Chapter Seven

seven

THE NEXT MORNING, AFTER brEAKFAST, instead of heading outside, Jemma accepted Honorine's invitation to the parlor "for a brief chat about your actual duties."

"I'm sure this has been a shock to you. I forget sometimes that we've had decades to get used to this," the woman said, settling in her wingback armchair with a cup of café au lait balanced on a saucer. The heat had lessened some, and what Jemma assumed was fall weather had begun, although it reminded her of high summer in Chicago.

"Since I was born?" she asked.

"Yes. The day you were born, your cousin died."

"My cousin? And my mother, on the same day?"

"Yes. Soon after your mother set her terrible curse on us, she died. There was a lot going on, you see, between that and your birth. We lost sight of Lucie, Simone's other daughter. She was just three. By the time we missed her, it was too late. She'd gotten into the carriage house. Somehow a saddle fell from the wall on top of her. The weight of it snapped her little neck and she died."

A chill gripped Jemma's hands, despite their being wrapped around her own cup of café au lait.

"But we didn't know the whole of it then, not at first. Inès had cursed us, but we thought Lucie's death was just an accident. It didn't take long for us to discover that it was no accident. Each one of us tried to get off the property at different times. We had a car back then, and my husband, Raymond, took off in it, only to have it break down just outside the gate. A brand-new car. Your uncle Russell tried to escape through the backwoods, only to run into such a tangle of branches that he could go no farther. Each of us was stopped in our own way, some of us more than once."

"I don't understand why my mother supposedly cursed you."

Honorine's right brow lifted as she studied Jemma over the rim of her coffee cup. "You still don't quite believe."

"Why should I? I don't know you people. You've lied to me about things that you shouldn't have lied about. Leading me on that I was hired to be a tutor—"

"You made that assumption, Miss Barker."

Jemma brushed that aside. "I want to know why Inès cursed you. Until then, I don't want to hear anything more you have to say."

The older woman set her cup down on the saucer, the small clink barely louder than a cat's paws across a rug. "Your mother was, for lack of a better term, the black sheep of this family. We had an impeccable reputation and she wanted for nothing, but she seemed determined to throw it all away. Instead of looking forward to her debut in society, she was interested in frequenting dance halls and surrounding herself with the very dregs of this city. She met your father, but she knew we wouldn't approve of a marriage between them. When she turned up with child, she thought that would persuade her father to approve. And when he didn't, she turned on us completely."

"Why didn't you approve of my father?"

"He was dark," Honorine said without any hesitation or shame.

Jemma didn't know if it was the matter-of-factness of the statement or what it implied that hurt more.

Her grandmother continued. "By the time we realized how cursed we were, we'd already sent you away. How could we keep you when your mother had damned us? And although our orbit had grown so small as to be claustrophobic, we were still caught by surprise when, on your seventh birthday, another one of us died. That time, it was my husband."

A stillness washed over Jemma, her coffee lukewarm by then. She wanted to ask how he'd died, but a part of her shook its head, covered its ears, not wanting to hear what it knew was horrific.

"March 12, 1942, not too long after we were pulled into the Second World War, my husband, Raymond, choked on a chicken bone at dinner. It caught in his throat, and one end of it was so sharp that it cut him from inside. He choked and bled to death at the same time."

"Please," Jemma said, but her grandmother steamrolled on. Although Honorine's voice was flat, her face expressionless, there was some type of light dancing in her eyes, a flare of seeming delight at Jemma's discomfort.

"March 12, 1949. You were fourteen and in junior high school up there in Chicago. That bastard Truman was president. Our family had not set foot in a church in nearly fourteen years. All day, we were terrified, just waiting for something to happen, for someone to die. We all gathered in the living room. We thought that, perhaps, if we were all in one place, where we could see one another, we'd be all right. We'd survive. We took all our meals in there, and you'd better believe there was no chicken served that day. No, all we had was seafood gumbo, with the tiniest bits of crab and sausage. After dinner, we were all still alive. My family thought, foolishly, we'd beaten it somehow. We'd beaten her. But I knew better. And I was right.

