Chapter Twenty-Two

twenty-two

DESPITE CLAIMING THE DUCHONS, JEMMA wasn't yet ready to set aside her anger toward them enough for her to act. Only the memory of Laurence broken and sobbing moved her. Only the image of her and him and their mother existing as a happy unit pushed aside the hate.

Her brother continued translating the ledger, but he and Jemma hadn't yet discovered when the fire took place. Both of them still wondered about the missing page.

Unsure what to do next, Jemma wandered the streets of New Orleans one muggy winter morning and found herself in a dim shop full of half-burned candles and beads, shells and bottles full of dark liquids or objects like animal bones. A middle-aged man stood behind the counter, his deep brown eyes following her with mistrust.

"Help you, chère ?" he finally asked.

Jemma almost told him no, but she did need help, so she blurted out her question before she lost her nerve.

"What do you know about curses?"

He cocked his head, a hint of a smile curving his lips. "What kind of curse?"

"A family curse. A bad one."

"What does it do, this curse?"

"Kills people. Binds them to a place."

"Which one? Kills them or binds them?"

"Both."

He leaned forward on the counter, beckoning Jemma closer. Something about him made her hesitate, but she moved toward him, stopping just out of his reach, as if afraid he would grab her.

"Sounds like a powerful curse."

When she didn't respond, he clapped his hands softly and straightened.

"Breaking a bind isn't hard, but breaking a killing curse…" He tutted.

"Is it possible, though?"

"Anything's possible. Tell me more about this curse."

Without mentioning names or her relation to the Duchons, Jemma gave an abbreviated version of events that painted the family as hapless victims of unfortunate circumstances. She admitted to the failed ritual with the water and the salt.

"What do you expect, working from a book with no personal items from the people involved?" he scoffed. "No wonder it didn't work."

He sold Jemma a pair of scissors, several candles and a length of new twine, along with a scrap of paper with instructions and other ingredients scribbled on it.

As Jemma approached the door, paper bag in hand, he cooed, "You come back soon, chère ."

She wouldn't.

—

AT DINNER THAT EVENING, TOO full of nerves to eat much, Jemma rose from her seat. The family must have sensed something, because they stopped in the midst of what they were doing: chewing, gulping wine, talking. She pulled herself to her full height, gathering courage from Laurence's presence before addressing their grandmother.

"I'm going to break the curse," she said. "Tonight."

Simone didn't retort with a vicious comeback, as Jemma had expected, and Honorine's brow lifted only a fraction of an inch. Where was the emotional display? Jemma excused herself, her lips a rigid line.

Things would be different in the morning, when she'd succeeded.

That night, after the rest of the house was settled, Jemma locked her bedroom door and set about performing the ritual. Through the partly open window, a faraway owl hooted and a cool breeze swept in to tickle her bare arms. Dressed in her white cotton nightgown, she sat on the circular rug. Three candles in candleholders set at regular intervals ringed the border. In front of her was an old photograph of the family stolen from Simone's dresser (although it was dated, everyone who currently lived in the house, except Inès, was pictured). Also in front of her were a note from Inès that she didn't know Jemma had kept, the length of twine, a tin plate containing a scoop of soil from the cemetery, and a small knife she'd grabbed from the kitchen, one she hoped her mother wouldn't miss. Despite the coolness of the air in the room, a thin sheen of sweat stuck to Jemma's skin. She consulted the instructions several times, not wanting to miss a single detail, lest this entire ritual turn into a disaster.

Jemma rolled the family portrait and the note into a small tube, securing it with the twine. She placed the tip of the knife against her palm. Inhaling sharply, she made a quick swipe downward, spilling several drops of blood on top of the tube.

"Stupid," she called herself once she realized she hadn't grabbed a rag to wrap around her hand. Instead, she plucked the scarf off her head and cinched it around her hand, watching as blood immediately bloomed through. Holding both arms straight out in front of her, Jemma repeated from the scribbled instructions:

"What once was bound will come undone; what once was lost will now be won. With each snip, the bonds do break, releasing all for my sake."

Holding the tube over a candle flame, she placed the sharp edge of the knife blade under the string and pulled, the ends falling away into the fire, sizzling and shrinking into blackness. The fire ate into the paper and the photograph, and as the flames licked away, Jemma dropped the dwindling tube into the soil. When it was nothing but ash, when there was no more photo, paper, or twine, she realized she'd been holding her breath. It all flew from her in a big rush.

