Chapter Eight

eight

FOR JEMMA, OCTOBER IN NEW Orleans still felt like summer. She, like the rest of the Duchons, walked about in inappropriate attire—they out of fashion for the year, she out of season. Sure, the heat didn't have the same intensity in the fall, but it made itself known in everything from the constant marshy odor in the woods (which had become her occasional escape now that she'd found a walking trail) to her damp mattress after a restless night. Although she was now certain that no leash tethered her to the Duchon property, Jemma never stayed away for long. She guarded her little secret like a priceless gem, too precious to share.

The day after Jemma and Honorine cemented their agreement with a handshake, Jemma had started her research in the only place she could think of, the library, but her efforts among the dusty books so far hadn't yielded any results.

"It's time for your homework," Laurence said now, looking around the side of what must be his favorite chair.

She recalled the last time they'd been alone in here, how he'd indicated the wall of occult books as a place to begin organizing.

She also remembered the blistering heat she'd felt on her neck, which had sent her running, and how he'd grabbed her wrist and seen evidence of her past.

At that time, she'd had no idea they were related.

A sudden thought occurred to her.

"Have you ever seen anything…strange around here?" she asked him, moving farther into the room and faking casualness by leaning against a shelf and crossing her arms.

A slight smirk lifted one side of his mouth. He reclined on an arm of the chair, one gabardine-trousered leg thrown over the other in a careless way that other men could practice for years and never master. Brown leather suspenders contrasted with his crisp white shirt. "You'll have to be more specific."

Jemma inhaled, as if just saying the word would conjure forth something she didn't want to see. "Ghosts."

"Ghosts?" he repeated, his eyes wide. "You mean specters and spirits, haints and other things that go bump in the night?"

It wasn't until his lips quivered and then opened to emit a full-throated laugh that she realized he was mocking her. But right before that taunting roar, something flickered in his eyes.

"All right, if you haven't ever seen ghosts, have you seen something else?"

His laugh ended at once. "Do you mean besides the nasty deaths that take place every seven years on your birthday? Because I can tell you, when that date rolls around, it's not exactly a picnic around here. But no, I've never seen any ghosts."

"You don't seem to take the curse seriously."

"Oh, I most certainly do. I don't want to be the one to die next in some freak accident. But I think Grandmère is wasting her time on believing you'll be the one to save us."

"Why's that?"

"Our grandmother has hired many mediums over the years. She started with the priests, and when they didn't help, she moved on to the psychics. They've held séances, circles, done all kinds of things. They've tried to summon spirits, and yes, they succeeded in calling up some long-dead ancestor here and there, but they're not going to figure it out. Inès is going to get what she wanted. She's going to continue picking us off, one by one, until there's not a single Duchon left in this house. And now that you're here, which I'm sure makes Grandmère and Maman incredibly happy, since you're as trapped as we are, you're just as liable as the rest of us to be next."

Here, Laurence drew a long finger across his neck while baring his teeth at the same time, shocking Jemma into momentary silence. He tossed his book on the footstool in front of him and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"But are you really as trapped as we are, Jemma? You grew up far away from here. You actually saw some of the world. You left once; maybe you can leave again."

She turned to the shelf behind her, afraid that if he continued to stare at her the way he did she'd slip up and admit everything.

"Just because I don't know the first thing about curses doesn't mean I can't try to fix things, especially because I'm just as trapped as you are." The lie swam up her throat. "You think I don't want to get out of here?"

She grabbed Simple Rules of Cursebreaking off the shelf and took a cursory flip through it before settling in the chair farthest from Laurence. She scanned the chapter titles and turned to the chapter detailing curses and how they worked. Gruesome illustrations of people looking tortured, without any devices or tormentors near them, dotted the pages.

"That day you tried to leave, you didn't really go far."

Jemma glanced up to find Laurence standing in front of her. She forced her gaze back to her book as he went on.

"If you tried, how far could you go?"

"If I'm really related to you, I can't go anywhere."

Now she met his gaze, searching for the slightest wobble, the merest hint that she wasn't actually family.

He gave her no such clue before heading to the door. As he reached for the knob, Agnes walked in with a tray. When the maid saw Laurence, she stopped in her tracks. Jemma's eyes moved between the two, the briefest note of something familiar hanging in the air and dispersing before she could catch it.

"I don't want your tea," he hissed, striding past Agnes, his shoulder bumping her roughly enough to send the tray and its contents flying. A teapot, cups, saucers and dessert plates shattered, pieces scattering, along with a couple of slices of coffee cake.

Jemma jumped up.

