The sun was already setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple, when Carlos awoke. He had spent the entire afternoon lying on his side on the hard-packed dirt bed in the slave quarters. Even with the priest's magical ointment, a throbbing, heat-like sensation persisted beneath his skin, a painful reminder of the morning. The air inside the senzala was heavy, thick with the smell of sweat and earth.

  He hadn't been able to do anything but fall asleep, only waking to the distant clamor of dinner time. He rubbed his eyes, heavy from a restless sleep.

  A whole Sunday... wasted, he thought bitterly. All I did was go to church and get a whipping for not knowing we have to serve the old man even on the day of rest.

  Moving slowly, he picked up his bowl of food—a lukewarm portion of beans and farofa—and scanned the area for a place to sit. He spotted Aunt Vera leaning against the wall, eating calmly on the ground. He sat down beside her. The woman, upon seeing him, furrowed her brow, her kind eyes filling with deep concern.

  "Boy, I heard what happened," she said, her voice a hoarse whisper. "I'm so sorry for that. It was my fault. I should have warned you that we who work in the Big House work every day, even when God rests."

  "Don't say that, Auntie. It's not your fault," Carlos replied, his gaze fixed on his own bowl. "The old man is the one who should have told me. Or does he think we can read his mind?"

  "Even so, my heart is heavy. To make up for it, I think I can give you a little gift."

  Is it more cashew fruit? Carlos pondered internally. As good as it is, I'm getting tired of the sweet-and-sour taste.

  "You know that recipe with the cocoa powder you gave me?" Vera continued, a sudden brightness animating her face. "Well, I made it today. The cake turned out wonderfully. The Master's wife loved it, and so did her son. She even told me: 'You crazy woman! You used all my cocoa powder, but I can't even complain because this is the most delicious cake I've ever eaten in my life! Even Juquinha, who's so picky, loved it!'" Vera imitated the mistress's high-pitched tone, drawing a small smile from Carlos. "Then she asked me the name of the cake, and I got nervous. The Master was still angry because of you, and I didn't want to draw attention... so, without thinking, I just repeated what she had called me: 'Crazy Woman."

  Carlos couldn't contain a low laugh.

  "Don't you laugh, boy!" she said, trying to sound angry, but the corners of her lips twitched with humor. "In the moment, Miss Alice laughed a lot too. She found the name funny."

  "Well," said Carlos, catching his breath. "From now on, this cake shall be called 'Crazy Woman Cake'. And I bet Miss Alice loved the 'coincidence'.

  The cake really is called Nega Maluca, what a coincidence! I wonder if it's called that for a similar reason too?

  "I'd hit you if I didn't need you to give me more of those recipes from your homeland," Vera joked, wagging her finger. "But back to the point, your gift is a piece of the leftover cake. The mistress let me have it."

  "You don't have to, Auntie. You keep it. After all, you're the one who made it."

  Aunt Vera shook her head. "Nonsense, boy. I already had my piece, I tasted it with the mistress. And she thinks I invented the recipe... The least I can do is share it with you."

  "Alright," he conceded. "If you insist, I'll accept. But I didn't invent the recipe either. It's from my homeland, just things I remember."

  "Then you must share more of those delicious memories with me later," Vera requested, rising with a soft groan. "But now, I have to sleep. Tomorrow, the sun won't even be up before I have to light the stove in the Big House."

  Aunt Vera walked away, and Carlos watched her go, feeling the weight of that exhausting routine. Soon after eating the piece of cake, he too lay down, seeking a sleep that was slow to come.

  ***

  The shrill sound of the overseer's call cut through the pre-dawn air like a physical blow. Carlos opened his eyes, and a sour mood enveloped him like a heavy cloak before his consciousness was fully awake.

  "Not even a single day of rest for my back to heal," he thought bitterly. The pain in his back was a constant presence, an ember beneath his skin, and his recently healed leg throbbed with the promise of fresh exhaustion. "I can't take this anymore. My body stinks, the food is always the same miserable slop, and a day off is an illusion. And the bath... worst of all, missing the bath in the river." He remembered with frustration that while he slept, the others had gone to wash, and no one had called him. The feeling of grime clinging to his skin was almost worse than the pain.

