The concierge’s shoulders ease, his mouth now set in a polite smile. “That will not be necessary, sir.”
We ride the hydraulic elevator so high I press my hand to my middle to steady the leap of my stomach. The hallway stretches on like a city block. When the porter opens the doors, I swallow a gasp. A large bed waits against the far wall, dressed in crisp white linen and a red velvet coverlet to match the chaise in theparlor. Potted palms stand beside gilt-framed paintings, and in the washroom a porcelain tub gleams, steaming water already brought to the washstand.
“How can we afford all this?” I ask, nearly breathless.
“Paid ahead,” Kodiak says.
“When?” I press, careful not to raise my voice.
He sighs, scratching his stubbled cheek. “Standing reservation.” His face gives nothing away; he scans the room instead. “Why don’t you get comfortable. Have yourself a hot bath. I’ve a few things need tendin’.” He reaches for his hat.
“Where are you going?” I ask, as he tugs the brim low.
He doesn’t answer. The latch clicks sharp behind him.
Splendid.
What now?
I turn to the washroom. The grime of sleeping outdoors clings to me like a second skin. A bath, at least, might do me good. The porcelain tub swallows me whole. The water bites sharp at first, then eases into my bones. I scrub the grit from my hair with lavender soap until the scent fills the room.
Afterward, fresh linen and a clean dress change everything. Lacing my bodice and smoothing my skirts, I can pass for a woman traveling properly with her husband. I sit by the window, watching the city below as my hair dries. My fingers press to the pane as a curious hunger stirs in me. In the distance, I spy the bright awnings of a market and the spires of a church. I refuse to sit idle like some caged bird. Gathering courage, I pin on my hat, draw my gloves tight, and step out of the suite. If he means to keep me cloistered, he should not leave me alone.
The streets carry me along like a sleepy river. I pass shop windows crowded with silks and boots, and salons where women sit under lamps while their hair is pinned. Peddlers wheel carts stacked with oranges, melons, and pineapples, bright as lanterns. At home, I might walk a mile and meet no more thana neighbor and a dog. Here, I can’t take five steps without brushing against someone new.
I stop before a flower shop, its window so full of peonies and tulips it’s like a fairytale. It’s all so exciting and overwhelming, but it’s tainted somehow. Fruit of a poison tree. My great adventure began by Kodiak squeezing the last breath from Joseph’s throat. Maybe even poison fruit can taste sweet for a time, before it sickens you.
I wander until I find myself in a market. Rows of vendors stand in the open air, sheltered under faded canvas awnings that ripple in the breeze. A barefoot child darts between the stalls, brandishing a stick like a wizard’s wand. His clothes hang off his frame, likely hand-me-downs from an older sibling.
A woman nearby calls out, “Pralines! Fresh and sweet!” Her voice carries over the bustle. On the table before her sits a basket heaped high with toffee-colored rounds studded with pecans.
It has been days of nothing but beans and jerky, and the thought of something sweet melting on my tongue makes my mouth flood. The scent drifts toward me on a warm current of buttery air and draws me closer like a worm on a hook pulling in a hungry trout.
“I’ve never heard of a praline before,” I say.
She takes me in, head to toe, then grins. “Then you’re in for a treat,” she says. “Pecans, sugar, and cream made right here in the heart of New Orleans.”
She lifts one delicately between two fingers and a square of wax paper. “One for two cents.”
I reach for my purse, fingering through coins. Counting out pennies, I drop two in her hand, and feel a light thwack against my skirt. The boy has crept up beside me, smiling through gaps of gums and little teeth.
“Yah!” he cries.
“August!” the woman scolds. “What did I tell you about hitting people with sticks?”
He giggles and darts behind the table, pressing himself against her skirts.
“That’s all right,” I say. “He was probably trying to turn me into a frog with his magic wand.”
“A horse,” he corrects, peeking out.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, please excuse my boy. He’s been beggin’ his daddy for horse rides, and now he carries that stick like a crop, thinkin’ everybody’s part of his little game.”
I can’t help laughing at his imagination, though I cover my smile with my hand as not to encourage him. The woman shakes her head, her amusement edged with weariness.
“August whipped a lawman one morning, right here at my table. Didn’t find it one bit funny and cost me a week’s profit in fines.”
I force my smile to vanish. “Oh, that’s awful.”
