Chapter Three Ree
Chapter Three
Ree
Her mother didn’t say another word to her until they reached the port, the water glistening and blue in the midday sun.
At this hour, sailors and dockworkers were busy readying for the next morning’s voyage.
Ships were docked and tucked away, their sails ballooning in the wind like white sheets stretched and fluttering on linen lines.
Beyond them, La Lune, one of the city’s most prominent party steamboats, glided down the Mississippi, drunken guests waving from the rails, the bright notes of the brass band on board wafting to shore.
At night, the beaded lights strung along the sides changed from red to emerald to gold, courtesy of the Brotherhood’s alchemy.
Ree hated the port, though she knew her mother’s business brought her here on a weekly basis to pick up the incoming supplies for their hairdressing parlor.
She could feel a thousand gazes on her, the weight sending a chill down her spine.
The city’s Les Magiques were under lock and key, sorted according to their magic and employed according to the city’s or their masters’ needs: the storm-callers and tide-turners as steerers on the sea, even for slave vessels carrying their own kind as cargo; the soil-sowers for their gifts in the field to yield better crops of cotton and cane; the kindlers tasked as cooks, but on some occasions cutthroats too.
The Laveaus could not be so easily classified. While some Les Magiques were bound to a single loa or two, the Laveaus were the conduits for the many and possessed a myriad of powers from the pantheon of loa. But for all their power, the chains still held, slavery still rampant.
There were whispers of rebellion in small pockets in the South, Ree knew.
Slaves turning their pitchforks on their masters.
Kindler fire sending up whole plantations in smoke until they were nothing but ash in the wind.
Those whispers had reached farther south to New Orleans, to its merchants and slavers and planters, who’d begun to fear the worst. The white men who told themselves they’d never allow New Orleans to become Haiti, whose enslaved blacks had won their freedom through revolution. Slaves whispered of Haiti longingly.
I’m gonna get myself on a boat one day, Marcel had said to her when they were children, walking hand in hand down the Bridal Bridge to the port side to watch the steamboats come in from sea. Sail away from here to Haiti where they live free. All of them.
Who would ever want to leave a city like New Orleans? Ree had asked, her eyes trained on the rippling blue horizon. Best place in the world.
But he’d only looked at her with saddened eyes. Yeah, for a girl like you.
Now Ree watched a line of naked bodies chained together emerge from the port’s darkness, led by slavers armed with long rifles toward a platform in the middle of the merchant stalls with a sign in front that read Auction of Negroes and Exotics to Commence.
It made her sick to know that by tomorrow, their prices and descriptions would be printed on the front page of The Quintessence, the weekly periodical that detailed the city’s most notable comings and goings and gossip.
Ree thought of Anabelle, the hideous marks marring the dark skin of her naked backside, and Marcel, the old burns along his throat and ankles from the heavy manacles meant to manage his magic as he tended his master’s fields in the hot sun, the burns that never quite healed right and would reopen and leak and pain him endlessly.
Ree couldn’t help it—she looked away. But her mother snatched her by the chin, fingers digging, forcing her gaze to the port.
“Open your eyes, Ree.” They were the first words her mother had spoken since the puppet show.
“And if I do? Would seeing this change anything?”
She hadn’t meant to sound so cold, so callous.
But her sudden concern wouldn’t change the cycle of life in New Orleans, as harsh and unjust as it was.
In the rest of the South, things were worse, or at least that was what New Orleanian folks liked to say to themselves.
At least here some could live free. The Laveaus were a part of that some, those faithful, faithful few.
“Have you ever considered that we are free because they are not?”
“Or maybe, they are like that because we are like this,” Ree spat.
Her gaze fell to her arm, the sun-browned skin that was deeper than her mother’s but light enough that she could enter those white establishments as she pleased.
Anabelle’s voice at her ear, sweet and cooing: You always cheat. You Laveaus have a way of doing that.
Her mother stared at her, almost in surprise.
No matter the topic, the time, the occasion of the day, the issue at hand always returned to one thing and one thing alone: color.
It was such a silly thing to be fixated upon, Ree had always thought.
But even that thought was a luxury, something she could put from her mind, like a trinket that she’d grown tired of back upon the shelf.
