Chapter 1
SIMONE
Little Henry tugs on my hand. “Miss Simone? May I have ice cream? No, a beignet!”
I smile down at him. It’s a good thing he didn’t ask for a beignet with ice cream—all he has to do is look at me with those big brown eyes and I forget that I’m supposed to be the adult here.
“Since you asked so politely,” I reply with a chuckle, veering off toward Café du Monde.
I’ve been in New Orleans for a few years now, and I’m still not tired of walking the French Quarter.
As we enter Jackson Square, I take in the sight of street artists painting portraits, tarot readers in colorful ensembles, jazz musicians busking with open instrument cases full of coins, and tourists taking pictures.
It used to alarm me—so many phones, so many people eagerly posting their vacations to social media accounts. But as time passed and neither Thomas nor my family found me, I slowly relaxed. I still look over my shoulders some days when I’m feeling particularly vulnerable. But I’m getting better.
“Horsie!” Henry exclaims, pointing at a carriage.
“Those aren’t horses, they’re mules,” I correct him.
“Really?” he asks, looking adorably confused.
“C’est ca. They look like horses, but they’re actually mules.”
“Oh. I like them.”
“Me too, chéri.”
It’s as simple as that with children.
I take a deep breath, my lungs filling with the humid Louisiana air, appreciating being here, being alive. It’s not a thought I often have, so I pause to cherish it.
“Come on, Miss Simone!” Henry insists, tugging on my hand again.
I let myself be led past the blare of jazz trumpets to one of the small round tables under Café du Monde’s green-and-white striped awning. The air here smells like fried dough and chicory coffee, and powdered sugar seems to coat every surface.
When a waiter stops at our table, I order a plate of beignets to share with Henry and a café au lait for me.
The golden pastries arrive covered in a mountain of sugar, which explodes everywhere when Henry takes a bite, making both of us laugh.
There will be no hiding the treat from Henry’s maman, but she’s thankfully not strict with us.
I’m brushing powdered sugar off my face when a prickle crawls up the back of my neck. Goosebumps cover my skin despite the warm morning, my hair standing on end. While I often worried about being found, checking my surroundings obsessively, I never had a visceral reaction like this before.
Someone is watching me. I’m sure of it.
“Miss Simone? Is it not tasty?”
I blink, focusing on Henry’s innocent gaze, then force my lips into a smile.
“It’s perfect, chéri. I was just thinking about something.”
Henry tilts his head. “Something better than beignets?”
“Non,” I chuckle. “Just boring adult things.”
He scrunches his face up like the mere notion is disgusting. I can’t blame him.
I realize that while he was distracting me, the unsettling sensation passed. Maybe I imagined it? Realistically, how could they find me? And if they did, would they bother crossing the ocean to retrieve me? I’m just being silly again.
“Ready to go home, Henry?” I ask my little charge, gently poking him in the ribs with my finger.
“No,” he answers with a pout. “I want to keep walking. Home is boring.”
“Of course,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Maybe we should start doing schoolwork while walking, hm?”
His mouth opens, making him look horrified. “No!”
I giggle. “I didn’t think so.”
It takes several swipes of my hands to get most of the powdered sugar off my clothes. Good thing it’s a common enough sight here that no one looks twice.
Back at the Beauregard house, we go through his homework, play outside in the garden, have dinner with his family, and then get him ready for bed. It’s been another beautiful Sunday spent doing things I love, the unsettling feeling from earlier quickly forgotten.
“Simone?” Mrs. Beauregard calls from the living room.
I poke my head in, my hands occupied with Henry’s laundry.
“Yes?”
Mrs. Beauregard gives me a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach her pale eyes. Seeing it makes my stomach lurch. Oh no… did I do something wrong?
“Sit.” She indicates the empty lounge chair with a glass full of dark liquid. “Have a sherry with me.”
“Alright,” I say uncertainly, placing the laundry basket on the floor. As I sit down and wring my hands, I have the thought that I might need a double shot for this.
