Rassmussen Plantation pt 18

Evangeline and Cinnamon didn’t much feeling like joking about magic anymore.

Jeremy had arrived back at Devil’s Bayou in the early hours before sunrise. His uninvited guest was awake, and expecting him.
His boots had barely touched the tiles of the grand foyer when he heard the rustle of her skirts and her light footfalls coming down the stairs and headed his direction. He took a deep breath and steeled himself for her. This fight had been boiling low inside him for a long time- and soon it would come frothing and steaming over. But not tonight. Tonight there were wtill games yet to play.
She stopped just a few steps from the bottom of the staircase, her eyes even with his. She was a beautiful creature. She looked a great deal like her sister; the one redeeming quality Jeremy could find in her. When he saw his lovely guest he could not help but seeing her sister, his long dead wife.
The two women shared perfect, cupid-bow lips, the same glittering eyes, the same soft, dark hair. Jeremy could still remember the sound of his wife’s voice, the smell of her skin.
“I know where you have been,” Jeremy’s guest snarled, barely taking a breath before continuing, “I forbid you from going there again. Do you hear me? I forbid you. I’ve taken your little tantrums and smiled while you play ‘Vivre la Résistance’ but the game is over now. I’ve had enough. You are mine; and I’ve indulged you far too long. You’re going to be a good little bitch now, and you’ll come when I call.”
She was several inches shorter than Jeremy, but she was strong. She reached out and took him by his collar, pulling his lips close to hers.
“You belong to me, Tarleton,” she whispered softly, leaning forward slightly and pressing her perfect lips against his.
Her lips were sweet and her tongue was sweeter still; she was intoxicating. Jeremy kissed her back, placing his hand in the small of her back and laying her down on the stairs.
She flashed her perfect smile at him, triumphant sparks in her eyes. She knew he would obey her; he loved her. Everyone loved her, she was so very pretty.
Chapter Thirteen
Over the next couple of days, Marie continued with her strange herbs and spells. 'Remedies' she called them. Once or twice Cinnamon had seen her outside under the cover of dark, talking to Jeremy, and she had seen Marie attach a letter to Ajax's collar, then send him out the door and in the direction of Devil's Bayou. Cinnamon wondered that Jeremy never came to supper anymore, never came in to see to her progress. She had been getting around without a cane recently, and like a child had been wanting to show him how strong she had gotten. She would never let him know, of course, but she missed him. Perhaps she would make a trip to Devil's Bayou to remind him of his promise to take her fishing. And his promise to teach her to waltz. The idea of dancing was frightening, because she was certain she would be very bad at it, but she had always wanted to dance.
Tybalt had followed Ajax on his secret errands, and knew that Ajax was, in fact, delivering letters to his master. The wolf would trot through the swampland between the two plantations, and right up the front steps of his master's home. He knew how to push the door open himself, and how to shut the door behind himself as well. Tybalt never could see much more than that, because the heavy velvet curtains were always drawn.
Finally, after about a week or two of hearing nothing from him whatever, Jeremy appeared one mid-morning. Cinnamon was on her hands and knees working in the garden when she heard him call to the house, and she leapt to her feet. Her hair was tied back in an unbecoming, loose topknot, and she was wearing her old, battered overalls with holes in the knees. Although the day was heavily overcast, she had still worked up a sweat, and when she had wiped at the sweat she had accumulated a crown of fine dirt across her forehead. She trotted as quickly as she could across the yard, up the porch steps and through the screen door.
“Mr. Jeremy is coming! I heard him holler!” Cinnamon announced generally to the household as she hurried up the stairs to her room to wash and change quickly.
“Jeremy!? Are you sure?” came Marie's voice from down the hall.
“I'm sure it was! I heard him holler!” Cinnamon shut her door and locked it behind her, a newly acquired habit. She always locked doors behind her now, even if she only planned to be through it for just a minute or two.
She took a quick look into the vanity, pulling her hair down as she did. She began slapping her hands together to get the mud and caked dirt off of them, but cringed when she saw how much it was getting all over the floor.
“Stupid!” she thought, furious.
The window caught her eye and she scampered over quickly, pulled up the glass and began slapping her hands together vigorously, knocking the dirt off and into the yard below.
“I should have worn those stupid gardening gloves,” she thought, criticizing herself for the the stubborn dirt under her fingernails, “Even if they are stupid and make my hands sweaty.”
Evangeline had been a few yards away from the garden, chopping wood. She'd heard Jeremy call as well, and was pleased that she was not covered in mud. She hurried inside and into the kitchen, took off her apron, and shook the wood shavings off of her dress. Her hair had been in a french braid, and so she shook it out into long, black waves and pinned it half back. She splashed some cool water over her face, then found her reflection in a very clean frying pan, and pinched some blood into her cheeks and bit some redness into her lips.
Marie didn't preen herself at all with the news of Jeremy's approach. She just went out to the porch and sat down in one of the rockers with one of her long-handled pipes, puffing away.
Evangeline had just stepped onto the porch with Marie when Jeremy's figure appeared from the treeline.
“I heard you was comin',” Marie greeted Jeremy unenthusiasticly, “What'd you tell your house guest? You tryin' to get the lot of us killed?”
Jeremy just smiled, “She's in New Orleans for a few days. I think she is still trying to get her claws on Gardette-LaPrete. You remember all that business, I'm sure.”
Marie looked unimpressed, “Yes, I remember. What on earth does she want with it? She's got the old Lalaurie place in New Orleans, doesn't she?”
“Well, Delphine has it,” Jeremy amended.
“And she's got Delphine,” Marie replied, “She always gets what she wants.”
“Not always,” replied an unsettled looking Jeremy.
“Damn near,” Marie muttered, sitting back into her rocker and again puffing away at her pipe.
“Perhaps we can discuss it this evening over supper?” Jeremy approached Evangeline and kissed her hand, “I think our talk of old business transactions are boring Miss Evangeline.”
“Not at all,” smiled Evangeline, “And I didn't know you had company. I didn't think you were home enough to have company.”
“Just a distant cousin,” Jeremy dismissed, “Not close enough to like, but close enough to not be quite able to send her away.”
“Oh, dear,” Evangeline laughed, leading Jeremy into the house, “I have a cousin like that. I've been brought up too well to outrightly shun the fellow, but I dread his letters and even more his company. He's a deceitful, unpleasant type of man.”
Jeremy laughed in spite of himself, “You know, he sounds very much like my cousin. Perhaps we could arrange a match.”
Marie followed them into the parlor, looking unamused the entire way.
“But where is Cinnamon?” Jeremy asked, upon having been seating and handed a glass of sweet tea, “I haven't seen her in a while, and I'd like to check on her progress.”
Marie 'humphed', but, much to Evangeline's relief, stood and left to go find Cinnamon.
Evangeline was glad to be left alone with Jeremy. She had never been terribly good at flirting, and something about Jeremy was so refined, so old-fashioned and southerly genteel, that just standing on the porch with him made her feel clumsy and cumbersome. She thought furiously for something pretty and intriguing to say.
“You're so terribly handsome,” she blurted suddenly.
Her cheeks began to burn the moment the words had escaped her. It wouldn't have been so bad if she had said it teasingly or offhandedly; but her statement had dripped with adoration and reeked of desperation. She briefly considered just hurrying back into the house, perhaps hiding in her room and feigning sudden illness- but that would be so manifestly obvious that it would only be pouring lemon juice all over her burn.
Jeremy had been leaning forward over the railing and looking off towards the garden when Evangeline's little confession had broken free. He turned his head to look at her and smiled.
“Not half so handsome as the beauties I am graced with at Eau d'Noir,” he answered without missing a beat.
He'd noticed the graceless, mortifying tone, Evangeline was certain. Jeremy noticed everything. He probably knew from one glance at her hair that it had been in a braid, pulled out, brushed and styled in anticipation of his arrival. Evangeline determined to despair and sit quietly in the rocker. Her resolve lasted nearly thirty seconds, when another statement escaped her.
“I wish you had kissed me, that night,” she wished she could stop, but she stammered on, relieved the words were coming, but horrified that she couldn't think of a more dignified way to say them, “I mean, I know it was a bad time, with Cinnamon, and all, but I can't help but wonder... Did you want to kiss me? Was it all in my imagination, or have I gone mad, or do you, do you want to kiss me?”