  Despite his internal protests, he dragged himself to the sugarcane field. The morning dragged on under a merciless sun, its rays like needles of fire searing into his wounded back. The heavy, sweet air from the cut cane juice mixed with the smell of damp earth and sweat. Every movement was agony. When the sun finally began to decline, a spark of relief animated him. At least he would escape that hell and enter the coolness of the Big House, courtesy of the "air conditioning" that Pedro provided with his gems.

  He left the cane field feeling the weight of hostile gazes on his back. They were looks of hatred and contempt from the other enslaved people.

  "Now I understand the envy," he reflected, avoiding anyone's gaze. "But they're directing their anger at the wrong people. Pedro, Aunt Vera, me... we are not the enemies. The enemy is the same one who keeps us all in this prison. Working in the Big House might be slightly better, but it's still slavery. I have to restrain myself every second from strangling that filthy old man." His fingers clenched involuntarily. "I hope that merchant returns soon with the weapons. It's the only hope I have of breathing free air."

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Upon entering the Big House, the contact with the cool tile floor was an immediate relief to his aching feet. The air was lighter, without the oppressive weight of the outside. In the kitchen, he heard the hushed voices of Dona Alice and Aunt Vera. He passed by them quickly, heading for the stairs, but he couldn't help but notice, out of the corner of his eye, that something was wrong. Alice's eyes were red and swollen, and purple bruises, stark against the paleness of her thin arms, stood out beneath the sleeves of her dress.

  "What happened to her?" he asked himself. "From Aunt Vera's description, she always seemed so... composed. That redness is from crying. But why should I care? She's a slave owner too. She's complicit." He stifled the flicker of curiosity and proceeded to the office.

  As he opened the door, a heavy atmosphere greeted him. Jorge was in his armchair, his face a mask of habitual irritation. Pedro was at his post, immobile, and a light, moist, cool breeze emanated from him, fighting the heat. However, a strong, sickly-sweet smell of cacha?a saturated the air, hanging over the room like a toxic cloud.

  "Finally, you show up!" Jorge snarled, his voice soaked in alcohol and disdain. "I thought you'd invented another excuse to skip work!"

  What's the point of all this wealth, all this power, if you're always so miserable? Carlos thought, lowering his head in a respectful farce.

  "My apologies for the delay, Master. I will hurry more next time."

  The afternoon dragged on in its new routine: Carlos read passages from books and explained concepts to the master, carefully filtering his real knowledge, especially anything that smelled of strategy or weaponry. It was dangerous to know too much. Night fell, and with it, a profound weariness.

  "Another day without a beating. A triumph." As he trudged back to the slave quarters, the images connected in his mind: the smell of cacha?a in the study, the purple bruises on Alice's arms, her red eyes. A chill ran down his spine. "No... that monster hit her too."

  In the dead of night, he found Aunt Vera near the nearly extinguished fires. The flickering light danced across her tired face.

  "Aunt Vera," he began softly. "Do you know why the mistress was covered in bruises today?"

  She sighed deeply, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of decades.

  "Boy, you noticed? I was hoping you hadn't... you're far too observant. But it's fine, I'll tell you. The Master... his cruelty isn't just for our kind. Miss Alice suffers in silence. On Sunday night, he was still fuming with rage about the church, about Tassi, and about you."

  "When he gets like that, he turns to the bottle to 'calm down'. But the alcohol doesn't calm him; it turns him into a demon. The mistress told me..." Vera's voice caught. "He started throwing and breaking everything in the kitchen. She, knowing his temper, locked herself in her room with little Juquinha. But the child, scared of the noise, started crying desperately. Nothing she did could calm him."