"I told them we should sleep downstairs, but my youngest son, André, insisted on going up to bed. It was very late by then; he thought the danger had passed. I was so worried that I followed him to the stairs. I wanted to make sure he reached the top safely, that he didn't tumble down and break his neck. I watched him go into the bathroom and a little bit of relief washed over me. But within minutes, all of the lights flickered out. When we had candles lit and could see, we found André in the tub, along with the radio he always listened to. It had fallen in when he reached for a washcloth and knocked it off the sink. It was eleven thirty at night. My son was thirty-five."

"Mrs.Duchon," Jemma started, her trembling hand threatening to spill coffee all over the floor.

"March 12, 1956. You were celebrating your twenty-first birthday. I wonder—did you have cake? A party? Were you out trying to integrate lunch counters or universities? Whatever you were doing, you were not, like us, trapped here, as we'd been for twenty years by then, nearly frightened of our own shadows. I don't think any of us ate. We were too scared even to sip water. Luckily—or maybe not so luckily, I should say—it happened early. Russell's wife, Lenore, tried to open a bedroom window to let in some air. She struggled with it, and when she finally got it open, she rested her hands on the sill like a dimwit, and it came crashing down on her fingers, breaking at least two of them. I'll never forget her screams."

"But…she didn't die, then?"

"I wasn't finished. While we all came running from down here to see what had happened, she got one hand free. The glass was broken but still intact. Until she somehow managed to push against it, catching her arm in the process. It sliced her wrist into ragged ribbons before we made it to the room. She bled to death within minutes."

As gruesome as Honorine's story was, something else had nagged at Jemma from the moment she'd heard the victim was Russell's wife.

"Lenore wasn't a Duchon, though, since she'd only married into the family. She couldn't have been affected by the curse."

"Lenore was indeed a Duchon, a second cousin on my father's side."

"A cousin?"

"Don't look so shocked. Royal families do it all the time. How else do you think they maintain those bloodlines?"

"And what's the prize in that? It's…" Jemma bit down on the word "disgusting."

"It's what? Sick? No more sick than me marrying Raymond, who was a second cousin to me. You find it shameful? What's really shameful is how we felt about you every year your birthday rolled around. With each March twelfth every seven years, we hoped, prayed, that none of us here would die. How was it fair that I should lose a husband, a son, a granddaughter, a daughter-in-law, while you, Inès's offspring, should be allowed to live, unknowing, unharmed?

"After Lenore, we had to do something. We began looking for you. We hired a private detective. It took him a while since we didn't know where in this country you might be, but he finally found you. We had him watch you. That's how we knew about your adoptive father's death, which couldn't have come at a better time. That's how we knew about the man with whom you were living in sin, his other woman, your failed suicide attempt, your moving in with your friend. We were fortunate that you didn't succeed in killing yourself, because the only person besides your mother who could break the curse was you.

"?‘I curse all the Duchon blood,' your mother said. ‘From this day forth, I bind the family to this house. I bind them forever.'?"

Jemma realized she'd been gripping the cup in trembling fingers only when a bit of coffee sloshed onto her skirt. All this time, Honorine's voice had remained as level as if she were reading a passage from the Iliad to students in a literature class. Her long fingers alternately folded together or rested—seemingly innocent, harmless—in her lap. And yet the coolness of the words contrasted with the words themselves, the way the woman hurled them in clipped precision, with edges hard and sharp enough to cut.

So why Jemma continued to open her mouth and ask questions was beyond her understanding. What would make the most sense would be to flee this place. Yes, she'd tried that already and failed, but she refused to accept that she was as trapped here as the Duchons believed themselves to be.

"Why would I be able to break the curse?"

"When Inès said those words, you were still part of her body. The cord connecting the two of you hadn't yet been severed, so your blood and her blood still mixed."

Jemma shook her head, unsure why she'd expected Honorine's story to become less horrible instead of more.