Looking at the window, she wondered how soon she'd know if she'd been successful. A heaviness touched her eyelids, settled on her shoulders, as if breaking the curse had sapped her strength. She snuffed out the candles and pushed all the tools into one big pile under the desk.

As Jemma climbed into bed and closed her eyes, she thought of nothing but tomorrow.

—

AS SOON AS JEMMA WOKE up the next morning, she knew something was wrong.

It was the screaming.

Instead of jumping out of bed and running downstairs to see who was carrying on so, to see what tragedy had befallen the family, she pulled the covers up to her neck, warding off the sudden chill that worked its way across her body.

Whatever was going on, she told herself, it had nothing to do with her and what she'd done the night before. Maybe someone saw a rat scurrying across the parlor. Or a bird had swooped down the chimney and was flying around the dining room.

Even as these thoughts tried to take hold in her mind, she knew different.

This was her fault, and soon enough the family would make her pay.

Before she could decide what to do next, footsteps sounded outside the door, then more footsteps, all leading away and growing fainter. Going downstairs.

And still the screaming went on.

Jemma grabbed her robe and slipped it on, wondering how she managed to do so when her arms felt completely unconnected to her body. As she took the few steps to the door, her legs seemed to be jerked by marionette strings. Right before she placed her hand on the knob, a part of her whispered to just stay put, to lock the door and never leave this room. It was safer that way.

The footsteps were coming back now, heavy and quick. How many of the Duchons were pounding upstairs now, fists raised to knock on her door? Or not knock at all, simply barge their way into the room?

And there it was, the furious knocking, a fist banging repeatedly, without break.

"Who…who is it?" Jemma called, feeling shrunken.

"Open this door, Jemma. Right now!"

Despite a part of her shrilly screaming that she'd do no such thing, she found herself obeying, to find Honorine in the hallway. Someone must have woken her grandmother, because the woman stood there, with her hair in careful pin curls, a netted bonnet covering her head. She clutched the quilted lapels of her blue silk dressing gown, wrinkling them in her tight fist. With the other hand, she pointed a shaky finger at Jemma.

"Get…downstairs…now."

Jemma tied her robe sash as she followed Honorine down the stairs, only to find Simone, Fosette and Laurence at the foot, pale and silent, their eyes watching the two women descend. Which of them had been screaming? Jemma couldn't tell. None of their faces were flushed and no chests heaved, hinting at exertion or fright. Just as she wondered where Russell was, she saw him, lying face down in the parlor, his cheek pressed to the rug, his bulging green eyes staring in accusation. A thick line of foam ran from his parted lips. A piece of her mind registered that, unlike the rest of them, he was dressed for the day, in a light suit jacket and slacks.

"Is he…dead?" Jemma asked in a small voice. "Oh my God, call a doctor!"

"He's not dead," Honorine snapped from her place next to her. "But whatever you did, whatever you've been doing, this is the result."

Jemma tore her gaze away from her uncle to look at her grandmother. "What are you talking about? I did a spell to break the curse. I didn't do this." She flung a hand out toward the body on the floor.

"Then what do you think did? You think he did it to himself?"

"No, no, no," Jemma said to no one. "I was trying to help. I did a spell to get you out of here. I can't have done this." And yet even as the words escaped, she didn't believe them. "Call a doctor." She spun around to find the others huddled in a knot, their eyes fixed on Russell, their faces mournful, as if he really were dead. "Why are you all just standing there?" And still, they did nothing; they didn't react.

She remembered the spell.

"You can leave now," Jemma said, and was relieved when that seemed to grab their attention. At least their eyes flicked away from Russell and met her own. "I did the breaking. You can leave. We can get him to a doctor. I fixed it, I—"

"Shut up." Simone cut her off, stepping forward. "You did no such thing."

"I did! Just go outside, all the way down the road. You'll see."

"Don't bother," Laurence said to his aunt before turning to Jemma. "Unless you want to end up like him. He tried to go for a walk this morning, thinking we were no longer bound to this house. He wanted to test it out. I don't know how far he got, but at some point he turned back around and staggered inside, falling in the parlor."

Simone's eyes blazed. She snarled, "So not only are we still stuck here, but it seems that if we try and leave, we won't just be turned around and forced back, but we'll be struck down with some illness, too. You didn't solve a damn thing. You only made it worse."