Jeremy reprimanded himself internally. He had deliberately secured her affections, knowing it was the quickest and easiest way to secure her loyalty and trust. It was a default reflex; he had momentarily forgotten that he was trying to stop doing exactly that. It was a monstrous tactic he had learned from his current house guest- not someone he wanted to emulate anymore. As good as he had was at getting himself into this situation, he had no experience is getting back out. He wanted to be honest with her, but he needed her trust and loyalty, and soon he would need it more than ever.
He said nothing, but straightened up from his position leaning on the porch rail, turned towards Evangeline, leaned close to her, paused just a moment, and kissed her softly on the corner of her lips. He heard footsteps coming near; not so close that Cinnamon would see (he knew it was her from her gait, still a little heavy on one side) but close enough that Evangeline would not be able to pursue the subject further. He loathed himself for doing it, and silently promised Evangeline that he would find a way to repay her.
Cinnamon hated that her heart jumped when she saw Jeremy. She knew that every girl's heart must jump when he came into view, and she taciturnly begrudged the flutters and jumps and foolishness inside her.  
“Jeremy!” she greeted trough the screen door, careful not to be overzealous, “Come inside!”
Jeremy stepped inside. Ajax's tail was wagging ecclesiastically as he looked up at his master, and from the stairs, Tybalt looked down at him suspiciously.
Color had come back to Cinnamon's cheeks and lips, and her blue eyes had sparkle in them again. Jeremy reached down and grasped her in a bear hug, lifting her up off her feet, and eliciting a surprised laugh from the wriggling girl.
“Jeremy! What are you doing!?” Cinnamon laughed in spite of herself.
Jeremy held her against himself just a moment longer than usual, feeling her heartbeat – stronger now than ever before, that heartbeat rushing her hot, sweet blood through her veins and warming her soft body pressed against him. Her laugh reminded him of his late wife; the sound wasn't similar, but the place is came from, deep inside, was very much alike.
“Seeing if you are strong enough! Today is the day!” he announced.
“What day?” Cinnamon asked, then gasped as she guessed, “Fishing! You'll really take me fishing for alligators!”
Marie did not look happy, but simply frowned more deeply.
*
Jeremy had a small rowboat tied up near one of the muddy banks on his property. There was a bit of muddy water and slime sloshing at the bottom of the boat. Such was commonplace in boats, but it had always bothered Cinnamon greatly nonetheless. Jeremy climbed in first, then offered his hand to Cinnamon.
“Thank you,” she said, “but I'd rather depend on my own. Steadier that way, I think.”
She grasped the edges of the boat with her hands, and stepped one leg in, successfully avoiding the swamp muck all around. She considered her balance, and the pushed off with the other leg, but the boat tipped in the water, and she would have toppled overboard or tipped the whole boat if Jeremy had not reached out and grabbed her elbow, pulling her down into the bottom of the boat, correcting the center of gravity.
“Ugh!” Cinnamon exclaimed, “Gross! Yech!”
The boat's scummy swamp water had gotten on her after all.
Jeremy laughed under his breath as he sat her back into her seat.
“Thank you, I mean,” Cinnamon said, still making a disgusted face and glaring at the wet spots left on her from the little misadventure.
“You're welcome,” Jeremy replied, pulling the oars through the black water and beginning to row them out into the bayou, “People can help you sometimes, miss independence. You don't have to do everything all on your own.”
Cinnamon didn't reply, but smiled softly to herself. The couple traveled on in silence for a time, until Jeremy looked around and seemed satisfied. They stopped and he tossed some heavy, smelly-baited hooks out the back.
Cinnamon wrinkled her nose, “What kind of eat was that?”
“Spoiled kind. Deer. They love it all rotten like that,” Jeremy reached back into the basket which the hooks had come from and retrieved a small slice of putrid meat.
He waved in Cinnamon's general direction, causing a great deal of objection and laughter from her end. He tossed it over the side.
“You laugh reminds me of Bella's,” he said wistfully.
“Bella?” Cinnamon encouraged.
“Bella Beauregard,” Jeremy sighed, looking out over the overcast swamp, “Bella Beauregard Tarleton, as she was for a little while. I was married, once. A lifetime ago. We were married secretly when we were very young, but she was taken from me just a year after that. It had to be a secret because we were so very young and her father would never have approved. He was probably right- I was nineteen and she sixteen. But we were sweet secret lovers, and mad for each other, sneaking back and forth at night to steal minutes together. She was such a sweet, happy, beautiful thing. Not as bold as you, Miss Cinnamon, but brave.”
Cinnamon was taken aback a little, but her heart went out to her friend.
“I'm so sorry, Jeremy. I never knew. I never knew you had a wife. How did she die? Can I ask that?” Cinnamon hoped she hadn't crossed the line, as she sometimes unintentionally did.
“It's alright; I want to talk about her,” Jeremy reassured Cinnamon, “I want you to know about her.”
A moment passed, and then Jeremy continued, “Brain fever. And a disease like Lupus. It wasn't pleasant. I wasn't allowed near her, allowed to talk to her. I think her father blamed me. Her younger sister was enraged; she'd always insisted that she would marry before Bella, and she fancied herself in love with me – she was a monster the entire ordeal. Bella's sister is the house guest I am currently entertaining; so you can imagine how glad I am to escape her whenever possible.”
The line tugged slightly, and Jeremy snapped to attention, but nothing further happened, so he sat back down.
“How long ago was this?” Cinnamon asked, secretly dying to hear more about Bella.
Jeremy cast a wry smile at her, “Is that your way of asking how old I am?”
Cinnamon smiled, “I never know how old a person is. I can never tell, and I don't much care. But now you have gotten me curious.”
Jeremy chuckled a little, and replied, “I am about thirty years old.”
Cinnamon thought wordlessly that thirty was a very good age for anyone. Solid. Interesting. Intriguing.
A deep rumbling roar came from somewhere near, but unseen in the swamp. It sounded to Cinnamon like a cinderblock being dragged across pavement. An alligator!
The next moment Cinnamon found herself submerged in the black water. Her lungs were bursting and she couldn't see more than inches in any direction, neither did she know which way to swim for air. She blew some bubbles, spending a little of her precious oxygen and swam in the direction they led her. Her head popped above the surface and she gasped in a ragged breath. She thrashed about, screaming for Jeremy, and suddenly bumped into something solid as it passed. Something definitely not Jeremy. Her blood turned cold so fast it sent a shock straight through her. The massive gator swam on a few feet and then turned. His ugly gray-green head could have bitten her in two. The ugly monster leered at her and hissed, showing his frightening yellow teeth. His green eyes surveyed her cooly, and Cinnamon then had a strange realization. He had stopped hissing and leering. He simply sat, and looked.
A gasp for air and a thump on the boat told Cinnamon that Jeremy had surfaced. She did not turn her head to look for him; she kept her eyes locked with the monster before her.
“Cinnamon!” she heard his voice call to her in alarm, and a splash told her that he was going to swim towards her.
The alligator growled and hissed again.
“Stay where you are, Jeremy,” she said, her voice calm and soothing, “Don't come any closer.”
The alligator settled a bit.
“Jeremy,” she continued, keeping her voice melodic and soft, “tip the boat back upright. Slowly, slowly.
There was some sloshing, and then a soft thump.
Jeremy imitated Cinnamon's soft tone, “Alright. Come towards the sound of my voice.”
Cinnamon began to sway softly, humming a low tune. The alligator seemed soothed my her song and dance, and swayed with her, following her movements exactly. Little by little, she inched back towards the boat, swaying softly and humming her tune all the way. She had nearly reached the boat when Jeremy's strong hands grasped her promptly and firmly, lifting her out of the water and into the boat with one deft movement. The alligator hissed again, but Cinnamon bobbed and swayed, and little dance, and hummed her tune still, her eyes never leaving the reptiles'. The alligator sank a little deeper into the water and blew a few bubbles, then rumbled, sending rippled across the water.
“Go on now, Mr. Alligator,” Cinnamon instructed sweetly, sweeping her hand in a dismissive fashion.  
She heard Jeremy reach for his harpoon, but with her other hand she gestured for him to be still. The alligator blew a few more bubbles, then sank below the water, and they soon saw his retreating outline and he headed off, deeper into the bayou.
Only then did Cinnamon turn to look at Jeremy. His face was white, the harpoon still in his hand. His eyes were wide, and he was utterly speechless.
“I didn't want to kill him,” Cinnamon said after a moment.
“You charmed him,” Jeremy said, as if to himself, “You just charmed a crocodile. The only person I've known to do that was Alyce. I didn't think I've ever seen anyone else do it.”
“He was an alligator,” Cinnamon said softly.
“What?” Jeremy seemed shaken from his reverie.
“He was an alligator. You said crocodile. He was an alligator.”
Jeremy turned the boat around and headed back for the shore.

