Excerpt
Chapter 1: A Girl Who Asked Big Questions
There were always footsteps echoing through the house—someone running, someone calling out, someone looking for a misplaced book or a missing sock. The Blackwell home was never quiet. With nine brothers and sisters, how could it be? Elizabeth was right in the middle of the pack. Not the oldest. Not the youngest. Just one of the many Blackwell kids who filled the rooms with energy, opinions, and big ideas.
It wasn’t the kind of family where you could sit in silence for long. If you had something to say, you had to speak up—quickly and clearly—or the moment would pass you by. If someone was telling a story at dinner, you might have to jump in before the next voice took over. Even getting a second helping of potatoes required timing. Elizabeth learned early that the world didn’t wait for you to whisper.
But that didn’t mean she was loud. Not in a shouty way. She had a quieter kind of confidence. She paid attention. She asked questions when no one else did. When her brothers argued about history or her sisters practiced piano, Elizabeth might be in the corner reading, thinking, or wondering why things were the way they were.
She wondered a lot. Why did people get sick? Why did some people go hungry while others had too much? Why did girls have fewer choices than boys, even when they were just as smart—or smarter?
Her father, Mr. Blackwell, loved questions like those. He believed in fairness and hard work. He ran a sugar refinery, and though it made good money, he had strong feelings about where that money came from. That’s why he refused to buy sugar made by enslaved people. This made things harder for his business, but he wanted his children to understand that doing the right thing mattered more than getting rich.
At the dinner table, he asked all the kids what they thought about big issues—freedom, justice, kindness. He didn’t treat Elizabeth like “just a girl.” He expected her to have thoughts and to back them up. If she said something, he might ask, “Why do you believe that?” or “What would you do differently?” He wasn’t testing her. He was helping her learn to think for herself.
And she did. Not just by reading books, though she did plenty of that. She learned from her siblings, too. Being in the middle meant she had to work a little harder to be noticed. Her older brothers were strong debaters. Her younger sisters were quick with jokes or tears. Elizabeth had to find her own way to stand out. She did it by listening carefully, remembering what people said, and then saying something unexpected that made everyone stop and think.
Sometimes she got teased for it. That was part of being in a big family—getting nicknames, being the butt of a joke, being told to move over on the bench. But there was also a kind of fierce loyalty. They might tease her at home, but if anyone outside the family said something mean, her siblings backed her up right away. That’s how it worked.
When the family moved from England to America, everything changed—but also didn’t. The Blackwells still had each other, still took over every room they entered, still had strong opinions about nearly everything. Their new life in Cincinnati, Ohio, brought more challenges. They weren’t rich anymore. Their father’s business struggled. But their home stayed full of ideas and arguments and books passed from one child to the next.
Elizabeth kept reading and asking questions. She was especially curious about people’s lives—what made them healthy or sick, what helped them grow strong, what held them back. Sometimes, when one of her siblings had a fever or scraped a knee, she’d watch how her mother cared for them. Not with magic. Not with complicated tools. With attention. With knowledge. That stayed with her.
There wasn’t a clear path for girls who wanted to learn more than sewing or manners. Even schools for girls didn’t teach the same subjects boys got. Her brothers studied science and math; she wanted to, too. But she had to borrow their books or read by herself. No one said, “Here, Elizabeth, let me teach you this.” If she wanted it, she had to chase it.
In a way, being one of many helped her get ready for that. There was no room for waiting politely. If she wanted to lead a game, she had to convince the others. If she had an idea, she had to explain it. If she thought someone was being unfair, she had to speak up. Those were the same skills she’d need later, even though she didn’t know it yet.
There was one thing the Blackwells didn’t always agree on: what the future should look like. Some of her siblings dreamed of becoming writers, teachers, or explorers. Elizabeth wasn’t sure yet. But she knew one thing—she didn’t want to live a small, ordinary life. She wanted to be useful. She wanted to do something that mattered.
There were always footsteps echoing through the house—someone running, someone calling out, someone looking for a misplaced book or a missing sock. The Blackwell home was never quiet. With nine brothers and sisters, how could it be? Elizabeth was right in the middle of the pack. Not the oldest. Not the youngest. Just one of the many Blackwell kids who filled the rooms with energy, opinions, and big ideas.
It wasn’t the kind of family where you could sit in silence for long. If you had something to say, you had to speak up—quickly and clearly—or the moment would pass you by. If someone was telling a story at dinner, you might have to jump in before the next voice took over. Even getting a second helping of potatoes required timing. Elizabeth learned early that the world didn’t wait for you to whisper.
But that didn’t mean she was loud. Not in a shouty way. She had a quieter kind of confidence. She paid attention. She asked questions when no one else did. When her brothers argued about history or her sisters practiced piano, Elizabeth might be in the corner reading, thinking, or wondering why things were the way they were.
She wondered a lot. Why did people get sick? Why did some people go hungry while others had too much? Why did girls have fewer choices than boys, even when they were just as smart—or smarter?
Her father, Mr. Blackwell, loved questions like those. He believed in fairness and hard work. He ran a sugar refinery, and though it made good money, he had strong feelings about where that money came from. That’s why he refused to buy sugar made by enslaved people. This made things harder for his business, but he wanted his children to understand that doing the right thing mattered more than getting rich.
At the dinner table, he asked all the kids what they thought about big issues—freedom, justice, kindness. He didn’t treat Elizabeth like “just a girl.” He expected her to have thoughts and to back them up. If she said something, he might ask, “Why do you believe that?” or “What would you do differently?” He wasn’t testing her. He was helping her learn to think for herself.
And she did. Not just by reading books, though she did plenty of that. She learned from her siblings, too. Being in the middle meant she had to work a little harder to be noticed. Her older brothers were strong debaters. Her younger sisters were quick with jokes or tears. Elizabeth had to find her own way to stand out. She did it by listening carefully, remembering what people said, and then saying something unexpected that made everyone stop and think.
Sometimes she got teased for it. That was part of being in a big family—getting nicknames, being the butt of a joke, being told to move over on the bench. But there was also a kind of fierce loyalty. They might tease her at home, but if anyone outside the family said something mean, her siblings backed her up right away. That’s how it worked.
When the family moved from England to America, everything changed—but also didn’t. The Blackwells still had each other, still took over every room they entered, still had strong opinions about nearly everything. Their new life in Cincinnati, Ohio, brought more challenges. They weren’t rich anymore. Their father’s business struggled. But their home stayed full of ideas and arguments and books passed from one child to the next.
Elizabeth kept reading and asking questions. She was especially curious about people’s lives—what made them healthy or sick, what helped them grow strong, what held them back. Sometimes, when one of her siblings had a fever or scraped a knee, she’d watch how her mother cared for them. Not with magic. Not with complicated tools. With attention. With knowledge. That stayed with her.
There wasn’t a clear path for girls who wanted to learn more than sewing or manners. Even schools for girls didn’t teach the same subjects boys got. Her brothers studied science and math; she wanted to, too. But she had to borrow their books or read by herself. No one said, “Here, Elizabeth, let me teach you this.” If she wanted it, she had to chase it.
In a way, being one of many helped her get ready for that. There was no room for waiting politely. If she wanted to lead a game, she had to convince the others. If she had an idea, she had to explain it. If she thought someone was being unfair, she had to speak up. Those were the same skills she’d need later, even though she didn’t know it yet.
There was one thing the Blackwells didn’t always agree on: what the future should look like. Some of her siblings dreamed of becoming writers, teachers, or explorers. Elizabeth wasn’t sure yet. But she knew one thing—she didn’t want to live a small, ordinary life. She wanted to be useful. She wanted to do something that mattered.