"Fucking imbecile," Laurence muttered, his eyes on Agnes, now sweeping up the mess with her hands, before he walked out.

Jemma stood rooted in place for several seconds, trying to decide whether she was going to run after him and ask what in the hell his problem was or if she'd help the maid. It seemed easier to stay, so she squatted next to Agnes and tried to place broken china pieces on the tray. But the woman shook her head, not meeting Jemma's gaze, and pushed her hands away.

"Let me help you," Jemma insisted.

Now Agnes did look at her, her eyes moving across her face the same way they had when Jemma had knocked on the door that first day, as if there were contained inside her an answer to a desperate question.

The maid leaned forward and pressed her lips against Jemma's before Jemma had a chance to react. By the time she realized the woman was kissing her, Agnes had moved back, tears shining in her eyes.

Then she pushed Jemma's hands back toward her and gestured for her to go.

As she walked out, Jemma put a hand to her mouth in shock, her mind churning with the bizarreness of what had just happened. She not only wondered why the woman had kissed her but also felt deeply disappointed in Laurence. It was his fault the maid had dropped the tray. Jemma assumed his reaction was just another affectation of these people, but to be so hostile to a woman who was already at a disadvantage didn't make sense to her. Neither did the way Laurence could be kind to Jemma at times and at other times be eccentric bordering on frightening (like today). She wasn't rich, never had been, but she'd heard stories her whole life about how the other half was, the strange ways they behaved under the protection of their money, as if wealth made manners and good sense unnecessary.

Jemma stopped in the foyer, seeing no trace of Laurence or anyone else. She'd left her book in the library, but she would wait until Agnes was finished in there before retrieving it. She needed time to think, and she wanted to be alone. Taking a quick look around to make sure no one saw her, Jemma slipped out the back doors and headed toward the woods.

Fireflies flitted in scattered patterns among the bushes, and as the thick line of trees loomed closer, a flash of light shone through the branches and leaves. Jemma paused, remembering Dennis's words: All sorts of critters be back there. 'Shiners, too. She'd seen and heard all kinds of animals and they didn't frighten her. But moonshiners? Jemma decided that she'd be quiet and careful, but she knew she'd seen a light. She needed to know where it came from.

She took a tentative step into the thickness of the trees, instantly enveloped by the noise of frogs and crickets. The sun had only just begun to set, but in here it was twilight. As she made her way along the now familiar route she took when she wanted to be alone, she drew closer to the abandoned wooden shack. She counted on the diminishing sunlight to hide her but took careful steps, avoiding the crunch of pine needles and dried leaves the best she could.

"You trying to get shot, girl?" a woman barked from behind Jemma.

She twirled around, a scream pushing up her throat, but all that escaped her was a wheezing breath.

It was a ghost, dressed in white.

No, it was a woman. A live, brown-skinned woman with thick braids trailing down either side of her body, the loose ends brushing a low-slung leather belt in which she'd placed a gun, the butt of it in front of her hip. The ragged hem of her white cotton dress brushed her ankles, not quite reaching her bare feet.

"I thought I saw…a light," Jemma said, the words separated by harsh breaths.

"You look like you saw a ghost," the woman said, moving her hand from the butt of the pistol.

"That's what I thought you were…at first."

A deep laugh rolled out of the woman's mouth, the white of her teeth catching the last of the sun's rays. "A spirit, huh? No, not me. Although there's plenty of them around, but ole Magdalene ain't part of that yet. Not yet." She cocked her head. "Who are you?"

"Jemma Barker. I work for the Duchons."

"The Duchons." As Magdalene said the name, Jemma didn't miss the way her eyes narrowed. Her right hand moved back to the butt of the gun and her grin disappeared behind a curled lip.

"So you know them?"

"Everyone round here knows them, girl. Your name's Barker, you said?"

"Yes." She peered at the woman more carefully. Something in the way she said her name hinted at familiarity.

"Is your mama's name Mabel? Mabel Barker?"

One of my mamas, Jemma began to think before it struck her. How did this woman know her adoptive mother's name? Before she could ask, Magdalene frowned, and her eyes widened as they studied Jemma's face closely.

"What is it? What's the matter?"

"Oh God. Oh God, no. Why are you here?"

Jemma didn't know why she should be so afraid, but Magdalene's reaction scared her more than when she'd thought the woman was a ghost.

"What do you mean? How do you know Mabel?" she asked.

"We took you away from here, Emmaline. Why are you back?"