“I think that's enough fishing for one day,” he said. 

Rassmussen Plantation pt 17

Chapter Twelve
Marie Paris-Glapion was a handsome woman. She arrived just a while after sunrise the next day, as Jeremy had predicted. Cinnamon saw her walking up the row of oaks that led the way to Eau d’Noir, her long black dress picking up the dust from the path, a red and gold fringed shawl over her shoulder and her hair tied up in a tall white turban with a red stripe. Jeremy had said that she was fifty years old, and if that was true she looked very well for her age. Her gate was strong, and she stood straight. She carried a rather large carpetbag at her side, and didn’t seem to mind the bulk. 
Wanting to meet her at the door, Cinnamon quickly finished tying her hair into a braid, and stood with the slightest pain. She reluctantly reached for her cane, mentally promising herself that it would only be a few more days until she wouldn’t need it anymore. 
The smells of bacon and eggs from downstairs told her that Evangeline was already awake and had a head start on the day. 
Leaning lightly on her cane, and with Tybalt and Ajax at her heels, Cinnamon carefully descended the stairs and walked across the foyer, opening the front door just as Marie began ascending the front porch. 
“Welcome to Eau d’Noir! You must be Marie Paris-Glapion! Won’t you please come in?”
Marie stopped a moment and surveyed the mansion, then stepped across the threshold. 
“You ought not to invite a person in like that, child. It invites in bad spirits, too. Just say welcome and smile, hold open the door, but don’t be asking nobody inside,” Marie said, taking off her shawl and hanging it on the coatrack. 
Cinnamon was about to object, but remembered that Jeremy had told her about Marie’s voodoo practices, and remembered also that she had promised to indulge it. So she bit her lip, and instead simply smiled. 
“Whooooo!” exclaimed Marie, putting her hands on her hips and looking around the house, “You ladies sure have been busy. But some things you know you can’t clean out with a broom and a mop. Dark memories live here, I could feel them just walking up to this house. Dark shadows all over this home.”
And with that, Marie set her bag on the floor, rummaged through it a moment, and pulled out a dried herb, which she held aloft, and then set afire. She blew it out and began to walk through the house, wafting the smoke through the hallways and rooms, murmuring something in French while she did. 
Evangeline came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, a quizzical look on her face. Cinnamon shrugged and looked curiously after their new guest. 
“Jeremy kinda warned us she’d be a strange one.” Cinnamon said.
“What’s she doing?” asked Evangeline, leaning to one side to peer after Marie down the hallway. 
“Voodoo, I reckon.” Cinnamon shrugged. 
Whatever Marie was burning smelled good, and strange though she might be, her presence was somehow comforting. 
A moment later Marie emerged from the hallway, produced another dried bundle, and proceeded to other parts of the house. 
“I’ll want some breakfast when I’ve done purifying!” Marie’s voice echoed to the girls from the recesses of the mansion, “I can smell the bacon and I’ll want eggs and toast with butter. Don’t overcook those eggs, mind! I like to sop up the yolks with my toast!”
Marie’s voice died into the dim of the hallways. 
“What’s that she’s burning?” asked Cinnamon, turning to Evangeline. 
“I don’t know,” she turned to Cinnamon and made a face, “Magic, probably.”
Cinnamon stifled a giggle, feeling rude for the inclination at all, internally justifying herself because she had mostly laughed at Evangeline’s face, not her insinuations. She then took Evangeline’s arm and the girls walked back to the kitchen.
Cinnamon had never been able to decide definitively whether or not she really believed in magic or not. Sometimes she was in a practical, pragmatic kind of mood, and she didn’t believe at all, and sometimes she was pensive and alert; those were the times that she believed. 
There had been a travelling carnival that came through her town when she was about fifteen; fire-eaters, jugglers, clowns and strongmen. She had gone with her siblings to see the elephants and spectacle- but she had gathered her courage to go someplace that she had always wanted to go but had never been allowed; the fortune-teller’s wagon. She had caught a glimpse of the old crone in the wagon as she had passed by. A blonde-haired, barely noticeably pregnant woman was just leaving, her eyes buried into a handkerchief as a burly gypsy man helped her down the stairs. It was odd, but Cinnamon was comforted by the sight of the crying, blonde woman. She’d been told before that fortune-tellers only told you what you wanted to hear; but this fortune-teller had clearly told the blonde woman something she did not want to hear.  Cinnamon could usually tell when people were saying things just because it was what the listener wanted to hear, and it made her angry. It was like when she was about to jump off a high bridge into the river- nothing was more irritating than the reassurances of friends that ‘it wasn’t scary’. Liars. Why not tell her the truth? It was terrifying, yes. So prepare. 
The burly gypsy man eyed her as she pattered quickly up the stairs into the travelers wagon.  She stopped just in the doorway, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness, while making sure she was deep enough into the wagon so that her siblings would not spot her. 
Fortune-tellers were witches and gypsies were thieves, she had been told.  Both deserved to be stoned.
Cinnamon heard the old woman before she saw her. It took a little while for her eyes to adjust. 
“Welcome, little girl.”
Still not quite seeing, Cinnamon rubbed her eyes, “I’m fifteen.”
The crone laughed, “Your body is fifteen, little girl. Your eyes are those of a frightened ten-year-old. They treat you roughly at home. Sit down.”
Cinnamon was about to defend her caretakers, but the old woman had cut her off, and so she just sat down as she was told.  
“I’ve got just this silver chain to pay you with, fortune-teller,” Cinnamon said, taking the old silver chain from around her neck. 
The gypsy woman reached out her hand, and as Cinnamon dropped the silver into the old woman’s hand, the woman wrapped a wrinkled and weathered old hand around Cinnamon’s white wrist. She was surprisingly strong. 