"She cursed you as I was being born?"

"Yes. Her mouth spit out the curse the same way her body spit out a bastard. And because she cursed us while you were still connected, you may as well have said the curse yourself. We've consulted with a few mediums, and they've all told us the same thing. The person who cast the curse can break it, but since Inès can't, you're the next best thing. So you see, Miss Barker, we need each other. We need you to undo your mother's curse, and if you ever want to know who you truly are, you need us."

How did Honorine know that one of Jemma's greatest desires was to know where she was from, who she was from? To fit as seamlessly into her real family as a baby chick fits beneath its mother.

Try as she might, Jemma hadn't forgiven Carl Barker for shattering her sense of belonging, even before delivering the news of her adoption. She'd fooled herself that she had, with the expensive funeral that had drained her savings, with the loud accolades that slipped across her tongue, slick and false. But with every day of his holding her at arm's length, even as Mabel, her mother, tried—and failed—to reel Jemma in, the resentment grew until it was a high wall between her and her parents.

She'd told herself that she loved her father, repeated it over and over until she convinced herself of it.

"Even if you don't truly believe," Honorine said now, "we are your family. We are all you have."

—

AS JEMMA VENTURED ONTO THE back lawn an hour later, her mind churned. She walked across the croquet pitch, kicking a wooden ball into the bushes as she passed. Beyond that, she found a dilapidated carriage house, which must have been the place where little Lucie had died. Jemma gave it a wide berth.

Deep down, despite Honorine's duplicity in bringing her here, Jemma's suspicion that the woman was actually telling the truth about them being family was rooting. How could the idea both thrill and horrify her at the same time?

Before she realized it, the family vault loomed ahead. She approached it, gripped by the emotion rising at the sight of her mother's name on one of the plaques.

INèS LILY DUCHON

SEPTEMBER 29, 1915–MARCH 12, 1935

Nothing else. No beloved daughter and sister . No engraved images of angels. Just this stark and simple memorial.

Jemma traced the outline of her mother's name. She then searched for Lenore Duchon, Russell's wife, and found the plaque, March 12, 1956, her date of death, just as Honorine had said. Before she could peruse the rest of the plaques, a cool breeze pulled goose bumps from her skin.

Jemma spun around to find a spirit behind her. The ghost's eyes were the only opaque part of her, bottomless black orbs dull with hatred.

The only sound was that of Jemma's chattering teeth, even as sweat sprouted beneath her arms.

"No," she said. "Five…four…"

The spirit raised an arm, one finger outstretched.

If it touched her, Jemma would go insane.

She turned and ran toward the woods, her skirt flapping around her thighs. Right before she hit the wall of trees, she wondered just how far she'd be able to go in, how far before her mother's curse would stop her. Once she made it past the edge of the woods and the coolness of the shade began to lick the sweat from her brow, Jemma slowed, too afraid to peek behind her, in case the ghost had followed her, had floated while she'd stampeded.

Jemma stopped and pulled in gulps of air, her hands on her knees. She'd made it this far without being turned back to the house.

How much farther could she go?

She looked over her shoulder, a breath full of relief escaping her. The spirit hadn't followed. Jemma took several tentative steps deeper into the woods, a soft bed of leaves and pine needles sinking beneath her feet, the air thick with a marshy odor. With each step, she told herself that she had to be past the property line. Once the trees were dense enough to blot out much of the sunlight, Jemma quickened her pace.

I'm free! I'm not bound .

It turned into a run, this time without the fear of being chased. This time, Jemma ran toward freedom, away from the Duchons and their strangeness, away from their trap and everything she owned in this world.

When she was sure that she was far past the property line, she slowed again. Nearly invisible through the foliage was a rundown wooden shack that looked like it had been deserted for a hundred years. Jemma didn't approach it. Taking in her surroundings, she was sure she was lost. She turned around and around, trying to get her bearings, looking for a trail. The beige of her flats was hidden under a thick layer of dark mud, leaves and twigs stuck to the soles. Her stockings were ruined between the runs up the legs and the burs dotting them. The hem of her skirt was splattered with soil.

