Chapter Six Ree #2
“And you, Ree?” her mother asked, dangerously soft. “Since you know of these things, tell me, daughter—do you know which Inquisitor the Vatican has assigned to hunt us, to hunt you?”
Now it was Ree’s turn to go quiet. Her mother sneered.
“Yes, Henryk Broussard returns to New Orleans. But not as the boy you once loved. No, my sweet daughter.” Those white eyes flashed.
“As your enemy. So, you see it is you who commits the greatest sin of them all—you put a thing as fickle as love before your own magic.”
“Well, maybe, Mother, if you had too, you wouldn’t be such…such…a pathetically lonely old widow with a heart of fucking stone!”
The magic behind Marie’s eyes abruptly died, her dark eyes empty and impassive.
Her mother’s face, always so carefully blank.
Always so guarded with her armor of piety and virtue.
And yet…Ree had seen that glimpse of old pain.
The kind that gnawed at you with crooked teeth, that bled you dry down to marrow and bone.
She was her mother. She was her queen. And she was the Widow Paris, the woman whose husband had vanished and never saw fit to return.
That was the exact moment that Ree knew she’d gone too far.
Her mother crossed to the door. As she passed, she came to a quiet halt at Ree’s shoulder, Sosie reared and hissing in her arms.
“You don’t know all that I have done for you, daughter,” whispered Marie. There was no anger, Ree realized. Only mournful regret, a shadow of old pain come again. “And for both our sakes, I pray you never will.”
Marie swept out of the house without another word.
Ree reclined in a hot bath, her skin raw and stinging after she’d scrubbed off the snatcher stink.
Anabelle was perched beside the tub, combing Ree’s damp curls away from her face.
From below the floorboards of Anabelle’s bedchamber came the usual sounds of a New Orleans pleasure house: the mad giggling of courtesans as they flitted about the halls hand in hand, the gruff bickering of men and merchants come to see their business done, the hurried cries of lovers.
Tonight, no one would disturb them, least of all Madame Monet, not when Ree had put down enough coin for two nights.
“You know, I have two gifts for you.”
Ree sighed. So much had happened—the Harbinger, the snatchers, and news of an impending Inquisition and Henryk—that something as simple and innocent as trading tokens of affection with a lover seemed…almost juvenile to her now. “That’s kind, Anabelle. But I’m not sure I’m in the m—”
Anabelle tugged the knot that held her silk slip together. It fell from her shoulders, rippling into silken ridges around her feet.
Ree reclined into the lush, steaming waters. “Never mind,” she murmured, her breath quickening. “I’ll take this gift now.”
Later, in bed, Anabelle produced a small velvet box wrapped with a black bow, like the ribbons her mother used to thread Ree’s hair with on the slow Sunday mornings before mass.
“You do remember how this works? I am the one who is supposed to pay you,” said Ree.
“Hush. This is no payment, Ree. Well, go on. Open it.”
Ree slid the bow from the box, revealing a large black flower. It had red veins, dark enough that they appeared swollen with blood. “Not exactly the picture of romance.”
“Why have romance when you can have something far rarer? Freedom.” Anabelle scooted closer, a strange light in her eyes.
Ree did not tell her that last night, she had offered to buy just that on her behalf from her madame.
“That there is Conjurer Root. Old folks say it’s got the soul of High Jon in it.
They say your momma scorched it all from the earth. Well, not all of it.”
“Then how did you get your hands on it?”
“Suppose the same way I got my hands on you.” Anabelle winked. “Magic.” She leaned in, pressed her full lips against Ree’s, the sweet peck of a butterfly against a rose.
When they finally pulled apart, Ree turned the box over in her hand. “Consider me curious. What would one use Conjurer Root for?”
“Slaves say it’s got the old juju in it. From the old land across the sea. Triples your magic. Grants you freedom.” Anabelle paused, that strange light in her eyes again. “But then again, you wouldn’t much need that, now, would you?”
Ree couldn’t ignore the way her chest tightened, the sudden lump in her throat.
She wanted to cry. But she couldn’t. Not like this, not with her.
She accused her mother of having armor for skin, but the truth was she had her own too.
She had her fun, her little games. But now?
