterly unsure of what to do with myself. Since then, I'd been curiously stuck in the in-between. My time at the Boys Academy had ended last spring, and Father had made me hold off on enrolling at the University of Virginia until the war had ended. Every afternoon, I had the same hope: that several hours of solitude would help me figure out who I was and what I wanted to become. I was seventeen and restless, ready neither to join the war alongside my brother nor to have Father teach me to run the estate. That was what I'd been doing most days that summer. I'd packed my satchel with a book and was intent on simply escaping. I'd planned to spend a few hours riding my horse, Mezzanotte, into the cool forest on the edge of Veritas Estate-my family home. The air was still, as if holding off on a long-awaited thunderstorm. The servants' children, who usually played wild games and shrieked as they ran from one chore to another, were silent. It was a hot August afternoon in 1864, the weather so oppressive that even the flies stopped swarming around the barn. The day my life changed started out like any other.
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