Chapter Four

four

JEMMA'S ATTENTION HAD BEEN ON Laurence when the spirit from the other night (at least, she thought it was the same, mostly unformed as it was) floated into the room. Her eyes drifted away from his handsomeness to the form hovering behind Russell. The rest of the family were engrossed in their breakfast of shrimp omelets, grits and rice fritters. Jemma gripped her fork, her teeth biting into her bottom lip.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, my dear." Russell chuckled, joined by Simone's low titter.

It was only then that Jemma realized she'd stopped breathing. Exhaling heavily, she tried to catch her fork before it fell from her shaky fingers, but it clattered to the floor.

"Agnes!" Honorine shouted at once.

"I can get another—" Jemma started, rising from her chair, glad for any excuse to escape.

"Nonsense. Sit down."

She didn't know why she complied, but Jemma resumed her seat. Honorine yelled for Agnes again, and the maid entered after a few minutes.

"What the hell took you so long?" the older woman demanded. "Get another fork for Jemma."

It pained Jemma to see Agnes duck her head and immediately obey orders. The maid soon returned with a clean utensil.

"Thank you," Jemma said in a clear voice, something she'd never heard any of the Duchons say to Agnes, who held her gaze for a moment.

"Get back to the kitchen, imbecile," Simone drawled.

Jemma's mouth dropped open at the explicit rudeness, but what was she but another employee? What could she do?

She needed this job, so she closed her mouth and focused on her plate, pushing the food around.

"Eat," whispered Fosette next to her, patting Jemma's lap.

Although Jemma had no appetite, she took a small bite of rice fritter. The golden color of the soft pastry belied the slight burnt aftertaste. She glanced across the table, feeling eyes on her, only to find Laurence looking at her. Her face flushed, growing hotter once he gave her a small smile.

They were all so beautiful, even if their behavior wasn't.

After two weeks at the Duchons', Jemma was six hundred dollars richer, in theory. Following breakfast, she trailed Honorine to the large secretary in the parlor and waited while her employer made out a check for three hundred dollars. Jemma thanked her before folding it and slipping it into her pants pocket.

"I'd love to go into town and cash my checks."

What she didn't say was how much she could do with the money: visit a beautician for a hard press that might (heavy emphasis on "might") resist the humidity; buy some clothes that were more suited to the climate, even if her old fashions fit in with the Duchons' frumpiness; buy a train ticket to get her anywhere else but here.

While life in the house and with the family was mostly agreeable, she hadn't been able to escape her cursed ability to see spirits.

Jemma had considered that she was having another nervous breakdown, something the Duchons couldn't know, not if she wanted to keep this job.

Now, as she wondered what else she could do besides count down from five to push the spirits away, a tactic that didn't seem to be working much, Honorine interrupted her thoughts. "I'm sorry, but you won't be able to go into town today. I have some work for you in the library. As for your checks, since we live so out of the way, I thought it would be easier if I simply paid you once a month—say, on the first? You could then go to a bank and open an account, but I'd prefer that you allow me to open one for you at my family's bank. We could even arrange to have your funds directly deposited from our account into yours. It would be much more convenient all around."

It wasn't what Jemma wanted, but before she could protest, Honorine continued. "You're saving money by not paying for room and board or utilities. You don't even have to buy your own food. We really have tried to make things as comfortable for you as possible. Surely you can humor an old woman."

She looked down at her lap, picking at an invisible thread, while Jemma stood next to her, intrusive guilt preventing any objections.

Honorine looked up. "You're young, so of course you want to be out there, doing things, living life. I forget sometimes that I don't have much need of that anymore, that desire to constantly move, go from one place to another. My granddaughter, Fosette—she still has it."

"But Fosette doesn't even go anywhere." The words were out before Jemma could stop them. "No one does."

The older woman studied her for a moment, rising out of her chair. Jemma instinctively stepped back. Honorine laced her fingers together and walked out of the parlor, toward the library, a graceful move of her head indicating that Jemma should follow. "Maybe our isolation puzzles you, the fact that no one here goes to work. My grandfather invested in the railroad business, but even more heavily in shipping. Since we live in a port town, his investments paid off generously." Here, a peculiar smile smoothed out the wrinkles on the woman's lips before evaporating, thin lines settling into their usual places. "We don't have to work, dear."