The crone’s eyes were small and reminded Cinnamon very much of the elephant she had seen just a few minutes before slipping away from her party. The old woman’ s eyes narrowed as she opened Cinnamon’s palm and examined it. 
“You will have a great deal of turmoil and pain in your heart and in your mind. There are those who will mistreat you and use you, and they will weaken your resolve. They will weaken your spirit; and without your spirit you will not survive what is to come. You must learn to be brave; but don’t confuse courage and stupidity. You are not as strong as those who would domineer you; and you cannot be a bear and throw them off. You must be a fox. Never forget to be a fox. You will not find a great deal of happiness in love, and if you do it will not be for a long while- you may never have children. Your feet will lead you to a lonely path, and a swampy path- to a very unexpected place where the past and the present will combine.”
The fortune-teller dropped Cinnamon’s wrist, and handed her a stack of cards. 
“Shuffle them,” she instructed, “and when you feel you are done, set out four of them facing down.”
Cinnamon did so. 
“Eight of swords,” said the old woman, “This card shows your near past. You are trapped. But take heart, little girl, this trap is greatly one of your own making, in your own mind.”
She turned over the next card, “The World. This is your present. You feel the world on your shoulders. Responsibility. Trouble.”
Cinnamon opened her mouth to ask a question, but a crooked finger from the gypsy woman shot up and silenced her.
“Card three,” she continued, “Is the near future. This is The Hanged Man; this is when you will reach the crossroads. When you will see how much strength you have preserved, you will see if you will escape your cage.”
She held the last card in her hands a moment before laying it on the candle-lit table.
“The Devil,” she revealed then murmured a moment in what sounded to Cinnamon like Russian.
She began to offer more explanation, but suddenly looked back down at the cards as if she had missed something before and had just noticed. She grabbed up Cinnamon’s hand again and looked at the palm. 
Slowly, she lifted to old, wise eyes. 
“Who are you?” She asked. 
“What?” Cinnamon stood, suddenly alarmed, “No one. What’s going on?”
“Rasputin,” the woman said, her face filled with shock, fear, and admiration.
“No,” said Cinnamon, fumbling for her things, “Well, it’s Rassmussen.”
“Little girl, little girl. What terrors you will see in your life!” 
The fortune-teller took the necklace chain Cinnamon had given her and put it back around Cinnamon’s neck. 
“You’ll put it to better use than an old hag like me,” she smiled and kissed the tips of her fingers, transferring the kiss to Cinnamon’s forehead.
Cinnamon, now a bit startled, stumbled out the door with what was left of her wits. 
“Eh!” called the old woman, and Cinnamon turned just as the woman threw a fistful of red dust into the air, which perfumed the campsite, and settled in her red hair. It was cinnamon. 
“Cinnamon! Rasputin!” called the old woman after Cinnamon’s retreating back.
Cinnamon was jerked out of her memories and back into the present when she absent-mindedly placed a bare finger on the hot stovetop. She jerked her hand back and stuck the unfortunate finger in her mouth, cursing. 
Evangeline laughed.
“Off in la-la land again? I can always tell. You get this look in your eyes. Like you’re on a mountain, overlooking an open valley.”
“Or a volcano, about to stick my finger in!” lamented Cinnamon, removing her finger long enough to assess the damage. 
Evangeline already had a cool, wet washcloth, which Cinnamon accepted gratefully. 
“That was awful stupid of me,” Cinnamon regretted, wrapping the rag around her hand. 
Marie’s footsteps were heard once again, just a moment before she pushed open the kitchen door and came in. She looked over the two girls, then noticed the plate of breakfast Evangeline had made up sitting on the table. With a contented look on her face, she sat down and started eating. 
“I’ve burned sage throughout the main hallways of your house, girls, but we’ll need to go into every room,” Marie said between bites. 
“Yes, I saw that,” commented Evangeline, taking a sip of her black coffee, “What’s that all about again?”
“Cleansing the bad spirits from the house. Won’t get rid of the strong ones, but if there’s anything just waking up or passing through, it’ll quiet them up pretty good.” 
“Bad spirits,” Cinnamon repeated, leaning on her cane and helping herself into a chair at the breakfast table, “Do you mean ghosts?” 
Marie took a bite of bacon, washed it down with a gulp of coffee and replied, “Ghosts, yes. I reckon there might be a ghost flittering through these hallways.”
She took another sip of coffee and turned to Cinnamon, “Mr. Jeremy told me to watch out for you. That I’ll do. Mr. Jeremy and I have been close friends for many, many years, and God knows I owe him a favor. I’ll be watching over you, little redhead,” she turned briefly to Evangeline, “and you too girl, but I’ll not be doing it for you. I’m here on Mr. Jeremy’s behest. Now, Mr. Jeremy would have my head if I told you what really is creeping about your plantation at night, but I’ll tell you more than he will and this is truth; you obey everything I say and you might not end up with your throat ripped out.”
That announcement was unexpected. Marie had not said it in an unfriendly way, not as if she was issuing a threat, but in a matter-of-fact, need-to-know kind of way. She was not trying to frighten the girls, and she took no self-righteous, smug satisfaction in withholding information; she was much like military commander burdened with an unpleasant but necessary task. It wasn’t fear in the back of her eyes- it was resolve. The kind of resolve that was a certain fortification against a strong enemy, an enemy known intimately and extensively. 
The three of them finished breakfast in relative silence, and afterwards Marie gave Evangeline and Cinnamon large flour sacks filled with finely ground brick dust, and instructions to place a double in of it across every window, every doorway, and every fireplace. 
Evangeline and Cinnamon didn’t much feeling like joking about magic anymore. 