She just wanted to have someone who might understand why she played at all.
Anabelle caressed her arm as if reading her mind. “What were you arguing about this time?”
“It turns out my mother and I have very different visions for my future in New Orleans,” Ree said.
Ree could feel Anabelle’s hesitation, the way she shifted uncertainly beside her. “What if your future was never meant to be in New Orleans?”
Ree sat up. Her heart had begun to stammer in her chest. “What are you talking about?”
“Run away with me,” Anabelle said. “We could leave New Orleans and never look back. Your future—our future could be what we make it to be. We would make our own fates, Ree.”
Tempting words. Dangerous words. It was a bell that couldn’t be un-rung. The bell might have been ringing ever since that first night in the House of Flowers’s parlor when Anabelle had passed her in precious silks, smelling of jasmine and desire.
“And where would we go?”
“Anywhere but here. Anywhere but this godforsaken city.”
“I am a free woman, Anabelle. And you…” Ree trailed off, couldn’t bring herself to say the words.
The noise Anabelle made was disarmingly sudden, a bitter sound. “I’ll tell you what I am—I am sick and tired of the way things are. I don’t want to accept this sad little life for myself a moment longer.”
“This is not a game, Anabelle. We would be breaking every rule—”
“I am so tired of the fucking rules!” Anabelle’s voice rang out in the quiet of the room, sharp as glass.
She hissed in a breath, calming herself.
And yet…Ree had seen. That perfect mask had slipped, for a moment, revealing the unending pain beneath.
Anabelle took her hand. “You were right, Ree. We need to break the rules. Together.” A moment of hesitation as she waited, deliberating. “Leave with me.”
Ree held her eyes. Anabelle would not offer again.
Ree understood this moment for what it was—a moment of brief clarity, a fleeting pause in their little game when they would lay their cards down and bare themselves before each other.
If Ree refused her now, they would go on as they were, and in the morning, this moment would be a bad dream.
“Leave with you and be hunted by snatchers.” Ree paused. “And my mother.”
Anabelle’s dark eyes were fixed on Ree’s face, unmoving in their conviction. “Your mother will let you go in time.”
Would she? How to tell her that Ree had tried to leave once before, on the eve of her sixteenth birthday, almost eight years ago, with someone else who had stolen her heart and had never seen fit to give it back?
She’d been a frightened little thing, scared to death of what might become of her during those harrowing spiritual rites that would transform her into a Voodoo Priestess, scared even more of who she might be after.
Who would she become in the end? Not a vessel for the gods and the spirits and the ancestors as the laws of Voodoo intended, but just another empty vessel for the great Marie Laveau.
Now all she could think of were those bitter words between them tonight, her mother’s gaze filled with anguish.
Ree closed her eyes, shutting out that haunting image.
“What do you say?”
“I—” She thought of those snatchers, the blistering heat of the aurum collar fastened around her neck. Those white men and their laughing faces, taunting her from the dark while she cowered on her knees.
Anabelle put a finger to her lips, silencing whatever answer she might have given. “Tomorrow. The Bridal Bridge.”
Ree froze. Could she know? No, she decided, this woman could not know of the pain that same fateful place had brought her eight years ago.
Because she had never spoken of it. She could not know the pain Ree harbored from her decision to leave Henryk Broussard standing all alone on that bridge, her choice to remain in New Orleans because she hadn’t yet learned to sever that invisible, suffocating thread that tied her to her mother.
At the time, leaving her mother had felt impossible in a way that it didn’t now.
Anabelle could not possibly know about that old pain.
It was the magic of coincidence and nothing more.
Now Ree had learned from her mistakes. Now she might choose her own fate, chart her own path outside of her mother’s reign.
She felt giddy with delicious possibility.
She was scared too. But somehow it was easier to imagine the danger of leaving than to imagine the stifling safety of staying.
Because at least when she left, she wouldn’t have to face old ghosts.
But Henryk Broussard was more than a ghost. He was the wound on her fickle heart that might never, ever heal.
“When the bells toll at sundown. I’ll be there…” Anabelle pressed her lips to Ree’s. Ree tasted the salt in her tears. “And I hope you will be too.”