"But doesn't anyone"—Jemma thought of Laurence especially, and Russell to a lesser extent—"get bored just being at home all the time? I'd think you all would love to go into the city and see what's new. Stores, restaurants…"

Anything , her mind shrilled as her lips closed. Anything outside of this monotonous existence.

"You'll get used to the way we do things, Miss Barker, the way we must do things." Honorine flung open the glass doors to the library, similar to the dining room in size, although it looked smaller with the walls lined in bookcases. Each shelf was completely full. While many of the books stood tall, their spines visible, others had been stacked horizontally on top of them, because there was no other place to put them. Messy piles of books rested on top of the bookcases.

Both women stood in the doorway as Jemma's spirits fell; she was afraid of what was coming.

"It's been ages since these shelves have been organized," Honorine said, confirming Jemma's worst suspicions. "I'll need you to put this all in order."

"Is there any particular order you'd like?" Jemma couldn't tell what types of books the room held. "Classics in one area? History in another?"

The other woman's lips disappeared in a tight smile. "I trust your judgment in figuring out what will work best." She backed out of the library in one step, shutting the doors in Jemma's face.

"Well, shit," Jemma muttered.

"I'd start there if I were you."

Laurence looked around the side of a big armchair that faced a wall of shelving. His feet rested on a short footstool in front of him, a fat book on his lap. Jemma's back pressed against the glass doors; she was startled by his presence.

He cocked his head toward a spot to her left.

Her eyes drifted over before returning to his face, which drew them like a magnet. Forcing her gaze to the shelf he'd indicated, Jemma moved on clumsy legs.

Every one of the books in the whole bookcase concerned the occult. Jemma didn't even want to put a finger on them, most of which were dusty or faintly cracked.

Mysteries of the Occult: On Witchcraft and Voodoo . The Philosophy of Curses: Throwing, Binding, and Breaking . Secret Societies of the Occult . Gods, Demons, Angels, and the Devil: A Fairy Tale . Damning for Eternity: Black Magic and Witchcraft .

And on they went, with some titles written in foreign languages and a few without words at all, just a collection of symbols.

She glanced over to find Laurence studying her; she was bewildered that her sudden attention didn't drive his open gaze back down.

"Why should I start here?" she asked, working to keep her voice light.

"It's the messiest, isn't it?"

Looking back at the shelves in front of her, she wasn't sure about that. Most of the books grouped here were on similar subject matter, creepy as it was.

A hot puff of air on the back of her neck elicited a squeal, and as she twirled around, expecting to find Laurence there, she was alarmed to see him still seated and no one behind her at all.

"Are you all right?" he asked, only the mildest curiosity evident in his voice.

"Yes." Jemma touched the back of her neck with trembling fingers. Not wanting him to see how frightened she was, she squeezed, hoping the pressure would calm the tremors. Only when the shaking stopped did she bring her hand down, but his attention had returned to his book moments ago. Her gaze roamed the room, finding nothing that could have breathed on her.

Clap.

At the soft sound, Jemma turned back to the shelf, finding a slim book on the floor. How did it get there? She hadn't been close enough to knock it with her shoulder.

No, it had fallen on its own. Or some thing had pushed it off.

She picked up the gray volume and stuffed it between two others.

She had to get some air.

Five, four, three, two, one, she counted in her head as she scrabbled at the doorknob, ignoring Laurence's questions, until she was out of the library and away from whatever was in there. Not wanting to run into Honorine and endure the inevitable probing that would follow about why she wasn't doing her assigned duties, Jemma rushed into the solarium, only to see through the wide window the usual family members playing croquet on the back lawn, Honorine included.

Jemma dashed out the front door instead, aware that she had two three-hundred-dollar checks in her pocket, enough to get her far away from this place. All she had to do was go into town and find the nearest bank that catered to Black clientele.

But could she really escape the ghosts that way?

She stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, her breaths evening out as her mind raced, the late September air wet enough to drink.

How far could she go on six hundred dollars?

Better yet, where could she go? Not back home, where she had nothing. No place to live, no job (and no hope of getting one as a teacher), no man.

She'd find a job in New Orleans for now, maybe even convince a school to hire her. She had enough money to rent a room for a while, until she began working. Jemma glanced back at the door, which she'd left ajar. All she had to do was creep upstairs, quickly pack and slip out.

And yet, although she could sneak clear across the country, she couldn't outrun the entities that danced just beyond the corner of her eye.