Rassmussen Plantation pt 16

Chapter Eleven

A month had passed since Cinnamon’s brush with death. She was a fair-skinned girl by nature, and while she was recovering well from her injuries, she was still so pale that her face and lips looked almost blue. Jeremy had summoned the doctor from New Orleans, and insisted on paying for Cinnamon to receive blood transfusions. It was a very strange, foreign idea to Cinnamon, someone else’s blood flowing through your veins, but Jeremy had been very reassuring, and had given an article for her to read from the Journal of the American Medical Association which assured her that  the procedure could be depended upon, and was saving many lives during the Great War.

While Cindy Talbot came calling frequently to help the two brave girls out, poor Alexandra was still bearing the brunt of the housework, but proved herself to be more than able, and the Mansion was shortly ready to receive roomers. Jeremy begged Alexandra not to divulge the true story of what had happened to Cinnamon, and she agreed, once again finding herself under the mysterious spell that he cast on her. Alexandra promptly invented a lie for her mother about a chance encounter and accident with an unknown equestrian, which she straightaway felt ashamed of but even more so felt compelled not to rescind. When Cinnamon asked, Jeremy and Alexandra assured her that a report had been made to the police, and she could add her statement when she was stronger. Jeremy had told Alexandra that he would handle things with the police, and Alexandra left it at that.

Cinnamon was feeling well one particular day, and was making a special supper, because they were, once again, expecting Jeremy to join them. She happily stirred the chili and shaved a bit more corn off the cob to add to it, because corn was her favorite part of nearly every meal. She peeked into the old stove and saw happily that the cornbread was very nearly done. Cinnamon whistled merrily and then remembered the phonograph player she had employed previously. She walked to the sitting room to retrieve it and bring it with her to the kitchen, barely leaning on her cane as she went. In a week or so, she was confident that she could put the cane away altogether- it was heavy and bothersome anyhow; the thick, hefty thing used to belong to Old Rassmussen himself. She carried the phonograph without a great deal of effort back to the kitchen and set it down on a counter. A record slid off the top of it, falling to the floor, and Cinnamon bent down with a sigh to pick it up. That’s when something unusual caught her eye. The date on the front of the music she was about to play. She cocked her head to the side and her eyes narrowed.

1913.

Nothing too sinister in that by itself.  While it hadn’t been a good year for Cinnamon personally, the Great War hadn’t broken out yet. But it was two years ago; and two years ago no one was supposed to have been in this house; not even Mr. Andrews, the lawyer who had handled the affair. Two years ago this house should have had the wind howling through the cracks in the windows. Cinnamon thought with renewed horror of the clean parlor she had found the day she entered the house. The phonograph must have been brought there by the old crone. But what would she have wanted to for? The room was undoubtedly used for entertaining guests, and she didn’t seem much the type for company. The stories about lights in the windows of the mansion suddenly took on a different implication for her.

A loud knock at the door caused Cinnamon to nearly jump out of her skin; she shrieked lightly and jumped to her feet with one hand over her heart, the other flailing about wildly and landing unfortunately on the stove top. She jerked it off quickly, but not quite quickly enough. She hurried over to the basin of water and dunked her hand into it, in her haste bumping it and causing water to splash out and up her front.

She cursed under her breath and wondered if she had the time to go upstairs and change. Probably not- the knock on the door was most likely Jeremy, just a bit early. She decided to run upstairs and see if she had anything else to wear anyhow- Jeremy could wait.

Alexandra heard the knock at the door also, and so wiped her hands on her apron and then untied it and hung it on a nail. She looked at herself in the mirror briefly, running her fingers through her hair. She pinched her cheeks to bring out the color, and then bit firmly on her lips to make them red. When she was satisfied she walked quickly toward the door, passing Cinnamon on her way there. Cinnamon was leaning lightly on her cane and headed up the stairs.

“I think Mr. Jeremy is here,” said Alexandra, looking up to the third or fourth step where Cinnamon was ascending.

“I’ll be down in just a moment. I’ve got to change,” Cinnamon indicated toward her dripping apron.

“Oh, dear,” Alexandra laughed, “Well, hurry. I don’t think there’s much clean, since we didn’t do the laundry today…”

The girls shared a look of self-reproach and mutual loathing of laundry.

“…but you know, I found a chest of things that might fit us and so I pulled it into the hallway. You’ll see it.”

“What would I do without you?” praised Cinnamon, who continued up the stairs.

Alexandra continued to the door, looking in the mirror just one last time before opening the door. Jeremy Tarleton stood on the porch, his hands behind him, the faint sunset in the distance just barely casting a halo around his head. He smiled and from behind him produced a nosegay of wild groundnut and purple iris.

Alexandra blushed, and reached out for them. Jeremy laughed a bit, a friendly, warm laugh, and handed them over.

“I have another for Cinnamon,” he said, stepping into the foyer and taking off his hat.

“She’ll be down in just a moment” Alexandra said, shutting the door behind him, “She’s just upstairs changing, she spilled on herself. Which means I should probably see to the chili.”

Alexandra reached out to take Jeremy’s coat and hat, but he smiled another brotherly smile at her and hung them on the rack himself.

“Let’s go see to the chili, then. If I’m going to help you ladies with your new hotel, I suppose I should know how to make a decent chili.”

“But how do you know it’s a decent chili?” Alexandra teased as they walked toward the kitchen, “You haven’t had any yet.”

“I’ve smelled it!” Jeremy announced with approval.