As she worked to slow her breath, she wondered if the Duchons had lied about yet another thing—being bound to the property. If she truly was related to them, how was she able to break free? Unless…she wasn't really related to them. Or…the property line ran much farther than she thought. Or…there was no curse at all.

Yet she believed the Duchons were bound, and not only because Dennis had confirmed it. None of them had left the property since she'd arrived. Jemma thought of Fosette seeming too scared even to venture out of the front gates. She saw the woman's face pressed between two pickets, remembered the sense of desperation humming off her and Laurence as they begged her to return.

She also believed, inexplicably, that she was part of their family.

Too afraid to go any deeper into the woods, Jemma returned to the abandoned shack. Once she was on the side she'd first approached it from, she retraced her steps, finding a narrow overgrown path and walking carefully until the trees began to thin and the Duchon back lawn gradually came into view.

Despite everything, she wanted answers. She deserved them.

Dennis was pruning a shrub on the far end of the croquet pitch.

"Afternoon, Jemma," he greeted her as she approached, his eyes widening at her disheveled appearance.

"Hello, Dennis." Jemma took in his brown arms, the sweat running freely down. He and Agnes were probably the only sane ones on this property. She pointed over her shoulder. "How deep do those woods run?"

"Pretty deep. Why? I don't think you're going hunting—I don't see no rifle in your hands," he said with a small smile.

Jemma wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. "Is there a trail in there?"

"Not that I know of, but I don't go in there, either." He stopped pruning, and pushed his hat back as if to get a better look at her. "All sorts of critters be back there. 'Shiners, too."

She decided to be direct. "How far does the property line run back there?"

Dennis looked down for a moment, his lips tight. When his eyes lifted again, what looked like pity shone in them. Jemma didn't want his pity.

"You already know you can't leave."

Jemma didn't reply, simply held his steady gaze.

"Property line stops right at them woods and go all around in a big square. It doesn't matter which way you try to go—it's going to stop you eventually." He pointed with the clippers in one hand.

She tamped down a smirk. She'd gone much farther than that.

"How long have you worked for them? How much do you know?"

"I've been here going on thirty years. I know enough."

"Why don't you leave? You're not family. You can go anytime you want, right?"

A sad smile touched his lips. "My place is here."

It made no sense.

"I can't be part of them," she whispered, crossing her arms. "All those lies. I don't know what to believe, so why should I believe anything they tell me?"

"But you are part of them," Dennis said, his voice gentle. "People did die here, lots of them, in bad ways. From the baby back when you were born to Miss Honorine's husband to Mr.Russell's wife. And it happens every seven years, March twelfth. That part's no lie. They had a good reason to bring you here. I know they can lie, but who doesn't in this life? They need you."

"They hate me. Because of who my father was, because of my color."

"Even so, they need you." They both stood silently for a few moments until Dennis went on. "Think about this. If you free them so that they can finally leave this place, it frees you, too."

Jemma thought about the Barkers, the man and woman who'd raised her, and how they'd taught her to fear the one thing Jemma now knew she had in common with her mother. The one thing she'd suppressed her entire life was a link to who she really was. But except for Fosette, her actual family was barely more welcoming to her than her adoptive father had been.

Where did she belong?

"Think on how mad you'd be if you'd been trapped here all these years," Dennis said. "You don't think it'd make you crazy not being able to even go into town, to have to give a list to the gardener every time you want something?" His voice lowered. "Women things, too. Yeah, I have to get all of that, 'cause Agnes…she don't leave either on account of…Well, how sane do you think they can be, considering that?"

Jemma shivered at the thought of it, at the idea of her sanity loosening, the anchors of it lifting from stability. She thought of Fosette, whom she'd grown so fond of. Of Laurence, whom she'd been attracted to. The thought sickened her now. But it all fit, didn't it?

Her cousins were bound like the rest of their family, which meant one of them could be the next to die on her birthday.

