Chapter One
November 22, 1911, Waxing Crescent Moon,
Sweet Dreams plantation house, Mal Chance Bayou Louisiana
Grace Thibodaux let her mare, Maymie, and the packhorse pick their way along the overgrown lane. If memory served, there was one more bend before theSweet Dreamsplantation came into view.
Spanish moss draped the huge live oaks bordering the path. Beyond that screen, the bayou sang. The lap of water against the shore. The plop of a muskrat’s cooling swim. The buzz of an insect. The call of a bird. Heavy odors of oleander and magnolia blended with the rotting vegetation aroma typical of the bayou. Beneath it all, the alien scent of cinnamon and sulfur rose like a creeping mist. Droplets condensed from the humid air, dripping from mossy trees. No leaf or blade stirred. No breezy whisper disturbed the quiet. The sights, the sounds, the scents, the sticky heat struck both familiar and strange after twenty years and a lifetime away.
Her first sight of the house echoed how she’d felt since her acquittal in Boston. Battered, like the roof and exterior walls from years of weather. Worn to the bone, her emotional armor scrapped raw and exposed like the peeling paint, ripped wallpaper, and ruined floors she’d no doubt find. Her foundation was crumbling and weak, but she and the house still stood. Fate had tried to destroy them both and failed.Bang-clang!
Grace jerked the reins, fear rolling over her shoulders and shooting down her spine. Maymie reared.Bang-clang!
The packhorse screamed.
Bang-clang!
Grace fought to control her fright and her mount. “There now,” she crooned, patting Maymie’s neck, praying the packhorse would settle before either steed was hurt.
Bang-clang!Bang-clang!Bang-clang!
The sharp ringing of metal on metal echoed from behind the house.
Sidestepping and flicking ears, the horses jostled each other, both neighing displeasure. Before biting and rearing could start, Grace dismounted and used the reins to force distance between the two.
Crooning all the while, she secured Maymie’s reins to the nearest bush, then did the same with the pack horse some distance from Maymie. Horses settled, she grabbed her rifle, and headed for the back of the house.
Bang-clang!Bang-clang!Bang-clang!
She slid into a position behind one of the columns supporting the porte-cochèr and waited for a pause in the odd rhythm of the bangs and clangs.
Silence. “Whoever you are, leave now. I have a rifle and will shoot if you don’t.” Shouldering her weapon, Grace left the safety of the pillar.
A sledgehammer fell from mid-air, and a rush of wind chilled her. The hammer lay beside an iron pump and an aged wooden water trough. Nearby were the rotted remains of what might’ve been a hitching post. About ten feet away, the large doors of the stable stood open.
“Who’s there?” she called.
Only birds answered.
Grace paced the stable yard, peering into the darkened structure. She listened hard, but heard no unnatural sound. Did I imagine it all? If so, what frightened the horses?
She was stressed and jumping at shadows, as she’d been for far too long. The horses had probably picked up on that.
Since no observable danger threatened, she lowered the rifle and returned to the horses. They stood contented, munching on the surrounding tall grasses, and seemed to have forgotten the scare.
“C’mon, girls, let’s get you settled. Night will fall soon, and I have much to do before I can sleep.”
When Grace was ready for bed, she was restless, tense and not in the least sleepy. The pattern wasn’t a surprise, given the events of the last year, to say nothing of today’s oddities. Tension, restlessness and more had plagued her. She’d never sleep without some help. She’d grown so used to stress, and she’d come prepared.
She dug into the carton of mementos, and Aunt Sarah’s personal papers. Grace pulled out a silver keepsake music box and a worn leather-bound book. The music box had been a gift from her aunt to mark Grace’s sixth birthday. According to Sarah, the box had belonged to Grace’s mother and was very old. It’d been handed down from mother to daughter on the Tirlán side of the family. She’d hugged the box to herself and smiled her thanks to her aunt.
Sarah had sighed. “Darling girl, you know your smile could melt stone.”
Grace had spent the next several weeks smiling at stones before her aunt taught her about metaphors in a way a six-year-old could understand. The tune had helped calm the nightmares that still disturbed her sleep. She could not recall ever seeing the book. It had no title or publication information, so it was probably as old as it appeared to be. Opening to the first page, she read the words hand-written in bold black ink on age-yellowed paper ‘Ship’s Log.’
The handwriting was not Aunt Sarah’s delicate calligraphy. So, who wrote this? What ship had it come from, and why was the paper yellowed but the ink not faded?
Could it be a fake?