“Cinnamon doesn’t care for bell peppers, so they’ll be served on the side. You can spoon them in if you must have them, as I do. Cinnamon is a picky eater.”

“I sympathize,” Jeremy said, as they pushed through the door and into the kitchen, “I myself am a terribly picky eater.”

“What!?” Alexandra laughed as she stirred the chili, “What won’t you eat?”

“Bell peppers,” Jeremy wrinkled his nose and Alexandra swung the chili-covered wooden spoon at his wisecrack. “And crawfish. Cooked tomatoes, onions and spinach. I don’t like garlic or basil or black pepper. Or acorns.”

Alexandra rolled her eyes, “I’ll have to write that down.”

“I’ll do it for you,” he offered, and promptly pulled a pen and paper from within his vest, and began writing the list down.

“Wow. You’re being serious?” asked an incredulous Alexandra.

“What? I would write down your list if you had one,” Jeremy teased, looking up with a feigned innocence.

Upstairs, Cinnamon had found the chest that Alexandra had told her about. The dresses within were a little old-fashioned, but they were clean and looked about her size. She reached in and pulled out a navy blue dress, not too fancy, but very plainly something expensive by the weight and texture of it. It smelled a little like must, but also like lilac and magnolia. Alyce’s perfume! Were these Alyce’s things? Cinnamon took another look at them. No, they weren’t. They were a bit old, but certainly not 50 years old, and Alyce had been dead since just before the outbreak of the Civil War. Then who’s were they? How did they get here? Another mystery, just like the parlor and the phonograph. Was it possible that someone had been living here as recent as two years ago? Why wasn’t she told? Who could it have been?

The sound of laughter downstairs convinced her to hurry and change, to solve the mystery later. She took the dress into her room, and shut the door lightly behind her. She quickly unzipped her own brown dress, and dropped it around her ankles. In the mirror she paused, and gently brushed her fingers over her nearly-healed wounds. The uneasy feeling of being watched had never left her since that day. Every time she looked in the mirror, she could not help but look over her shoulder, searching for anyone else who might be lurking in the room.

As if in a dream, she remembered also a time when she was younger, and still living in her parents’ home. Young Cinnamon had looked in the mirror just this way, examining a fat lip her father had given her earlier that evening. Nothing too serious, and her nosebleed had stopped up quickly. Cinnamon always hated being slapped more than anything, because her nose would bleep and her mother always got angry about the mess. Cinnamon would be crying and franticly cleaning the mess when her mother would appear like a vulture; Cinnamon could swear that her mother could smell the blood.

“Look at this mess! Oh go on, Cinnamon, smear it around! You love the blood everywhere! You want us all to say, ‘Oh, poor Cinnamon, look at the blood!’ but we all know you just smear it around! Look at this mess you have made! You love it!”

Cinnamon had spent a good deal of her life looking over her shoulder.

The sound of Alexandra calling to her snapped Cinnamon from her unpleasant reverie.  She pulled the navy blue dress up around her waist. Hm. A little snug, but it would fit. She put her arms into the ¾ length sleeves and, with some effort, zipped up the back. The cuffs and collar were made of velvet, and the trim seemed to have a bit of the soft material in it as well. Whoever had owned the dress was just a little taller than Cinnamon, so the hem trailed on the floor a little. Cinnamon wished that she had a better pair of shoes to wear with the dress, but knew that couldn’t be helped, and so she put her scuffed black plimsolls and hurried out the door, as fast as one can hurry with a cane.

When she reached the top of the stairs she called to Alexandra.

In the kitchen, Alexandra put down her spoon cocked her head.

“Was that Cinnamon?”

“Yes,” replied Jeremy, “Does she still use the cane? Perhaps I should help her down the stairs.”

Jeremy was out the door before Alexandra could finish telling him that she probably wouldn’t accept his help. She sighed, and set the spoon upright in the chili, then followed Jeremy, just two or three steps behind him. They entered the foyer and Jeremy looked up at Cinnamon. For just a moment, Alexandra could have sworn that a look of alarm or anger crossed his face, but almost just as quickly was gone. She looked up to see what would have alarmed him, but saw only Cinnamon, outfitted in one of the dresses that had been in the chest. Though the dress wasn’t stylish anymore, Cinnamon nonetheless looked pretty in it.

Jeremy must have known that an offer of help would have been rebuffed, so he didn’t offer. He climbed the stairs three at a time until he reached her, replaced the cane in her hand with the nosegay, swept her up into her arms like she weighed no more than a feather and carried her halfway down the stairs before she could object.

“You look lovely this evening, my girl,” Jeremy remarked, “And the color in your cheeks is much pinker. This dress looks lovely; where did you get it?”

Cinnamon smiled, her smile still a little wilted; you could see that she was still weak and tired.

“Thank-you, Jeremy. I’m feeling much better. Alexandra found a chest of things, and since they seem to be about the right size, we thought we’d use them. Did you want to borrow it sometime?”

“I think I’ll pass this time,” Jeremy chuckled, setting Cinnamon gently back on her feet at the bottom of the stairs, and handing her cane back to her.

“Well, I think that supper should be cooked and ready, so go sit in the dining room and we’ll bring it out,” Cinnamon ordered.

“Not on your life,” Jeremy countered, “I’ll help bring it all out. Maybe I’ll carry the bell peppers so you won’t have to touch them.”

Cinnamon’s nose wrinkled at the thought of bell peppers, and Alexandra objected with an indignant, ‘Hey!’

Jeremy carried the pot of chili and bowl of bell peppers, Cinnamon carried a pitcher of grape juice, and Alexandra found some water for their nosegays.

“Where’s Ajax?” asked Jeremy, who had looked around but not seen the wolf.

“Oh, I never know,” said Cinnamon, “But here’s the way to find out.”

She whistled a tune, and from the shadows of the hall came trotting Ajax, stealthy as a shadow.

Jeremy called him over and messed up his fur affectionately, and then Ajax followed them into the dining room.

The dining room was far too large for a party of three, but Cinnamon was happy to see it being used for the first time since she had made the place her home. She had even broken out the real silverware, which had been polished lovingly until it reflected like a mirror. It had taken her a good long while, and she was in the mood to brag.

“Don’t go getting your fingerprints all over the forks and knives, Jeremy. I’ve just polished them within an inch of their lives, so if they’re grimy I’ll know who to blame.”

Jeremy feigned an offended look, “I would never! Not the good silver! Did you shine it up just for me?”

“Not just for you. We’ll have guests here soon, I’m sure,” Cinnamon said with just a little more confidence than she felt. She believed that they would get customers, some, eventually, since they had just sent out for an advertisement to be posted in the paper, but she didn’t know how many would respond. She thought it more likely that that they would get long-term boarders rather than day or week long visitors, which she preferred.

“Ouch!” Jeremy barked, pulling his hand quickly back from the chili pot, cursing under his breath.