Wasn't that why Mama and Daddy had tried so hard to teach her to ignore what was plain to see?

Don't look at 'em, Jemma.

Ain't nothing but the devil's work if you look.

"Hey, are you all right?"

Laurence's voice snatched Jemma into the present. He stood just outside the door, his gaze flicking to the wrought iron gate that bordered the front lawn. Something uneasy shifted across his striking features before moving on, knowing it didn't belong there.

"Yes," Jemma said through tight lips, wishing he'd stayed in the library.

Once he told his grandmother how erratic she was behaving, she probably wouldn't have to sneak off. She'd fire her.

His hazel eyes searched her face for a few moments. When he held out a hand, Jemma only stared at first.

"Come on," he said in a soft voice similar to the one he used with Fosette. It thrummed with a strange intimacy, and a part of Jemma delighted at it, at what it promised beneath the surface: lazy mornings in bed, locked gazes that shut everyone else out.

Stop it. You work for this man's family.

She climbed the steps and took his offered hand, which tightened on hers before she could pull back.

"You're shaking like a leaf," he murmured. "What happened back there?"

He flipped her hand over before she could stop him. She worked her fingers free, but he'd already seen the scar. Meeting his eyes for a moment, she found she wanted to confide in him, wanted to be close to someone . But if she told him what she'd felt, what she'd been seeing, it would only add to what he'd just noticed.

"Please don't tell your grandmother," she whispered. "Don't tell anyone."

"That you tried to kill yourself? Then tell me what happened in the library."

Jemma's fingers twisted around one another. "I can't."

"No, I think you can."

Although he blocked the doorway, neither his voice nor his stance presented a threat. All Jemma sensed was interest, deep enough to flatter her.

The decision to hold back or confess was ripped from her as Agnes appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, her hand on Laurence's shoulder pulling him inside while her steady gaze rooted Jemma in place. He shook himself free and sauntered toward the solarium and out the back door, but not before throwing a menacing glare at the maid. Before Jemma had time to wonder what that was about, Agnes pointed to the library.

"I wanted to take a walk," Jemma said, turning to the front lawn. But the other woman gently touched her arm, beckoning her inside and shutting the door. Jemma wondered why the maid didn't talk. If the family asked for something, Agnes only nodded before obeying commands.

Now, just as on Jemma's arrival, the woman's eyes moved over her face, the gaze full of something she couldn't identify. It was as if she was looking for something in Jemma's features.

"Surely you can't be finished already!" Honorine boomed as she came in the back door.

Agnes promptly rushed off to the kitchen. Guilt nibbled at Jemma as she recalled how close she'd been to leaving the house—and the job—without a word to anyone.

"I just needed some air." The weakness in the excuse was uncomfortably plain. Jemma moved to the library, disturbed by Honorine's close presence. She turned to the older woman just outside of the room's doors. "Mrs.Duchon, I wondered if it would be possible for me to get a room in town and come in every day to do my job." The words rushed out before she had a chance to stop and think. "We can negotiate the pay, if you want. I'm willing to take a cut since—"

Honorine's interruption was unexpectedly welcome, as Jemma had no idea how she would sweeten the deal. "No, Miss Barker, you may not rent a room in town. Our conditions were explicitly clear. You are to live and work on the property. Should you choose not to accept the conditions we agreed upon, you forfeit your position."

Images of the amorphous body and the ghostly woman floating across the back lawn swirled in Jemma's mind. She'd seen spirits before. But here…some thing breathing on the back of her neck. A book's falling off the shelf, which she knew she hadn't caused.

The house was haunted.

Was three hundred dollars a week really worth staying for?

"Is there some reason you'd like to live in town?" Honorine asked.

"I'm just used to being busier." A shaky chuckle escaped Jemma, one she hoped didn't sound as unhinged to the other woman as it did to her. "Being so isolated out here has caused me to feel a bit of cabin fever, I'm afraid."

The sudden smile that lit Honorine's face bloomed out of nothing. "It happens to the best of us, you know. I'm sorry. I'm sure this has been an adjustment for you. The weather, the remoteness, even our family. But I am afraid that I must insist that you live on the property. What can I do to make your stay more comfortable?"

In an instant, the woman transformed from a strict battle-ax into a sweet lady of the manor. Jemma imagined her fifty years ago, when she probably looked very much like her granddaughter. Beauty wasn't the only thing the family was awash in. Their charisma was unmatched.