But what of the slaves, whose brownness carried the same darkness as quill ink, the deep richness of clove?
Could they put color from their mind? It was the silly, silly thing that this city had built its wealth upon, that had seen the roads paved and smoothed, had kept the coin passing from one greasy palm to another.
Color was the unspoken curse that fell over New Orleans, thick as sea mist, that had seeped its way into every crevice, conversation, and thought.
Color was the curse no witch, mystic, sorcerer, priestess, holy man, or even the Quarter Queen—most of all the Quarter Queen—had been able to break.
Marie Laveau stood still for a long moment, the wind from the river rolling in toward the port side, lifting the dark curls that framed her impassively set face.
“Come, daughter,” her mother finally said, turning back toward the path that led to the Bridal Bridge and, beyond that, the inner heart of the French Quarter.
But not before Ree glimpsed something brewing behind those dark eyes, something born of secrets and sadness.
“I believe you’ve learned enough for the day. ”
By the time they made it to the hair parlor, the sky had turned from blue to lavender as the sun began its descent toward the horizon.
The Laveau hairdressing parlor wasn’t much, an unfussy little slice of property on the first floor of an old music hall.
But it was still prime real estate in the heart of the Quarter, on Royal Street no less, and, most important, it was theirs.
Inside the safety of their own private quarters, Ree figured it would be the perfect time to corner her mother and discuss the matter of the Harbinger and now the threat of an Inquisition.
But Marie wordlessly swept into the back room and slammed the door shut behind her, where Ree knew she would stay for hours.
She hadn’t any clients of her own that day, but she usually pored over the ledgers with a glass of wine, a task that would take her deep into the night.
Ree quickly set about her chores to vent her frustration.
The sooner she saw to her work here, the sooner perhaps her mother would finally talk to her about what was going on.
She cleaned the old blackened coals from the grate, beat the dust from the heavy drapes and rugs, sorted the pomades from the oils and hair balms, dusted the shelves filled with her mother’s latest brews—glowing flasks meant for binding, healing, hexing, and love.
Every potion or ritual item had its own feeling to it, its own unique taste.
Golden oils for protection, anointing, and a bit of luck; glass vials of sweet incense sticks; Marie’s bestselling love potions—philtres d’amour—bottled into red-tinged decanters; holy waters blessed by her mother’s prayers and fasting; boxes of skull-shaped candles spelled with intentions; smoky-colored sleeping draughts that made dreams taste as sweet as vanilla; burlap mojo bags tied with string; gemstone-encrusted talismans that twinkled in the candlelight; countless curios.
It was a well-known fact in certain circles that the Laveau Salon doubled as an apothecary.
Such business Marie did not openly advertise in The Quintessence.
Why would she, when the world saw fit to come to her?
Ree was halfway through scrubbing the floors with her mother’s cleansing solution—a concoction of hot soapy water mixed with white vinegar and sweet orange oil for purging any bad juju, basil and cinnamon for further protection—when the front door suddenly opened. Marcel entered, breathless.
“Ree, I need a favor,” he said.
“And I need another whiskey.” Ree wrung the rag into the bucket of grayed water and got to her feet, wiping the sweat from her brow with her sleeve. “With ice.”
“Ma chérie, please.” Oh, she was darling now, was she? Marcel was a sweet-talker when he needed to be. She couldn’t blame him though—he’d certainly taught her well enough.
“I don’t do them for free.”
“Not even for friends?”
“Especially not for friends.” Ree sighed, looked him over. Underneath all that teasing bravado, Marcellus had a jittery edge to him. “What’s the ask?”
To Ree’s surprise, Marcel’s face tightened, a shadow in his eyes.
So, this is serious, she thought. He was only a year older than her, but sometimes she swore she glimpsed fresh lines in his skin that weren’t there before, a weariness a man as young as him should never know.
But toiling under a Louisiana sun was unkind work, even more so to slaves shearing sugarcane.
“I can’t take another day out there. Not with him. Not like that.” Marcel’s voice shook, and Ree’s heart fell into the pit of her stomach. His overseer, Mr. Tandy, had a reputation for being quick to anger and even quicker to unfurl the whip.