Henryk went very still, his eyes going flat. “I didn’t come back to New Orleans for an apology, Ree. And despite what you may think, I didn’t come back foryou.Not in the way you think.”
Ree sat frozen in her seat, face stinging with hurt. She supposed she deserved worse, but hearing him say those words cut deeply. “You won’t forgive me, will you?” she said quietly. She took a deep, steadying breath.
How to tell him that she had loved him, but that, despite all their differences, she had loved her mother more?
There was a moment of hesitation, a moment in which she thought like a fool that he might oblige her. But then he snatched his hand from hers. “I thought you were listening, princess.” His voice lowered, full of venom. “I’m not a priest.”
He quickly turned and left, disappearing into the night.
Chapter Twelve
Marie
“You’d do well to be on your best behavior tonight, Marie.” Sanite pulled the laces of Marie’s corset tighter, cinching her breath.
“But of course, my queen,” replied Marie. She was facing the looking glass in Sanite’s bedchamber while the older woman tied the last of her corset’s bindings.
Marie turned her gaze to Sanite’s four-poster bed, where countless frilly gowns lay strewn in waiting—a golden one poured over the side of the bed like melted butterscotch, another with violets and wildflowers sewn along the bosom. Sanite had ordered only the best for her apprentice, but none were to Marie’s liking. Instead, she’d chosen a gown of white silk taffeta with a delicate neckline trimmed in silver. Sanite had pursed her lips at Marie’s choice but said nothing, appeased that Marie had agreed to attend the gala in her stead without much of a fight.
Marie turned placid eyes to the mirror, then froze at the sight of her reflection gowned in white. It was her wedding day to Jacques all over again. Marie swallowed the surge of mourning that swelled in her throat at the thought of her lost beloved. Sanite would never understand her tears. None of them would.
“Aren’t you the picture of beauty?” Sanite Dede watched Marie inthe looking glass, satisfied at her hard work. If all eyes couldn’t be on Sanite tonight, then she’d just as gladly have them on Marie instead. “That is power too, Marie.” She clicked her teeth. “If only you’d understand how to wield it.”
Marie caught her eyes in the mirror. “Would you have me wield it on Jon?”
“Dear child, I’d have you wield it on a fucking pissant if it meant gaining the advantage.” Marie turned to the older woman, a smirk on her lips. Well, no one could accuse Sanite Dede of being a subtle queen. “But tonight, I would rather you, as my beloved apprentice, deliver him a message on my behalf: You are to tell him to leave this city at once, or risk my retribution. And this time, banishment will not be an option. Do you understand?”
Sanite handed her the final component of her costume—an owl-shaped mask the same silvery-white of her gown, with large feathers at the corners of the eyes. As Marie reached for it, the older priestess’s hands curled around hers, digging in sharp like talons. “Do you understand?” she repeated firmly. “They do not call him the trickster for naught. What Jon lacks in pure magic, he makes up for with cunning. Keep your guard up, Marie.”
Sanite could not know that Marie had her own purposes for seeking out Jon tonight. He would show her the magic Sanite would not, the possibility that lay beyond death’s door. She would open the Veil. And she would come to know what had befallen Jacques, at last, and bring him back to her. And maybe then she could find her own peace.
“You needn’t worry, my queen…” Marie slid the mask perfectly into place. “For it is never down.”
Though she would never admit it, a tremor of trepidation raced through her.
Marie had met Jon the Conjurer once before. She had been scarcely ten years old, capricious for her age but dutiful. Obedient. Always one to follow the rules.
“Fetch more water,” Grand-mère had all but snarled over her shoulder. She didn’t mean to sound so vicious, Marie had told herself. The work of a midwife was hard, often thankless work, even harder when the man who bought your services was accustomed togetting them for free. Mayor Corbin used to own Grand-mère before she bought her freedom papers and he was forced to turn her loose with a stroke of his quill. But the mayor still called on her from time to time when her rootwork was needed. That day had been one such time. One of his slaves had gone into labor a month early, and the labor had already run the course of a day, yet no baby had been born. She’d brought Marie along with her too. But Marie didn’t much like Grand-mère’s line of work—the buckets of blood, the sticky afterbirth, the screams that tore the air. She didn’t want to see. But that didn’t matter to an old woman like Grand-mère, who would sooner claw Marie’s eyes open herself.Open your eyes, Marie. See what your freedom gifts you.
So, Marie did as she was told and fetched the water. As she made her way down the hill from the well, across the patches of blueberries underfoot, and back to the slave quarters, she heard a noise above her. Like someone calling her name faintly on the wind. She looked up. A circle of black birds darted through the orange twilight.
The crows were calling to her.
Marie followed, sloshing water from the tin pail in her hands, moving twisting branches out of her way until she came to a clearing where a carriage house sat in the distance, smoke curling from the chimney out into the sleepy dusk.
A man was chained to a wooden stake in the middle of the field. A flogging pole, Grand-mère had told her one day. Where they punished those slaves foolish enough to break the rules.
Marie slowly approached. The smell hit her first. The sharp tang of snakeroot mixed with something darker and much, much older. It was the smell of his magic. The closer she got, the more she could see the bruises and gashes that marred his beautiful midnight skin. A cotton-white shirt hung off him, all but tattered to shreds. Bile ran down the front.
Three crows landed on the wooden points of the flogging pole, peering down at her with unblinking dark eyes. Like they were keeping watch over him.
His eyes were closed as if he were sleeping before his overseer returned.He ought to drink,Marie had thought. If the wounds didn’tkill him, a Louisiana sun sure might.
She brought the pail to his sun-parched lips, forced them to part…
The man’s eyes flew open, finding hers immediately, as if he had known she was there all the while. As if he’d been expecting her.
She stopped dead in her tracks. His eyes were strangely golden, a color she couldn’t say was common for folks around these parts, even a place as strange as New Orleans.
