Still nothing. Then, from the shaded edge of the square where the poorest wagons parked, a gravel-deep voice cut through the sticky air like a blade. “Seven cents.”
Every head turned. The man who’d spoken stepped forward, not tall, not polished, not young. His hair was threaded with gray and his beard kept neat in the way of someone who could not afford to look careless. His clothes were plain but clean, patched in places that admitted struggle without apologizing for it. He held his hat in both hands, fingers rough, knuckles marked by work rather than leisure.
His name was Caleb Larkin, owner of a middling cotton place called Saint Anthony Farm, a spread of worn acreage outside Natchez that had once promised prosperity and now mostly promised debt. He wasn’t among the powerful men on the front benches. He survived on the edge of their shadow.
For a second the auctioneer looked as if he’d misheard. “Seven… cents?” he repeated.
Caleb didn’t blink. “That’s my bid.”
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