"It's tempting to just think about yourself in this," Dennis said, as if he'd read her mind. "Especially because I know how the Duchons are. Running is easy, until it ain't. How many times have you run from something?"

A flicker of anger rose in Jemma at the man's uncanny ability to sense her thoughts. Yes, she'd run from things. Vaporous ghosts. Cheating boyfriends. Hard truths about people she loved. As long as she kept running, she didn't have to face the past.

Dennis went on. "But if you can forgive them for what they did, if you can help them, things might turn out different."

"I don't have the first idea of what to do, and even if I did, what? You think they'll accept me with open arms?" Jemma scoffed.

She hated the small part of her, the hurt childlike part hiding its face behind little hands, that wanted exactly that, wanted nothing more than to have Honorine accept her as one of her own, introduce her as her granddaughter, look at her with love instead of indifference at best. Perhaps it was the house and being tethered to the property that fed the family's peculiarity. Like Dennis said, who wouldn't go mad? Even Simone, with her haughty meanness, and Russell, with his detached disinterest in anything that wasn't food.

Jemma covered her face for a moment before looking toward the woods and then back at the house. She took in its clean lines, the clinging dirt, the ivy creeping along the walls. At first glance, everything appeared perfect—even the structure that looked out of place jutting from one side, perhaps an old walled-up fireplace—but the more she looked, the more decay she found. It had probably been a grand place once, before Inès's curse had destroyed everything.

Absently, she rubbed her wrist, remembering that she'd wanted to die not so long ago. But if she lived now, if she undid the damage her mother had done, the family might embrace her as one of their own.

Dennis opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, but then his expression transformed into a stony mask. He lowered his head and resumed his pruning.

"There you are." It was Honorine. She waved a hand toward Dennis, and he gathered his gardening supplies and headed toward the old washhouse.

A hot hatred swirled inside Jemma as she faced the woman.

We are all you have, her grandmother had said.

Jemma despised the truth in that, but also felt a small slice of satisfaction at having her own secret.

Unlike them, she was free to leave.

"We need you to get started on figuring out how to break the curse."

"I don't have to do anything for you," Jemma said.

"You're right. You don't have to. Simply sit around, do nothing, and maybe you'll die next March twelfth instead of turn twenty-eight."

But I won't die, Jemma thought. Because I'm not cursed like the rest of you.

"Or perhaps it will be Fosette next time," the older woman continued.

"I barely know her."

"But you're getting to know her, just as you're getting to know Laurence." Honorine reached toward a bush, snapped a brown magnolia flower off, and dropped it onto the grass. "You might hate us, but you still want to be a part of us, part of something. I can give you that something."

"What do you mean?"

Despite everything, Jemma wanted to hear Honorine out. And her grandmother must have sensed it, the way her coyness drifted up like an invisible snake. On a woman her age, it was unpleasant. And yet Jemma listened.

"You want to know more about your mother than how she cursed us. You want to know what she was like as a girl. Did she like the same things you like? What things do you have in common with her? What about your father? You want to know who he really was, don't you? You barely know your cousin, you say, but you want to know more about all of us. Your aunt, your uncle. We are all the closest thing you have to your mother right now. So you can sit and do nothing, Miss Barker, or you can help us and learn more about your family and where you come from. You'll never know your history if you let us die."

Jemma met Honorine's eyes. For the first time, she believed everything the woman said. The words were too cold and calculated to be lies.

Her grandmother tilted her head and held out a hand. "Do we have an agreement, then?"

Jemma studied the offered hand, an old phrase ringing through her head.

Like making a deal with the devil.

She looked behind her at the woods. That way lay freedom.

She turned back to Honorine. This way lay family.

Although Jemma didn't know how she could possibly help the Duchons, Honorine was absolutely right about what Jemma wanted.

A place to belong.

A family to love her.

To know who she was.

To have an identity.

As Inès's daughter, maybe she was the only one who could fix this mess.

Jemma reached out and shook Honorine's hand.