Angelina May Whitlock stood tall on the wooden platform, though her fingers trembled where they rested protectively on the shoulders of her children.

She was only twenty-eight, but sorrow and hardship had carved faint lines across her face. Her beauty had not faded—it had hardened into something resilient, like a wildflower forcing its way through stone. Her dark chestnut hair was tied back with a ribbon that had once been blue. Her dress, though worn thin at the hem, had been carefully washed the night before. If she was to endure this day, she would endure it with dignity.

Six children pressed close to her skirts.