Cinnamon and Ajax both turned to look over at him.

“I’ve burned my hand a bit,” Jeremy said, as if giving a guilty confession.

“Is it bad? Let me see,” Cinnamon offered.

“Oh, it’s fine. I’ll just wrap a cold rag around it, no harm done,” Jeremy shuffled quickly off to the kitchen, and returned a moment later, a rag around his hand and Alexandra right behind him, carrying the cornbread and butter.

Supper was a welcome affair, and Jeremy, who never seemed to cease of surprises, produced a bottle of pinot noir. They all drank just a little more than they ought to; possibly a reflection of the undercurrent of tension between the three that was masked by their merriment. Eventually conversation turned to business.

“Have you sent out for the advertisement yet?” asked Jeremy, spooning a great heaping spoonful of bell peppers into his bowl.

“I thought you didn’t like bell peppers,” accused a scandalized Alexandra.

“I am a liar,” Jeremy replied jovially, “I lie all the time.”

He grinned at Alexandra, “But I don’t like all the other things. That was true.”

“We have sent it out. Just the day before yesterday,” Cinnamon answered, taking another sip of wine.

“Good. Excellent. Are you sure you can manage the bookkeeping? I’ve made inquiries to a friend, and he is more than willing to come here to assist you”

Cinnamon snorted, “You know perfectly well that we don’t have the money to pay anyone.”

“Ah, miss smarty-pants, here’s the really good news: my friend is willing to work for just room and board. She’s a writer, a novelist, by profession, and the solitude would be invaluable.”

Alexandra began to agree, but Cinnamon made a face.

“I don’t know that I trust anyone who says they’ll work for no pay.”

“She’s a very good friend of mine, who I have known for years and I trust implicitly. Won’t you trust me?” Jeremy looked very sincere.

“Yes, yes,” Cinnamon sighed, “Of course we trust you. What is her name?”

“Marie. Marie Paris-Glapion. She’s a lady of about sixty years, a Creole and a Catholic and a believer in voodoo. Will that be a problem for you?”

“No. So long as she isn’t sacrificing the chickens,” replied Cinnamon matter-of-factly.

“I’ll be sure to remind her,” Jeremy smiled, “Or you can tell her yourself. She’ll be here in the morning.”

“The morning!?” exclaimed Alexandra.

“I knew you’d agree to it,” he replied with a self-satisfied smile.

Jeremy reached out and took Cinnamon by the chin. She gave him a quizzical look, but he said nothing, turning her head slightly to the left and then the right.

“You are looking better. Do you have enough to eat?” he asked.

“Yes, dad,” she replied, parroting the way Alexandra said ‘Yes, mom’ when she was tired of Cinnamon’s mother-smothering. Cinnamon’s father had never given her a reason to think of the quip on her own.

“Well, next time I come to visit I’ll bring you beef. I think you need more red meat, not just fish and chickens.”

“And crawdads,” Cinnamon smiled over at Alexandra.

“Oh, crawdads,” Alexandra laughed, “What would we do without out little friends?”

Cinnamon and Alexandra had spent many afternoons in the bayou, in rolled up overalls and muddy water up to their knees, setting and pulling traps for crawdads. They weren’t good, but they were food, and they were easy to come by.

“What you really should do is bring us an alligator for dinner. What do you have to say about that?” Cinnamon challenged Jeremy.

“I don’t think you appreciate the effort that really goes into catching a gator,” said Jeremy, “So you’re just getting beef.”

“I’ll do it. I accept your challenge,” replied Cinnamon, taking a bite of cornbread.

Jeremy lifted an eyebrow, “What challenge? What are you going to do?”

Cinnamon smiled, “Catch an alligator. With you. You can teach me how.”

“Oh, no” said Jeremy, leaning back in his chair, “The only thing I have offered to teach you is how to waltz. I’m still recovering from the whiplash that gave me, so I haven’t offered to teach you anything since.”

“Well, how about a compromise? I’ll learn to waltz if you’ll also teach me to catch an alligator.”

Jeremy considered this.

“Here’s my final offer,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “I’ll take you out boating on the bayou and show you how one does it, if you promise to sit nicely and move ne’ery a muscle. And you learn to waltz.”

“Deal,” said Cinnamon, raising her wine glass.

A few hours later, Jeremy decided it was time to go home, but asked Cinnamon to join him on the veranda for a moment. The fireflies were flashing in the cool night air, and a gently breeze was blowing.

“Cinnamon, you said earlier that you trust me,” Jeremy began, tipping her head up to look at him.

“Go on,” Cinnamon encouraged. At the very least, this sounded interesting.

“Don’t go outside of this house until Marie comes. Not even if you have Ajax at your side.”

“What!? What do you mean? What’s going on?” Cinnamon had had just about enough of this.

“Trust me?” Jeremy implored.

“Trust you? Jeremy, you can’t be serious. No! I’ve had enough.  If you know something I need to know, you’d better tell me right now.”

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then twisted his tongue against his top canine and said nothing, as if he had just caught the words before they escaped over his lips.

“You do know something, something you’re not telling us, just like you knew something about the crazy old woman, and you haven’t told us yet! You could have gotten Alex and I both killed! You nearly did!” Cinnamon’s voice was growing closer to a yell with every word.

“Cinnamon, I can’t, I swear to you…”

“Swear to someone else, not me!”

“I can’t tell you. It’s better if you are kept in the dark. Just do as I tell you to do, and you’ll be fine. I will make sure that you are safe.”

“I’ll make sure that I am safe, thank you! Take your safety and secrets and your riddles and be damned!” Cinnamon was really shouting now, and she turned on her heel back into the house.

She heard him call her name, but she just bolted the door and the shutters in reply. Just the same, she promised herself silently that she wouldn’t go out-of-doors until her mysterious guest had arrived

Rassmussen Plantation pt 15 (updated)

Ladies~

I had to return to Devil’s Bayou this night on urgent matters. Please expect me tomorrow evening. If a need arises that you must travel here, I urge you to never leave the other alone, and always travel with Ajax. He is a good fellow, and I think you will find yourself very safe with him.

~Jeremy

Alexandra was again baffled. What could be so urgent that Jeremy would leave them at such a trepidatious time? Frustrated, she crumpled the letter and sat down at Cinnamon’s vanity. She looked into the mirror and frowned at her crazy bangs and the wisps of hair escaping from her braid. She pulled the ribbon from her braid and picked her long, dark brown hair out of it’s braid and began to run the silver-handled brush through it. 

The only resident of Eau D’Noir who knew what had prompted Jeremy to leave so abruptly was a gray cat named Tybalt, who was on his way home. 

Jeremy had walked home quickly, almost at a bound. He suspected he’d have a visitor waiting for him when he arrived home- and he was anxious to see her as he suspected she was to see him.  He pushed his way through the tangle of trees and shrubs, furious. He’d wring her little neck! He’d wring her stupid, selfish little neck.

