The belly dancers twirl, their skirts a mesmerizing swirl of colors, as the crowd around them cheers. My heart pulses in anticipation of Emma’s arrival. She hasn’t stopped stalking my thoughts since my first vision of her in the juke joint. Wish I knew why I’d seen her instead of all the billions of other people on the planet. Maybe fate, the ancestors, and my dad are in the afterlife sending visions and messages that I’m not bright enough to understand. I imagine Emma moving through this crowd with me, her eyes wide with the wonder of seeing the fair for the first time.
Hoping she’ll arrive soon, I find a cast-iron bench, where I sit and wait, my thoughts swallowed by her.
“Emma,” I whisper, her name like a song. “Where are you?”
She and her family have gotta want an end to the Tether as badly as I do. It’s been killing us for years.
And there’s nothing worse than Black folks killing Black folks in a world where white racists already strive for our genocide.
CHAPTER TWELVEEmma BaldwinNEW ORLEANS, 1922
A night sky with twinkling crystal stars blinks above the dinner table.
Music plays as Demetri nervously cuts his asparagus. “Are you feeling any better, sis?”
I don’t respond. Gold chandeliers, ablaze with dancing sapphire flames, hang in the air with no chains or mechanics suspending them. I feel tied to these people with invisible shackles.
He sighs. “I was thinking…”
I smirk. “And I thought the smoke was from the candles.”
“Maybe we could take a walk after dinner,” he says. “Talk about things.”
Oh, now you wanna talk? But you couldn’t bother to be truthful before.
I shake my head. I already have plans. Demetri’s eyes reflect sadness in the eerie azure candlelight that dapples everyone, revealing the despair etched on my family’s faces.
Reluctantly, I had allowed my father to use magic to heal my body before dinner, but my heart is in shards. I’ve always been loyal to my family. They’ve taken care of me my entire life. I love them. But the beating I’ve been taking in the sparring ring feels a lot like abuse to me, and theemotional strain of facing a death match has damaged our relationship in ways I’m not sure we can come back from. It’s hard to look at them without crying. And small talk? Hell, no. I want none of that.
Forks clink against plates as my family enjoys their dinner, giving a melody to my eagerness for this meal to be over. As soon as we’re finished, I can escape in one of the Bentleys and go meet Malcolm.
“How’s your salmon?” my mother asks, oblivious to the restlessness inside me. Grandmère’s sharp gaze stabs through to my soul.
“Fine,” I snap.
“Little bird, you seem distant. Quiet,” Grandmère says, her voice a brew of concern and impatience.
The heavy sapphire-toned drapes that hang from floor to ceiling sway slightly, as if they are inhaling the sound of the classical violin.
“I wonder why,” I reply, with a sarcastic smile.
“Aren’t you the comedian tonight,” Gran grumbles, sipping from her glass of pink bubbly. A thinly sliced strawberry bobs in the bottom of her flute. “Pity your jokes don’t pay the bills.” Her hooded eyes look at me suspiciously as she sets the glass down on the table. It refills itself with more bubbly champagne. “I do.”
“Emma.” Papa smiles at me like he’s trying to ease the tension, his voice blending with the sounds of the invisible orchestra that fills the room with strumming pianos and the operatic sound of Marian Anderson singing, “Ave Maria.” “When all this is over,” he says, “we should travel to the White House in 1939 and try to see Marian. A Black opera singer in the White House at that time has to be an extraordinary sight. That would be great, wouldn’t it?” His hopeful eyes meet mine.
“Sure, assuming I still have working eyes after the Tether.”
Mom looks sadly at me, and I poke at my vegetables.
Papa continues. “You’re doing great with your stardust training.” His dark eyes twinkle with pride below his salt-and-pepper curls. “Everyone’s talking about your progress.”
“Thanks,” I reply. Papa always tries to encourage me, so he’d never look at my training with a critical eye anyway.
I doubt that anyone has bragged about my improvement. It feels like a slowjourney. But that could be because I resent every moment. I’m so ashamed of what’s happening that I haven’t even told Ariella. Not that I’m allowed to tell my best friend anything important. I don’t even know how I could explain the fact that my family members, who are expected to provide love and protection, could inflict harm. Every time I am kicked or punched, I’m reminded of the lack of freedom and control I have in my life. I’m reminded that I could lose this game if I can’t stop the Tether. I could die… And eighteen is way too young to die.
The music is beautiful, but I’m bored. I lift my glass and take a sip, wishing I were listening to Josephine Baker singing, “Paris, Paris, Paris.”
And then it begins to play. The room has responded to my thoughts again. I smile.