"We? We who? You took me away? Who's Emmaline?" Jemma stepped closer, her hands raised. If the woman tried to run, to snatch any answers out of Jemma's hands, she'd grab onto her. But Magdalene shook her head, a low wail escaping her.

"You're damned now, damned! Why would you come back?"

Jemma grabbed the woman's arms, only now realizing that Magdalene was older, threads of gray hairs standing out starkly against the black. Shaking her, heedless of the clacking of Magdalene's teeth, Jemma demanded, "How do you know me?"

"I was the midwife. I delivered you."

Jemma stepped back as if Magdalene had shoved her. "You were there?"

The woman's gaze moved over Jemma's shoulder, toward the direction of the Duchon property. Seizing Jemma's hand, she led her inside the cabin. The interior looked nothing like the outside. A lit candle sat in a shallow bowl filled with water on top of a square table, which took up most of the single room. In one corner was a potbelly stove, and in the other a tattered quilt covered a sagging mattress, pine needles strewn along the edges. Bundled herbs hung from the ceiling, giving the space a woodsy smell nothing like the stuffy air in the Duchon house. Magdalene brought out a few more candles and lit them, placing them around the bowl on the table. She dragged a wooden chair from the wall and pushed it up to the table, looking around absently. It was clear she lived here alone and didn't have guests often, if ever.

"Sit down. Jemma, you said your name was? How did you…? No, never mind that for now—we'll get to all that later. The family, they can't come out this far, which is good for me. I don't have to see them, the snakes. But you! Why are you here?"

Jemma had what she was sure were more questions than Magdalene, but she'd answer first. Taking the seat while the other woman paced, she said, "They hired me. I thought they wanted a tutor. Only, once I got here, I found out there was no tutoring job. They wanted me to break the curse that's over the family."

Magdalene nodded, as if the Duchons' duplicity was exactly what she expected.

"But if you delivered me, you knew my mother."

The woman bowed her head, her brows knitted, her eyes fixed on the floor. "I knew Inès. And I was there when you slipped out of her body, when she delivered you along with a curse that she couldn't take back. I tried to stop her, but once words are out, you can't unspeak them. It was too late for her, for them, for you, the minute she said them."

"But you got me away after I was born. I'm not bound like they are."

Magdalene stopped, staring at Jemma from the other side of the table.

"How did you get me away if I'm really one of the Duchons?"

The woman shrugged. "You are a Duchon—don't doubt that. I don't have the answer for how you're not trapped there like the rest of them. But before you were an hour old, Honorine told me she was going to kill you, and your mama begged me to get you away. Maybe it's 'cause I took you away so soon. Or maybe 'cause I carried you and I ain't a part of them. I don't know how that worked, but I was just happy it did."

"You said ‘We took you away.' Who was with you?"

"Dennis."

Jemma's shoulders dropped; a short breath rushed out of her. "You know him?"

"Knew him. I ain't seen or talked to that man in years. We took you into the parish proper. He said he knew some people who wanted a baby, a couple who was moving up north, where there were better jobs, better money. We thought that was best, giving you to people who'd take you far away from here, where nobody knew where you came from, where nobody would tell you about your real family." Magdalene slapped her palms on the table. "We did all that and now here you are."

"What happened to my mother?"

"She died. They told me when I came back to check on her, and I saw them burying her later that day. I stayed back here, but I got close enough to see that. It's not like they invited me to the funeral."

Jemma's gaze wandered over the small space. Finally, someone who'd known her mother and didn't hate her. And if she didn't hate Inès, maybe she didn't hate Jemma, either.

"Do I look like her?" The words, low, escaped Jemma's mouth before she had a chance to stop them.

Magdalene cocked her head, shadows dancing merrily across her face. "You must look more like your pa. I never met him, but Inès told me about him, about how handsome he was, about how the family would never accept him 'cause he was dark. He wanted to marry her, but that wasn't going to happen."

"I still can't believe I'm related to them. I don't look anything like them."

"I guess not, not with that pretty brown skin. There ain't nothing in this world that family hates more than being reminded of what they are."

Fosette's words echoed in Jemma's head: We're very proud to be colored.

Looking around, wanting to talk about, think about, anything else, Jemma asked, "You live here alone?"

Magdalene nodded.

"What do you do? You still midwife?" A list of questions sprang up in Jemma's mind for this new person, unrelated to the Duchons, to her. She hadn't realized until now how much she craved something different. Just the sound of Magdalene's voice, an even hum, was like a balm on Jemma's skin.

"Not so much anymore. The older I get, the less I want to be dealing with folks. That's why I stay out here, where it's quiet and deep enough in the trees to not see that family."