“We love having you with us, Simone,” she begins. “Henry is so fond of you, and you’ve done a tremendous job.”
“But?” I ask, though I dread hearing the answer, and take the glass she’s offering. The first sip warms my stomach and steadies my hands.
“But we’ve decided to move to France,” she says with an apologetic wince. My blood turns to ice in my veins, but Mrs. Beauregard continues rocking the foundations of my world. “Manon told us when we hired you that it’s important for you to move far away.”
“Y—yes,” I stutter, quickly taking another, larger sip of sherry.
Mrs. Beauregard leans forward, and her hand covers the one I had clenched into a fist in my lap. “We would love it if you came with us, but we will, of course, understand if you choose not to.”
I open and close my mouth a few times, not knowing what to say. Do I want to leave them? No. But can I stomach going back to where I was so miserable? I don’t think I can.
“If you choose to stay,” Mrs. Beauregard continues, “then I will gladly help you find another charge. The Duvals have been trying to steal you from us for years now.”
I try to smile, but it feels weak. She really is a kind person and a good employer.
“Thank you, Mrs. Beauregard,” I say once I find my voice. “I appreciate you.”
She gives me a droll look. “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Charlotte?”
“At least one more time,” I answer with the usual joke.
Mrs. Beauregard snorts in a way she somehow manages to make elegant. “Fine. Let us know what you’ve decided in the coming weeks, alright?”
“Yes,” I say, working hard to keep my voice light even though my throat is closing up. “I’ll do that. I’m going to take care of the laundry now.”
She looks at me with worry as I awkwardly get to my feet. “Alright, dear. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Oui,” I confirm. “Perfect.”
Liar.
I cry myself to sleep for the first time in years, curled up into a little ball like I can protect myself from the truth—things are changing.
I found so much comfort in my life here with the Beauregards after everything that happened in France.
I feel like a safety blanket is being yanked away now. What am I going to do?
A nightmare wakes me just hours after I finally drift off. I dreamed of an old apartment building, and stairs, and creatures with sharp teeth and claws running after me until I slipped and fell.
With a heavy sigh, I drag myself out of bed, hoping some warm tea will help calm me down. Henry has school in the morning, and I really should get a few more hours in.
I check on him first, quietly opening his bedroom door. Sleeping like an angel. Then I pad downstairs to the kitchen, my slippers soundless on the tiled floor. I only just reach for my favorite mug when there’s a noise at the side door. It sounds like booted steps.
“Hello?” I call out, slowly approaching.
No reply.
Maybe I imagined it? With a shrug, I turn back to the counter, pushing the button on the electric kettle. Chamomile tea or mint? Maybe I still have some of the valerian left…
I freeze again, that strange feeling that I’m not alone returning, when a gloved hand clamps over my mouth before I can even take a breath. My hands shoot up, automatically trying to pull it away, my fingers scrabbling for purchase, but slipping off some kind of heavy fabric.
Is it Thomas? Or someone my parents sent? Oh god, what if they hurt the Beauregards?
“Be calm,” the person holding me says. A man.
Calm? Sérieux?
“My name is Corson, and I will not hurt you,” the man says. “All will be explained when we get to Purgatory.”
Purgatory? This must be one of the zealots my family associates with. They are the only people who would name a place after the religious version of Switzerland.
“This will be unpleasant,” the man continues.
My eyes bug out at the threat. As a last-ditch attempt, I reach for a knife from the rack, my fingers only just brushing over the handle when he yanks me back, knocking everything off the counter instead.
“None of that.”
A door opens upstairs.
“Simone?”
It’s Mr. Beauregard.
Merde.
This man feels like a titanium mountain—there’s just no way Mr. Beauregard can overpower him. And it doesn’t seem like he feels threatened either, clicking his tongue with frustration and impatience.
“Apologies, young Cambion,” he says nonsensically.
Before I can wonder what the hell he just called me and what he’s apologizing for, his fingers press against the side of my neck, and everything goes black.