Shame swept over Jemma at her ingratitude.

"Nothing, really. I'm sorry to be such trouble."

"Of course not. Here, why don't you tackle the library later? For now, entertain my granddaughter. She's dying to play gin rummy with someone, and she gets tired of her brother being her sole playmate much of the time."

Before Jemma could protest, Honorine steered her toward the parlor, where Fosette played solitaire, her face brightening at her arrival.

As her opponent shuffled cards, she asked Jemma, "Did you get started on the library?"

Jemma frowned. Fosette so often chattered in a breathy voice, but there was no warmth in the question. It was almost as if she were talking to her mother.

"Not really." Jemma accepted her hand and fanned the cards out.

"Lots of interesting books in there. Grandmère has probably read every single one." Her gray eyes didn't move from the cards in her fine-fingered hand. "She's very familiar with everything on those shelves."

Jemma found herself staring at the woman across from her until Fosette prompted, "Your go," in her usual bright tone, the deep smile opening her face into a pretty canvas that just begged to be admired.

—

JEMMA KNOCKED THE RED BALL through the wicket, her first time making it through.

"Brava!" Fosette called from across the lawn.

Next to his sister, Laurence applauded, grinning. When Fosette had first invited Jemma into a family game of croquet, she'd resisted.

"I don't know how to play," she'd said, thinking that her childhood double Dutch and hopscotch were miles away from the types of games the Duchons played.

"I'll teach you," Fosette had insisted. And she had, although Jemma had played several games without ever making one point until this afternoon.

Laurence bent over his mallet, concentrating on his ball, sweat dotting his forehead.

"Good job," Russell said from his place beside Jemma, his eyes on his nephew before following the movement of the yellow ball through a wicket.

"Thank you," she replied, unable to hold back a smile. She watched Laurence, too, for different reasons.

"You'll get the hang of things soon enough, fit right in."

Her gaze moved back to Russell then, as if for confirmation. Being here with the family, except Honorine, who was resting, was curiously comfortable for her. With the sunlight washing over the back lawn and the sounds of lively chatter competing with the lazy drone of honeybees, things felt normal.

They'd invited her into their conversation, their game and, to some extent, their lives. Sometimes she felt more like a guest than like an employee. And she loved those times, more than she cared to admit. She loved the feeling of fitting into the family, even if they weren't hers. It was a new thing, and she marveled at the difference between how she felt with her parents, Carl and Mabel, and how Fosette and Laurence were treated by Simone. The warmth the older woman displayed to her children, if not to Jemma. Maybe if Mama and Daddy had been the same, her life would have been different. If she'd been their natural child, perhaps Carl would have embraced her instead of pushed her away. Or if she'd been able to grow up with her real parents, especially her real father, she would have had a place and therefore wouldn't have been so quick to turn to Marvin for acceptance.

The game ended, with Russell the victor. They headed indoors for a brief rest before dinner, the sunlight glimmering on the Duchons' pale skin. Instead of giving in to envy, Jemma sank into the midst of their togetherness, with Fosette's arms loosely entwined in hers and Laurence's, and Simone teasing Russell that he'd cheated.

Jemma's laughs rose into the air, joined by all the others.

—

AFTER A FEW WEEKS AT the Duchons', Jemma was finally feeling settled. She arranged books in the library before dinner, quietly humming Ray Charles's "I Can't Stop Loving You." In the parlor there was a television that was never turned on. Having heard the low sounds of music through the door, she knew Fosette had a radio in her bedroom. After asking if there were any extra radios around, Fosette had brought one to Jemma's room. "You have to leave it here. Grandmère doesn't want any noise in the library." So she worked in silence, surrounded by dusty piles of books, the soft flapping of pages the only sound.

No more strange incidents had occurred. She was beginning to think she'd been stressed by so many things happening in quick succession: leaving home, moving into a new environment. With these heaped on top of the other recent events, it was no wonder she was feeling uneasy. But no spirits had bothered her since the first time she'd been in this room. She'd settled into a rhythm, and working every day (including Saturday and Sunday) left her very little free time to venture into town. Honorine had assured her that her money was being deposited every week, but Jemma had nothing to spend it on and not even a chance to spend it anywhere. Except for seeing the same sights and the same people every day, she enjoyed her new environment, the easy camaraderie with Fosette and the way the young woman welcomed her. What would her childhood have been like if she'd had a sister like her?