"You don't have electricity or running water, though. That doesn't bother you?"

"No, child. I got everything a person needs. All that other stuff is extra."

"You called me Emmaline out there."

The older woman waved a hand. "Just a mistake. But forget about me, 'cause Magdalene ain't the important person in this story. We're going to talk about you. Where'd you come here from? Was Mabel good to you? How about her husband?"

Jemma took a deep breath, unsure of how much to tell. "I grew up in Chicago. My parents, Carl and Mabel—they're dead now."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. They were good people."

Magdalene gave her a sharp look, as if the simple statement hid something behind it. Jemma's gaze rested on her hands in her lap; she wondered at her desire to say more to this stranger.

"Mama tried to make me feel wanted. Daddy…It seemed like I couldn't do anything right to please him. After she died, it wasn't much there to hold us together. So I moved out as soon as I could. I had a boyfriend, but we split up before I came down here." Jemma stopped there, leaving out the more salacious bits, although something in Magdalene's face told her she knew all about them, about the trouble swimming underneath Jemma's carefully chosen words, about how with one misstep Jemma would fall into the real story, where a pregnant woman and sliced wrist and split lip waited.

"How are they treating you?" Magdalene lifted a chin toward the door, indicating the Duchons.

"Honorine, my grandmother—she's kind of cold. Simone, my aunt—she's probably worse. But Laurence and Fosette aren't too bad. Neither is my uncle Russell. They can be a little odd sometimes, but I think it's because of the curse." Jemma looked into Magdalene's face. It was now fully dark outside, and in here, with the weak candlelight, shadows cast eerie shapes in every corner. "I don't know anything about curses, other than what I've read. And when I saw you, I thought you were a ghost, like a couple others I've seen on the property—"

"You see haints?" Magdalene cut in, her body quite still.

"Yes."

"You talk to them?"

"No! No." A pause. "Why would I do that?"

"They scare you?"

"Of course."

Magdalene shook her head. "What you got to be scared of? They can't hurt you."

Jemma took that in for a moment. "Who's not scared of ghosts?"

"Inès wasn't. She just got tired of hearing them."

"What do you mean?"

"Sometimes, when people can't move on to what's next, they stick around. Most of the living can't see or hear them, but some, like you and your mama, can. When a spirit realizes that, they're drawn to you like moths to light. Some want to tell you something or maybe need you to do something for them." Magdalene grew quiet for several moments, as if unsure how to proceed. "Inès told me they bothered her all the time. She couldn't get no rest at the house. That's why she spent so much time in the city. She said when she was dancing or talking or making love she didn't have time to pay attention to all the voices going on around her."

"How well did you know her?" Jemma had assumed from what Magdalene had said that she'd only been her mother's midwife. But it seemed the woman had known Inès quite well.

"I wasn't all that close to her, if that's what you're thinking. The Duchons got no friends or family darker than a china plate, except for you. When I'd check on her every now and again while she was pregnant with you, she'd talk to me sometimes. I think she wanted to talk to somebody so bad who wasn't going to judge her, so I'd just sit there and listen. She told me there was a mess of haints all around the house, on the grounds. She knew they were troubled, but she couldn't figure out how to help them. They don't talk clear most of the time, and I think she couldn't understand what they were trying to say. After a while, she learned to ignore them."

Like me, Jemma thought.

"I don't want to talk to them. Even if I knew how, I wouldn't want to."

Magdalene looked at Jemma as if she were just remembering she had company. "I don't talk to them 'cause I don't see them. But if I did, if I met some poor haint who seemed lost and confused about why she was here instead of in heaven, why not help her get to where she needs to be? Seems like the decent thing to do."

"Maybe that's easy for you to say since you don't see them," Jemma said with more venom in her voice than she'd intended.

"Okay, girl, I'm sorry. Magdalene said the wrong thing. Ain't the first time and won't be the last. But it looks like you got something in common with your mama that can maybe help you. Instead of running scared, why not look at it as some kind of gift? Not everybody has that, you know. And maybe one of them got an answer for you."

"An answer?"

"I'm sure that house and all that land got a whole mess of secrets. Who better to ask about them than the haints who live there? Even…even Inès might be there." Magdalene said this last bit just above a whisper.

Yes, Jemma thought, her mother might be among the ghosts walking around the property. The thought frightened her more than a little, but at the same time, it awakened a desire in her to meet her mother, the woman who'd birthed her along with a terrible curse, perhaps not realizing how she'd damned her daughter along with the rest of her family. If Jemma could talk to her mother, then perhaps she'd find out how to break the curse, free them all.