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answered, a wave of apprehension sweeping through her. South Carolina
couldn’t
be an independent country. On a surge of memory, Roger’s words came back to her:
“We are one country, Flanna, one sacred Union.”
    What were these secessionists thinking? And why had they done this crazy thing right
now
, right before Christmas, right before her exams? What if the examining board looked at her file and saw that she was from South Carolina? What if Mrs. Davis warmed to the idea of tossing the secessionist student out of the boardinghouse? Flanna’s dreams would vanish like a pebble in a dark pond, dropping out of sight forever.
    “Does the paper tell you anything about the home folks?” Charity’s fingers struggled clumsily with the bootlaces, and Flanna suddenlyrealized the girl was worried about her parents. They were among the three thousand free Negroes in Charleston, many of whom held slaves themselves. Ever since Flanna could remember, an uneasy peace had existed between Charleston’s white elite, the free browns (so-named because many of them were mulatto), and the city’s white working class. If the city was in turmoil over slavery and secession, this might be a dangerous time to be black in the South—slave or free.
    “Leave my shoes. Let me read.” Flanna scanned the page again. “This article says that the city of Charleston was united in its calls for secession…and that on December seventeenth more than 160 delegates from South Carolina met in Columbia to decide whether or not the state would secede. Charleston sent 23 representatives, but an outbreak of smallpox sent the convention back to Charleston. There, in St. Andrew’s Hall, the delegates unanimously adopted the Ordinance of Secession from the Union. That night they signed it at Institute Hall.”
    “The colored folks…did they sign it too?”
    “I don’t know, Charity.” Flanna read on. “Well—here’s something. Eighty-two brown aristocrats sent a message to the mayor of Charleston that read, ‘We are by birth citizens of South Carolina; in our veins is the blood of the white race, in some half, in others much more; our attachments are with you.’”
    Charity’s dark eyes filled with disbelief. She sank back, resting her weight on her heels, and Flanna hoped the information would satisfy her curiosity for a while.
    She read further, of church bells ringing as the news spread through the city, of Union flags thrown to the breeze, of artillery salutes thundering in the night. The reporter also mentioned that Charleston officials, fearful of a slave uprising, sent nightly patrols through the city to quell any sign of black unrest.
    “Oh, Charity.” Flanna clutched the newspaper and its dread news to her chest. “What are we going to do? This is terrible news, just terrible.”
    “We could go home.” Charity lifted one brow in mute supplication. “We don’t belong up here, Miss Flanna.”
    Flanna lowered the paper to her lap, her mind spinning with bewilderment. Her father hadn’t had time to write of this incredible news, but he would, she was certain. Would he demand that she come home immediately?
Should
she go home? She was so close to finishing her degree, but what would her father’s friends think of a man who allowed his daughter to live among and consort with Yankees? A cold knot formed in her stomach as she realized that she was now in a foreign country, a place no longer affiliated with home.
    We are one country, Flanna, one sacred Union.
    Not anymore.
    Flanna pressed her fingers to her temple as another thought hit her.
Roger!
If Papa were caught up in this wave of secession hysteria, he’d no sooner correspond with a Yankee Republican than he would with Abe Lincoln himself. He would never approve of Flanna’s engagement. Indeed, he might even reply to Roger’s initial letter with a surly response, destroying any chance of what might have been a suitable match.
    And finishing her degree elsewhere was not an