Nan was staring at her strangely. Oh, saints, there was more.
“What is it, Nan?” Ree demanded. But Nan remained quiet, eyes trained on the floor, looking anywhere but at Ree. It was making her nervous, jittery with paranoia.
Nan pulled a paper from her cloak. A copy ofThe Quintessence,dated just this morning, the headline printed in familiar bold, flourished lettering:
Negro Insurrectionist to Hang; Mayor Corbin to Attend Proceedings in Congo Square.
Ree froze. Panic, pure and all-consuming, crashed through her in a tidal wave, blood thrumming in her ears. As pressing as her mother’s state was,this…by all the saints…this could not wait.
“Stay with my mother,” Ree called over her shoulder as she made for the door.
Here she was heeding her mother’s advice, even now, even when all hope might be lost.You don’t run away from problems, daughter.You run toward them.And run she did—through the door, into the cool damp of the bayou, and toward the danger she knew lay waiting.
By the time Ree reached Congo Square, she was too late.
She saw first the brown bare feet, then the long legs swinging like reeds in the wind, the bare torso corded through with muscle and scars, and the face, deep brown and unsmiling…
Marcel.
Ree cupped both hands over her mouth, stifling down the start of a scream.Gods,no.
In the space of one second, it all became so clear. She knew. Even with her lack of talent for divination, she could see it all in her mind’s eye: All of the aurum stuffed into one tiny vial. The oneshe’dgiven him. He’d tipped it all into the overseer’s drink. It was an easy thing to do, wasn’t it? One bad word, one lash too many. Ree had given him the power of a thunderstroke in one tiny little vial. Ree might as well have strung the rope up and hanged him herself. Why had she given him that damned vial? Magic welled up inside her, but she tamped it down with a few shaky breaths. Anger would not do. Not now. News of her mother’s absence had surely reached the rest of the Quarter, but to what extent she could not say.
“Serves him right,” a white man with long red hair jeered to her left. Ree turned, realizing that he was Brotherhood. “Boy thought he could get bright on one of us. Suppose he got bright enough, didn’t he? Getting all the sun he’ll ever need now.”
The taller alchemist beside him shook his head. “That could be one of us, you know.” His eyes slid uneasily among the hungry crowd. “Magic is magic, no two ways about it.”
The first alchemist sucked the air through his teeth, the squeak of wet boots in rain, and spit a thick wad of tobacco onto the ground. “That willneverbe one of us.”
He caught Ree’s gaze and smiled cruelly, his teeth stained dark. She stared back, hatred and defiance burning in her chest. She would remember his face. And one day, if no one else would pay forwhat was done to Marcel, it would be him, she decided. Someone had to pay.
Ree forced her gaze back to Marcel. She must have just missed his murder. If she had gotten there just moments before, perhaps she still could have saved him.
Done what?a voice whispered in the back of her mind.Risked starting an uprising against the police? Gotten more Voodoos and innocents killed? Stupid girl.
Flies were beginning to buzz in the air above, scattering like handfuls of black seeds tossed into the sunlight. Handsome, even in death. He was not gray yet, still deeply sun-browned, eyes closed and unseeing. She wanted to look away, the same way she had always done when the slaves passed by too close and she was too ashamed to meet their narrowed eyes. But this was different. This was no faceless stranger whom she could easily put from mind. This was one of her own, her best friend.
Ree could hear her mother again, the same hot scolding on her tongue.Open your eyes, Ree.And so she did. Ree watched Marcel’s body swing from the rope, lifeless and limp. They would leave him up ’til nightfall, perhaps even sunup. The lawmen would want the Voodoos to go on about their rituals while one of their brothers swung above them, cold and gray, a warning of what might befall them too if an ounce of magic was misused.
But now someone moved at the center of the square.Tap. Tap. Tap.Ree squinted and felt a sharp stab of panic rise in her belly at the sight of the man who strolled from the crowd, brandishing a fine blackthorn cane. It was the mayor of New Orleans.
Felix Corbin was known for his immaculate dress—today’s choice was a rich black frock coat with golden buttons, a felt hat with an ostrich feather at the corner that sat atop his straggle of gray-streaked hair, and of course his infamous fleur-de-lis cane, which he twirled back and forth in his hand like a wand.
The weathered skin on his forehead and neck told Ree that Corbin was mid-sixties, and he might have been handsome if not for the unsightly scar that ran the length of the right side of his face. Gossips whispered it was the mark of one of his slaves who turned on him, but Ree knew better. It was an old plague mark, a reminderof a time when disease had laid siege to the city, when the wealthy had something proper to fear at last.
Corbin strode below Marcel’s body, pacing like he had all the time in the world.This,those laughing eyes promised the crowd,is mine.He used his cane to jab at Marcel’s corpse, and Marcel swung back and forth in the wind, the rope creaking. Ree swallowed down the surge of rage in her throat, black spots dancing in her vision.
“I like to think that New Orleans is not like the rest of the South,” Corbin said, his voice an exaggerated drawl. “We don’t torture. We don’t maim for fun. We, the people of the good city of New Orleans, live by a single code—that all within our city abide by our God-given rules. But when those rules are broken, well, we answer kind for kind.Blood for blood.”
To Ree’s surprise, a murmur of agreement started among the crowd. It caught like wildfire, catching on tongues eager to agree at last. Ree had never felt so small, so alone, draped in her cloak. She held her cowl closer. There were no friends here.
Corbin lifted his cane, gesturing out to the crowd as if he were taking aim. “I hereby decree the punishment as fitting and just by the sovereign rules set forth by the Code Noir.” Corbin reached into the pocket of his frock coat, producing a scroll of parchment bearing the city’s fleur-de-lis seal. He began to read loudly, “Article Twenty-Eight clearly states:With regard to outrages or acts of violence committed by slaves against free persons, it is our will that they be punished with severity, and even with death, should the case require it.”
When Corbin spoke again, his voice had grown stronger at the crowd’s agreement, like rolling thunder. “This boy practiced Voodoo and used his magic to kill another law-abiding citizen for his own gain. Violent, why yes. Unlawful, I would surely agree. But I am here to tell you today that Marcellus Dumond is guilty of the worst infraction, for his actions represent a sin this city will not ever forgive.” Corbin paused, allowing his words to land on every ear with dramatic flair. “Insurrection.But I have to wonder, who put these ideas in his pretty little head? Perhaps it was his so-called Quarter Queen, the benevolent Marie Laveau.”
The murmur grew into vicious agreement. Haiti’s revolution hadcast a long, bloodied shadow, even now, some forty years after its end. A revolution New Orleans would not soon forgive, nor forget. Haitian slaves had rejected the Code Noir, that wicked document of governance. Ree shifted, nervously glancing at the faces that told her they were afraid that folks here might do the same.
“So, where is your Quarter Queen? Where is your precious Marie Laveau? Perhaps she owes us all a proper answer,” Corbin jeered.