Despite Laurence's suggesting that Jemma start by organizing the weirder books, she'd begun with a shelf devoted mostly to classics. The Great Gatsby . Jane Eyre . Frankenstein .

She thought of what Fosette had said: Grandmère has probably read every single one . But Jemma couldn't remember ever seeing Honorine with a book. The woman pored over the morning and afternoon newspapers, but the only person Jemma regularly saw reading books—in or out of the library—was Laurence.

A swirl of dust tickled Jemma's nose, bringing about two quick sneezes. She stepped away from the shelf.

Clap.

Jemma didn't want to look toward the source of the familiar sound, but her eyes moved of their own accord.

The gray book had fallen off the shelf again.

She'd been able to fool herself that nothing strange had happened since her first day in the library, but this was the third time the same book had fallen on its own.

For several moments she simply looked at it, as if it would do anything more than lie there like the inanimate object it was.

Finally, with trembling fingers, she snatched it up, ready to shove it back on the shelf like she'd done twice before. But something stirred in her. Maybe just the urge to stop it from happening again. She opened the book and wondered what she was reading until she realized the words were written in a foreign language. Flipping through the pages, she could make no sense of it. Some pages were full of cramped cursive, while others contained spaced columns of numbers.

"There," she murmured. "I opened you. Is that what you wanted?"

Don't talk to them!

She pushed the book in so far that it touched the back of the shelf. No way it could fall off on its own now. It didn't matter that she was only halfway done for the day. She had to get out of there.

Jemma glanced at her watch as she left the library. Only one minute until dinnertime, so no time to run upstairs and freshen up. Laurence had strolled into the dining room a few minutes late just a few evenings ago, and Jemma didn't want the look his grandmother had directed his way shining on her. She rushed into the small water closet around the corner from the library and quickly washed her hands. Before she exited the space, the sound of footsteps and Simone's voice—the last person Jemma wanted to run into—stopped her, made her shrink back.

"How long are you going to wait? She's been here nearly a month. One of us is going to die if she doesn't fix this!"

"She has to trust us. If she finds out why we really brought her here, what do you think she's going to do? Do you think she's going to believe us right away?" That was Honorine. "Besides, we don't even know if she's affected the same way we are. She was able to leave before, after all—"

"She's affected—she has to be!"

The footsteps receded.

Jemma exited the water closet, catching sight of a skirt tail swishing into the dining room. They'd been talking about her.

One of us is going to die if she doesn't fix this!

What did that mean?

And getting her to trust them, which was exactly what they had done. They were strange but surely not dangerous. Weren't they?

Lulu's words echoed in her mind, the way she and Charlie had reacted on hearing the Duchon name. Lulu had tried to warn her away: If I was you, I'd go the other way. Get back on the train or bus or whatever you came here on and go back to where you from.

And Jemma had ignored all of that, had convinced herself that Lulu and Charlie were mistaken about this beautiful group of people, because she had to. She needed this. So she pushed aside the rational thoughts that rose up at night, right before she dropped off to sleep, the sensible voices that asked why anyone should pay Jemma so much money for such a simple job. It was easy to do when she realized how much she wanted to be a part of them, their beauty, their togetherness as a family.

But now uneasiness arose, smacked Jemma lightly across the cheek.

Get moving. You're going to be late.

And get answers from Honorine. Tonight .

—

JEMMA EXPECTED THE WORST WHEN she entered the dining room a full ten minutes late, but Honorine said nothing. The family had already said grace and were passing platters around. As she took her seat, she didn't miss the meaningful look Simone directed to her mother.

Dinner dragged on, and while everyone ate and talked (always about the same topics), Jemma picked at her food, her mind churning. Fosette chattered in her ear or across the table to her brother. Finally, Simone pulled out her after-dinner cigarette and Russell plowed through his second helping. Agnes began clearing away dishes, and before the family could all stand up and go their separate ways, Jemma turned to Honorine.

"Mrs.Duchon? I'm sorry, but I overheard a conversation between you and your daughter. It's about my being down here."

The weight of five sets of staring eyes seemed to press Jemma down in her seat. If she expected Honorine to react in anger or with pretend ignorance over her eavesdropping, she was surprised when the woman reacted with neither.

"Ah, that. I had to get you down here somehow, Miss Barker. If I'd told you that we hired you to break a curse, would you have come?"