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.