Chapter Fifteen Ree #3
Anabelle stared up at Ree in shock. Ree’s heart stammered in her chest at the sight of the fresh bruises along Anabelle’s dark skin, the charred marks where the aurum had burned her.
Her arms were still bound, thankfully in rope.
Ree cut it with the knife and waited for the moment Anabelle might strike her, might lash out like she did in Congo Square some days ago.
But she did nothing, tears pouring down her cheeks.
She flung her arms around Ree and wept. Ree pulled her trembling body close, at a loss for words.
“I’m sorry,” Anabelle sobbed into the crook of Ree’s neck.
But there was no time for apologies, not when the air itself burned, thick with the rancid odor of curdling flesh.
Black smoke rose from the flames, past the cottages and gallery houses, rising into the darkened sky.
Ree saw Henryk’s eyes dart around the square, then higher, to the buildings with a vantage, before finally landing on her.
The Inquisitor, shrouded in harsh, swirling smoke, stood still. Gray eyes locked onto hers.
And for that one moment, she saw someone else standing in his place. The face of the man he might have been. Or maybe, perhaps, who he truly was deep down.
The moment passed as quickly as it had come. Henryk’s face hardened over, cool stone sealing itself into place. He’d seen her, it was true. But it was too late.
For the space of just one heartbeat, she’d seen him too.
Ree retreated inside, pulling Anabelle with her.
The sun was setting as Ree led Anabelle out the back of the building.
She’d thought to cover them both in old muslin caps and thick wool dresses that swallowed the shape of their bodies.
They disappeared into the thick of the crowd that overtook the street.
Folks passed them by on their way home for evening supper, not one sparing them a single glance.
Purple twilight filled the sky. It would soon be dark.
By the time they reached the bayou house, the moon shone silver.
Nan was waiting around back, holding Thistle by the reins.
To Ree’s surprise, Claudette was there too, leaning against a tree, emerald eyes glittering.
After learning the truth of her father, Ree hadn’t thought that L’Enchanteresse would leave her uptown house to get mixed up in her problems. When Ree and Anabelle approached, Nan wordlessly bowed.
I am not your Quarter Queen, Ree wanted to say. I never will be.
Their queen was in the house, lying as still as a statue while hexed poison worked its way through her blood. She was running out of time. But right now Ree’s problem was the one at hand, the one staring her in the face with bloodshot eyes.
“Ree—”
“Go,” Ree said, her voice gruff.
“We could—”
Anabelle reached for Ree, but she caught her hand and twisted it cruelly away. “We could not.”
“But I—”
“Do not say it,” Ree hissed. “Don’t you dare.”
Anabelle held back her tears. Ree watched her face, that same beautiful face that just days ago made her heart leap into her throat. She’d wanted more, and she’d been a fool.
“I will save my mother,” Ree said. “And when she returns, who do you think she will punish first? You committed treason against the Quarter Queen.”
Anabelle blanched. “I had good reason!”
She did. And it did not matter. Ree could understand it, this sin. But she would not forgive.
It was better this way, Ree told herself. Marie Laveau would be out for blood. This way, she would be spared any more pain. They all would.
Ree nodded toward the horse. “Go now. Get away from this saint-forsaken city.” She held the tears from her eyes. “And never, ever return.”
Far away, in the city, the church bells were tolling.
Anabelle took Ree’s hand one last time. Ree felt a strange wind cross her face and lift her curls into the night.
Legba was laughing. Maybe all of the loa were.
Maybe they enjoyed seeing what a fool her heart had turned her into.
But Ree couldn’t bring herself to care, not in this moment.
She tried to see in Anabelle’s face all the things they could not say, that they would never say to each other again.
Ree tried to understand how they’d gotten here, how they’d hurt each other so deeply, so carelessly, but in the end, she could not. She let her hand go.
And then Anabelle was saddled and off, riding away into the damp dark, down roads unknown. Ree watched her go and muscled the tears from her eyes.
“You did a kind thing.”
Ree turned to see Claudette at her side. There was an unexpected softness in her face, the face that Ree had only ever seen taut and toying, the cruel perfection of a jewel.
“Then why doesn’t it feel like it?” Ree’s voice caught.
“Because the kindest thing you could do for her was also one of the most painful things you could do for yourself.” Quietly, she said, “It is not what Marie would have done. Perhaps I was wrong about you, child. Perhaps you will not be the queen your mother was. Perhaps”—Claudette turned her eyes to the long road ahead—“you will be different.”
Ree choked back a bitter laugh. She was really no different from Anabelle Dupont; they’d committed sins, caused enough pain with their games. They just played by different rules. And that was the thing, wasn’t it? Sins were never forgiven in a city like New Orleans, not truly.
In the end, someone always paid.