Chapter Eighteen

eighteen

INèS OPENED HER MOUTH SLOWLY, as if her jaw were on hinges, revealing a black hole and a throbbing stump where her tongue should have been. Jemma turned away, horrified, unable to escape her mother's shrieks.

Jemma awoke in a sweat, her hands clamped over her lips; she was biting back a scream as well as preventing anyone from tearing her own tongue out of her mouth.

Her mind went back to the night before. The body buried on the day Jemma had been born. She had to know who that was, as it had to have something to do with her. Whoever it was, she doubted the Duchons wanted anyone to know they were buried on their property. Otherwise, why bury the body in the old slave cemetery?

Maybe that was something the spirits haunting this place could tell her. When she realized it was after ten and Agnes hadn't brought her any breakfast, as she normally did when Jemma didn't make it downstairs, she went to the kitchen, only to find Russell rummaging in the open refrigerator and Laurence leaning against the counter, a piece of bread in his hand.

"Where's Agnes?" she asked.

Laurence shrugged, while Russell ignored her, so busy with his search.

"Is she sick? Did she make breakfast?"

Russell brought himself out of the Philco, a cold drumstick in one hand. "Do you think I'd be looking for food myself if she had?"

"Where is she?" Jemma's eyes darted toward the short hallway to the outside door, to the small room where her mother slept, and neither of the men seemed interested in answering her question. Both left the kitchen, food in hand and a mess behind them. Jemma checked in Inès's room but didn't find her there. She came back to the kitchen, grabbed a rag from the sink and wiped down the counter and stove. Whoever else had been in here had left crumbs, dirty plates and cups, and sliced ham on the counter. On the stove sat a pot of overcooked rice, a hole dug out of the middle as if someone had eaten right out of the pot. As Jemma scrubbed plates in hot, soapy water, she wondered how her mother did this every day, cleaned up behind such thoughtless people. She had to find her and make sure she was okay. For all Jemma knew, Simone, maybe Honorine, had figured out what they'd been up to recently. Had they punished Inès?

Once the kitchen was clean, Jemma quickly made a ham sandwich and exited through the back door. The morning was cool, just enough for the long-sleeved oxford and dungarees she wore. She found she didn't care about her style anymore. What did it matter? She saw the same people day after day, people who were similarly out of fashion. She couldn't believe it was almost Christmas. If she were back in Chicago, she'd be spending her afternoons downtown, slipping in and out of stores like Marshall Field's and Sears; she'd be wrapped in a thick coat and scarf, boots on her feet, her frosty breath visible every time she talked or laughed, only to have it whipped away by the fierce wind.

She found herself outside of the washhouse where Dennis said he slept sometimes. She looked around the vast yard but didn't see him, so she knocked on the door.

"Dennis?" she called after a moment.

She went inside, calling his name again and getting no answer. It was tidy, just one wide room with a square table in the center. A couple of kerosene lamps sat on it and two straight-backed chairs stood nearby. In the far corner was a mattress with a body on it. Jemma could see right away it wasn't Dennis.

It was a woman.

Jemma turned to leave, ashamed of invading his privacy and an intimate moment with a guest, but she looked at the woman again, just the top of her head visible beneath the covers, her skin pale.

Jemma rushed over, her gasp waking Inès.

Her mother tried to sit up, but Jemma pressed her shoulder to keep her still. Dark purple bloomed around her eye and along her jaw.

"Did Dennis—?" Jemma started, but shook her head. He wouldn't hurt her, and she doubted her mother would be sleeping here if he had. "Who did this to you?" Even as she asked, she knew. It was someone from the big house. But she wanted a name. She wanted a target.

Inès lay back, her eyes open to the ceiling, letting Jemma know she'd get no answer.

"Do you want water or anything?" she asked instead. Her mother looked at her and shook her head, a small smile showing. She reached out and grabbed one of Jemma's hands, pressing the back of it to her unhurt cheek.

She had to get Inès away from this place, off this property.

"I'm going to figure out how to break the curse," she told her. "We're going to get out of here. You, me and Dennis, if he wants to come with us."

Inès raised her eyebrows, pointing toward the door. Jemma turned, but no one was there. Her mother patted her hand and then turned it over, palm up, patting it again and pointing to herself. Jemma didn't understand. Inès did it again, pointing to the door.

"The house?"

Her mother nodded and held up one finger.

"Someone in the house?"

Another nod. Jemma named Simone and Honorine first, but at Inès's furious head shaking she figured her mother wasn't naming who'd hurt her.

"Laurence? You want Laurence to come with us?"

Inès nodded.

"But the way he talks to you…He treats you just as bad as the rest of them."

Her mother put a hand over her heart.