Tybalt was surprised at how quickly Jeremy traveled. He had a difficult time keeping up with him- and he seemed to know every step. Every gulley and clearing seemed as familiar to Jeremy as if it was his bedroom.

Jeremy took the stone steps up to Devil’s Bayou’s front doors three at a time, and threw open the enormous oak doors with one hand as he hastened through them. Tybalt heard him shout a name as the doors closed behind him, just a moment too soon for the cat to sneak in unnoticed. Tybalt crept around to the window, but heavy curtains blocked the way, so he began a circle around the house to find a way in, or a way to observe. He found a stained glass window high up on a ledge, on the west side of the house that he could peer through with some effort.

Jeremy threw off his cloak as he crossed the threshold. He forgot that the jar was still concealed in it, and it shattered as it hit the floor. Jeremy cursed and turned briefly to look at it, but continued on to the drawing room, where he hoped to find his visitor.

Old Ben stood in the hallway, hobbling to meet his master.

“Where is she?” thundered Jeremy, fire in his eyes, “Where is she!?”

“She’s here, sir. She’s just arrived a moment ago,” Ben glanced over his shoulder.

“I ought to kill you!” Jeremy addressed his visitor before he even saw her, storming into the drawing room as Old Ben leaned over to clean the glass shards from the floor.

Her laugh was like falling gold coins.

“There are lots of thing you ought to do with me, Tarleton, and you haven’t done many of them yet,” she giggled again.

“You!”  Jeremy strode up to her and put his hand at her neck, “You little monster. You set the witch on her.”

“Not much good it did,” the woman spat, slapping his hand away, “At least she’s proving better sport that some others I’ve dealt with. Although I ought to take care of a little wolf problem that’s been upsetting me.”

Jeremy took a step back, a half smile on his face, “I think you’ll find Ajax up to your treachery. He never leaves her side.”

The woman sank back into her chair, “Ah, yes, you and your wolves. Honestly I don’t know what you see in the slobbering, howling things.”

She sank back into her chair, laughing still.

“Very amusing,” Jeremy snarled.

“Oh, come now,” she smiled her pretty, feminine smile, “It was your idea. Nobody even asked. You were just being gallant and decided to try to save the world. How is that working out for you? Better than last time, I hope. You’ve built a better cage for her, I hope? Personally I’d just let her run wild. Kill or be killed, you know.”

 “I know perfectly well what you would do, you beastly villain.”

She pulled out a cigarette case with an elegant owl engraven on the front, opened it, tapped out a long, white cigarette, and casually lit it.

“Now Tarleton,” she chided, inhaling, “is that any way to talk to your One?”

“I hate it when you call me that.”

She laughed, snorting smoke through her nose, “Oh yes. I had forgotten.”

“We’re not here to talk about wolves,” Jeremy leaned over and took the cigarette from her hand and took a drag, then threw it into the fire.

“No,” she replied, taking another cigarette out, a little irritably this time, and lit it, “I suppose not.”

“Leave Cinnamon alone. She’s no threat to you, she doesn’t even know about you, she’s done nothing…” Jeremy growled, but was cut off.

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. She’s taken what is rightfully mine, and I always get what I want,” she took a long drag from the cigarette, “And I don’t know why you seem to be so attached to her. She’s some silly little farm creature, not a real Rassmussen like me. You’ve never had really astute taste. Not in women, and not in wine. Though I brought a vintage you might care for,” she lightly tapped a bottle at her side, “It used to be your favorite, I remember, back when you used to indulge. Sweet and thick and full-bodied, French-Creole type. Would you share a glass with me, just for old times’ sake?”

Jeremy snorted in derision.

            “Ah,” the beautiful woman laughed softly to herself, “Still the little Puritan, I see.”

She poured herself a glass, and sipped it slowly, looking deeply into her beverage as if she might discern the future within it’s depths.

She looked up from her glass at Jeremy, “I should be the one in that mansion, not her, and I’ll take what’s rightfully mine soon enough.”

“She hasn’t taken anything. Old Rassmussen left that to her in his will, and not to you,” Jeremy growled.

Her eyes flashed, “No. The answer is no, I won’t leave her alone. I hate her and despise her. I’ll be rid of her soon, as well. You’d better tell her not to let strangers in her house; I have a friend coming into town, someone you know, I believe. She’s very…persuasive. And no amount of dogs will keep up at bay. You can’t watch her every moment, and just when you think you are safe… You know what fun Lala likes to have.”

Jeremy felt the cold chill of alarm rise up his spine, but his face registered nothing.

“You don’t mean Delphine,” he said.

“I do mean Delphine. My own darling Lala.”

“She swore never to show her face here again.”

“Anyone who knows her face is dead now,” the woman laughed, “And she hasn’t got any plans just yet. But you know how fond of me she has grown... Now, will you be a dear, Tarleton? I’m retiring to my room, I’ve had a long night. Old Ben will have made it up for me by now.”

Jeremy reached his arm across her path to block her way; she lifted one eyebrow delicately at him.

“She won’t help you. You’ll not persuade her to return.”

“Tarleton, you don’t know how close Lala and I have become. She would do anything for me,” she pushed past him and walked swiftly down the hall to her accustomed quarters, taking the candelabra with her.

Jeremy clenched his fists and watched her go. A muscle in his jaw twitched slightly. He wished he could kill that woman, but knew that she had him in check, and for the time he would simply have to endure her… and watch her closely.

Tybalt had seen and heard very little, but he knew that it meant a storm, and a bad one. He’d better get home to Cinnamon. He turned and jumped off of the ledge and began scurrying across the swamp back home.

Alexandra was still brushing her hair when she heard Tybalt downstairs, scratching and meowing to be let in. She sighed and looked around for Cinnamon’s dressing robe, which she borrowed and tied low on her waist, then went to let the cat in. It wasn’t really Cinnamon’s dressing robe; it was Old Rassmussen’s. Cinnamon had found it in the closet with his other clothes and adopted it, as she had with several of Old Rassmussen’s clothes. It was too big for either girl, and the sleeves had to be rolled up considerably. It still smelled faintly of cigar smoke, which Alexandra had initially found disturbing, and had washed it three times before she resigned herself to it. The smells of everything permeated in the mansion; the perfumes that Alyce had once worn still had the pointed scent of lilacs and magnolia, and the smell of brandy and cigars often wafted up from the library. From time to time, Alexandra thought that she heard the sound of a man’s voice, the tromping of thick-soled boots and a heavy walking stick, or even laughter from a group of men gathered down in the library or the velvet-clad smoking lounge. It unnerved her, but she had never yet seen anyone there. 

She unlatched the front door and let the persistent cat back inside. From across the still-dark bayou the wind brought the faint scent of magnolias.