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Dear Diary, May 20 (predawn hours)

It is early, but I dare not go back to sleep. I had a troubling dream that I simply cannot forget. I am sure that it is nothing more than the stress of the situation combined with my conversation with Angelica.

I am now, more sure than ever that the pretty **** who I spoke with was indeed my father's concubine. She is certainly pretty enough to catch any man's eye. I lit the two whale-oil lamps that sat on the dresser where my brush and comb were laid out by the mirror. The lamps burn with remarkable clarity and light up the room in a soft yellow luminescence.

As I cannot sleep anyways, I decide to take advantage of the privacy to unwrap and again oil, comb, straighten, and re-wrap my hair for bed. If I do not do this regularly, the kinky coils of my thick, dry, black hair become as frizzy, unruly and wild as Angelica's, not to mention how impossible it would be to untangle in the morning if I'd slept with my hair unwrapped, all the more so tossing and turning as I knew I would.

Looking at the lamps, I'm reminded again of the butter knife I thought surely I would have packed and brought with me to heat up to help straighten my hair. But, as I learned earlier, much to my distress, my butter knife is now nowhere to be found in this room among my clothing and other things. As disconcerting as that is, amidst the bustle of preparations and packing, my own excitement and arguments with my worried mother, I imagine I could have been expected to have neglected to pack the butter knife. But still ...

As I retrieve the napkin-wrapped butter and knife I'd stashed on the floor behind the dresser, as guilty and shameful as I feel about that, I'm guiltily grateful not having to try to sneak down to the kitchen at this hour at the risk of being overheard and caught trying to steal them. I shudder at that thought as well as trying to explain a butter knife found hidden away in my room or among my belongings. Whites so often accuse and suspect slaves and even free negroes of stealing things not belonging to them, that I recoil at the prospect.

Still, after heating the knife over the lamp, once I start to work on my hair, straightening and smoothening it out in slow, rhythmic strokes, thinking of how my Mama did that with my hair so many times over so many years, I find the ritual soothing and my thoughts wandering. All too soon, however, I find myself going over the troubling dream that woke me from my sleep.

It started pleasantly enough with the earnest young Mr. Thornton holding me in his arms as we whirled around the ballroom in the new style waltz. In this dream my head was spinning as wildly as the dancers and when the music came to a stop, Mr. Thornton and I were still holding each other as we tried to catch our breath. The embrace turns into a kiss; chaste and proper at first but soon our tongues that were dancing to the music.

I felt my wrists taken in much stronger hands than I expected from a bookish lawyer like Mr. Thornton and when my eyes fly open, I find myself kissing not Mr. Thornton but that uncouth bore, Kyleson. He lifted my arms over my head easily, holding them with one of his calloused hands while the other tore away my dress as can only happen in a dream.

Self portrait:_

“Stop this!” I remember screaming, but the ballroom that had been filled with dancing couples was now an auction hall and all around me were sweaty men yelling out bids as I was paraded around. The auctioneer was proclaiming my attributes, sharing my age, weight and body measurements with the cheering buyers.

_“Best of all, gentleman, this is no simpering virgin.” The auctioneer announced during a pause in the bidding, “This light-skinned breeder can handle any man. Pair her with your largest bull and she'll pump out a fine litter of pups.” The idea of being bred against my will _by a negro **** made me shudder, and I pulled my arms down to cover myself, but the auctioneer wasn't done. “Or maybe ... you fine gentleman will fine another use for this beauty; she has the speech and deportment to serve in the finest house. Serving a meal in the dining room ... caring for children in the nursery ... perhaps you could find another use for her in the bedroom.”

The auctioneer's quip was met with raucous laughter, and I heard a man raise his bid by yet another ten dollars. To my horror I recognized the handsome gentleman. his face was the same as the painting that has hung on my mother's bedroom wall for as long as I can remember.

There is more light coming through the window, I think I had best finish with my hair, wrap it and get back in bed ... it would never do to have a servant find me like this. My father's will is to be read today, and now I find I'm afraid at what will be revealed inside.