"You love him. Of course you do."

Dennis came in shortly after.

"I had to go into town, do the grocery shopping," he explained, setting a paper bag on the table and pulling out a few items. "But I saved the best for you."

He knelt next to Inès and gave her a beignet, the sweet scent strong and delicious. As she chewed on one side, he examined her bruises. "Got a cold steak to put on that when you're done."

Jemma followed him back to the table. "Who did that to her?"

"She didn't let me know. She never does. What difference does it make anyway? That family—they're all of a piece." He placed half a dozen apples and oranges in a wooden bowl, and set a baguette next to it. Resting his hands flat on the table, he looked hard at Jemma. "Don't get her in no more trouble. It's been a while since they put their hands on her like that. I don't want to see it happen again. It's best you just do what they want you to do and leave everything else alone."

"I can't do that. There's too many questions, too many secrets around this place. The more I know, maybe the more I can help."

"Or maybe the more you don't want to find out. Some things are best left buried."

Jemma shot him a sharp glance—what an odd choice of words, considering what she'd been trying to discover—but Dennis's attention was on the paper bag he neatly folded and set aside.

If you can talk to the spirits instead of turning away, you can find out who was buried the day you were born.

"I'm trying to help her"—Jemma gestured to Inès—"as well as myself. You, too, if I can do it. Then we'd all be able to leave." She couldn't help but wonder whether she'd have a place in Inès's life if it included Dennis.

"If you really want to help her, leave her out of everything. What she knows, she couldn't tell you even if she could talk. You think that family's just going to let her be? Haven't you learned enough about them by now?"

—

THAT EVENING, JUST AS JEMMA finished buttoning her nightgown, a knocking sounded against the wall to her left, where the chifforobe sat in the corner. She turned and saw nothing. Her gaze moved between the chifforobe and the door.

Run. Just run.

The knocking grew louder and faster. The closed doors of the chifforobe shook.

Maybe they want to talk to you.

On shaky legs, Jemma took two steps toward the chifforobe, but before she was in arm's reach, the doors flew open, a strong blast of heat rushing across her and flinging her clothes out so hard, they hit her and the floor with a thump. She cried out, backing away. No ghosts were there, but something had pushed a hot wind into her, shoving her back. The doors hung open, and all that she could see by the weak lamplight were the nearly empty shelves, one sweater sleeve dangling over an edge.

A soft knock at the door sent her spinning. She clapped a hand over her mouth just in time to stifle a scream.

The knock came again.

"Who…who's there?" Jemma managed to squeak.

"It's Laurence."

She opened the door, her fingers slipping on the knob at first. Could he sense how happy she was to see him after all the trouble she'd caused? Fosette had eventually come around, but Laurence had mostly avoided her. Until now.

"Are you all right?" he asked as soon as he was inside, his brows knitted in concern as he took in the mess on the floor.

She nodded, although she was far from all right. But having someone living and solid in front of her calmed her little by little, even though Laurence only watched her after asking her for a second time if she was okay. Once her breathing was back to normal, she noticed the paper in her brother's hand.

He moved to the desk and laid the paper flat. "I translated a little bit more from the book. At some point there was a fire here that burned the old kitchen. The kitchen that's downstairs now isn't the original."

The blast of heat. Hot like a fire.

She gripped Laurence's arm before telling him what had happened right before he knocked on her door.

"I wasn't all right when you came in. That's why I looked so scared when I opened the door."

Her brother's uneasy gaze traveled the room as if he was afraid he'd see something he didn't want to.

"You think it could be connected?"

Images jumped forward in Jemma's mind, all jostling for first place. "The smoke…that came out of your mouths. The smell…"

"What smell?"

She stared at him before inhaling deeply. It wasn't nearly as strong as it had been before, unless she'd grown used to it. "The smoke. You don't smell it?"

He shook his head, but she hadn't imagined it.

"Henry mentioned it, too. Your old tutor. I went to see him."

Jemma told Laurence about the visit. Excitement thrummed through her as what felt like puzzle pieces began to fit together. There were many pieces missing, but she was sure they were on the right track.

"The fire has to be related to the strange things that have happened here. Maybe even the curse."

Laurence turned her to face him, his hands gripping her upper arms, his eyes flashing. "You think so? You think we're close to figuring it out?"

Desperate hope lit up his face, but she didn't want to give him false confidence. She chose her next words with care, putting them together the same way someone would reassemble a broken dish.

"I think so. I couldn't do this without your help, so thank you for everything you're doing."

His grip loosened, but he pulled her closer. For a horrifying moment she was afraid he would kiss her, but he only placed his forehead against hers, his eyes shut.

"I'll do anything to help you break this curse and get us the hell out of this place."