  "Master Jorge heard the crying and stormed up the stairs, muttering foul words. He smashed the door open and yelled: 'Make that child shut up! You're good for nothing! You were supposed to give me an heir worthy of my gems, but all you give me is trash!'" Vera closed her eyes for a moment, as if reliving the scene. "He took his belt... and went for the boy. 'Act like a man, damn it! Men don't cry! But if you want to cry, I'll give you a reason!'"

  "He tore Juquinha from his mother's arms. She tried to hold on, but it was like a leaf against the wind. He started beating the boy with inhuman force... until the belt's buckle struck the little one's head. Blood gushed, and he fell, silent."

  "At that moment, Miss Alice screamed, grabbed his arm, begging him to stop. He shoved her away so violently that she was thrown to the ground. And then... then he started beating her. Punches, kicks... screaming that he was the man of the house and he would teach her to respect him. He only stopped when exhaustion took him, and he went to sleep like a pig. She, with what little strength she had left, picked up her bleeding son and ran to the priest."

  Vera stared into the dying flames.

  "You know, boy, all her other children fled. Either went to study far away or married early—anything to escape their father. They always asked their mother to go with them. But he never lets her. He keeps her trapped here, clinging to the insane hope that one day she'll give him a son who inherits the talent for defense gems, like him. This is the twelfth one... If God hasn't willed it by now, when will He? But the Master's heart is stone, and he cannot see."

  Carlos felt his stomach churn. My God... I misjudged her. She isn't complicit. She's another prisoner, another victim chained to the same monster.

  "Every time the cacha?a does the talking, it's the same tragedy," Vera continued, her voice a thread. "Once, I was there... I tried to be a shadow, because if he does that to his wife, what would he do to a slave? But I forgot the salt shaker on the dinner table. For that, he picked up a chair and shattered it against my back. I still feel that pain today. The priest's ointments can't erase certain marks."

  Everyone here is a victim, Carlos thought, a cold, determined fury growing within him. I have to get everyone out of here.

  "You know what hurts the most?" Vera whispered, tears finally breaking through. "It's seeing the look in the mistress's eyes. Sometimes, it's so empty... It's not out of malice. It's because the life has been drained from her over so many years. She only keeps breathing because of Juquinha. Many in the senzala think she lives in paradise, that they'd trade places with her in a heartbeat. But I, who have lived with them for thirty years, I know. Her pain is different, but it's real. It's a void that consumes her from the inside... And I wonder, what will become of her when this last child also manages to escape?"

  She wiped her face with the back of her hand, embarrassed.

  "Boy, I'm sorry for talking so much. Pedro must have told you I'm a chatterbox. I try to be cheerful, to see the beauty in small things, but there are days... there are days when the weight is just too heavy. Just having someone to talk to... it helps."

  Carlos stayed silent. No words seemed adequate for that ocean of pain. Instead, he moved and wrapped Aunt Vera in a firm, silent hug. The simple gesture broke the last of the woman's barriers, and she cried softly on his shoulder, her frail body trembling against his.

  After the heart-to-heart, Vera retreated, exhausted. Carlos went to his corner, but sleep wouldn't come.

  "Aunt Vera carries such a heavy burden... and yet she still finds the strength to be kind. It must be torture for her, to witness everything and feel powerless." The ache in his chest was sharp, a deep compassion for that resilient woman. "I complain about my lot, but I barely know the meaning of suffering. I hope... I hope that merchant comes soon. With the weapons."

  As these thoughts echoed in his mind, exhaustion finally overpowered him, and he fell into a fitful sleep, while the senzala plunged into a silence broken only by the sighs of the night.

  Author's Note

  Just a quick cultural note! The cake Carlos describes is a classic Brazilian dessert known as "Bolo Nega Maluca". The name literally translates to "Crazy Black Woman Cake," which is why I used the translated term "Crazy Woman Cake" in the story to avoid any unintended offense for modern readers.

  While some people in Brazil do find the name problematic, this cake is a cherished part of my childhood. My mother, who is Black, always called it nega maluca, and it's filled with warm memories for me.