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. 

Rassmussen Plantation pt 14 (Updated)

"Who insisted that Cinnamon take loan of that wolf that saved her precious skin today?"

Jeremy’s voice was almost a snarl though on his lips was a smile, his finger still under her chin, their faces so close that they almost touched.

Alexandra’s heart was beating so hard she thought it might leap up her throat. She pushed herself up on tip-toe, but just before her lips touched Jeremy’s, Cinnamon moaned faintly and tossed. Alexandra hurried over to her friend’s side. She deftly reached under the covers and changed Cinnamon out of her bloodstained overalls and into a light shift, then dipped a rag into a nearby basin and began to rinse the blood off of Cinnamon.

Jeremy stood next to Alexandra for just a moment, then gently put his hand around hers, and mildly took the rag out of her fist.

“Let me take care of her,” Jeremy insisted kindly, “Go and get some rest now. You’ve had a fright as well, my dear.

Alexandra began to object, but Jeremy shushed her gently, and sent her on her way. Alexandra gathered the bloody clothes and deposited them into the hamper, then with a yawn, she left. Jeremy listened to her footfalls until he knew she had reached her room, heard her shuffle about getting ready for bed. Then he stepped into the hallway and watched until the light from under her doorway extinguished. Alexandra was asleep. Jeremy stood just a moment longer in the hall, making sure than Alexandra would not change her mind, and then, with a quiet bark of laugher, he walked silently back into Cinnamon’s room, locking the door behind him. Cinnamon was asleep, a sleep as deep and heavy as though she’d been drugged. The moon was just rising, and the faint moonlight spilled across the bedroom floor. The moon was not quite full yet, but it was nearly so, and it lit the room with a pale, wane light. Cinnamon had a fair complexion naturally, and with the blood she had lost she was paler still. The lighting of the moon made Cinnamon look as white as alabaster stone, and the dried blood across Cinnamon’s body stood out in stark contrast. Jeremy pulled the chair away from the vanity and up next to the sleeping girl. He gently combed her hair away from her face with his fingers, and kissed her forehead lightly, just the way he had on the first night he had cared for her at his home. He kissed her forehead again, and then her cheek, her jaw, and then her neck, being very gentle with her injury. He breathed in deeply, drawing in her scent, her hair, her skin, her blood and the raw meat just within her wound. He turned her head very gently to the side, and licked her skin from her clavicle to her jaw.

Chapter Ten

The dried blood began to soften, and he licked her again. Again and again, emitting a low growl of pleasure, until she was clean. He cleaned her thoroughly, sucking each finger clean, and the small spaces between each finger, her palm down to her wrist and up to her shoulders. He took the greatest care with the knife wounds on Cinnamon’s neck and shoulder, as gently as a wolf with her pups. He licked clean her collarbone, but stopped and reached into the basin for the rag, which he used to clean her from her collar bone to her navel. He was an old-fashioned southern gentleman, after all. He dipped the rag into the basin again, and gave her another thorough washing from her forehead down her arms; saliva could be a little sticky sometimes.

Cinnamon was a good name for her, Jeremy decided. She tasted as delicious as she looked. It was hard not to try and get some more. He took the rag from the basin and walked over to the mirror in the vanity. He had to wipe every last drop of blood off of his face. When he was satisfied that he was clean, he took the basin to the window and dumped the dirty water out of it. Through the window, in the illumination of the moon, he could see the caretaker’s cabin beyond the willow tree. He shook his head. He’d have to bury the old woman before Cinnamon and Alexandra awoke; he’d like to tell them that he had taken care of it and so they needn’t worry. But he knew there could be other night creatures out, and if there were, it was almost a guarantee that they’d already discovered the dead woman. Jeremy was satisfied with Cinnamon; and he wasn’t in the mood for a fight; he’d wait a while yet.

Tybalt was worried about Cinnamon. He knew all about the attack, he had watched it all before him. If Ajax hadn’t been there to attack Tybalt knew that he’d have had to save his mistress, and the old crone, the same one he had seen take the album from the attic, might have killed them both. Tybalt jumped up on a ledge to look out the window at the night. It was very bright out. He should probably go and take a look around, just to be safe.

It took Tybalt a while to find a way out; Alexandra had closed every window and locked every shutter. Tybalt dozed off by the dying fire while trying to think of a way out. But after a few hours of waiting, he heard Jeremy up and walking around. Maybe he was going out! Tybalt raced to the grand foyer and arrived just in time to slip out the front door on Jeremy’s heels. The night wasn’t quite as clear now, and a stiff wind had picked up.

To Tybalt’s surprise, Jeremy headed straight to the caretaker’s cabin. Jeremy walked purposefully and quickly up the rickety front steps, and threw open the front door. He looked around, but the cabin was still and deserted. The dead woman still lay on the rug, much of her blood dried by now. Jeremy picked her up roughly and slung her over his shoulder, then carried her out of the cabin and under the willow tree. He picked up a shovel and began to dig. Jeremy was a strong man and the earth was soft; it didn’t take long for him to get six feet down.

Tybalt watched silently as Jeremy dug the hole outside, and noticed something curious; on the other side of the willow tree, in the old graveyard, there seemed to be a statue he had not noticed before, atop the Rassmussen family crypt. But wait- statues’ cloaks don’t blow in the wind. There was a woman, standing from a ways off and observing as Jeremy dug a grave for the old crone. She had first had been standing, but presently crouched down like a cat, and kept her perch, watching from afar.

Jeremy didn’t kick the old woman’s body into the grave- he gently pulled her in, laid her at his feet, and then climbed out of the hole. He stood over the grave for a moment, and then with a sigh, he began to fill in the hole. The woman on the crypt looked on still. When the grave was filled, she turned and disappeared off the roof, and into the swamp.

Jeremy tamped the dirt down firmly with his shovel and then with his boot. He then took out his pocket watch and looked at the time, and quickened his pace.

Tybalt followed Jeremy curiously as he headed back towards the house, again slipping in at his feet through the door. Jeremy disappeared upstairs for just a moment, then came back down and walked straight to the kitchen, opening up the first cabinet he came to. He reached in and rummaged around a moment before abandoning it for another.

“Cinnamon,” he muttered slightly under his breath, “Nutmeg, Ginger, Cloves, Cayenne…”

He stopped suddenly, apparently having found what he was looking for. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of handsome black gloves. He meticulously put them on, and then pulled out a mason jar. It looked like salt or seasoning of some kind to Tybalt, but Tybalt was just a cat, and not very astute with what humans put in their food. Jeremy headed back to the front door, but Tybalt wasn’t able to slip out after him as he had done before. So Tybalt jumped up onto a sofa and watched out the window as Jeremy took the jar and sprinkled it’s contents all over the front porch, and then in a careful circle around the house. The jar was empty, and Jeremy tucked it into the recesses of his cloak.

 It was nearly five o’clock in the morning, and Jeremy was beginning to feel very tired. He tugged his cloak tighter over his shoulders and headed back to Devil’s Bayou.

******************************

Just a few hours later the sun rose, and Alexandra with it. She yawned and stretched, then remembered all that had happened the day before. Still in her nightgown and her dark hair in a braid over her shoulder, she hurried to Cinnamon’s room. She burst in the door, more anxious than she knew why, and hurried to Cinnamon’s side.

“Cinnamon?” Alexandra petitioned, breathlessly, “Cinnamon?”

Cinnamon grunted slightly, and tossed her head back and forth. Alexandra was relieved. She sighed deeply and took a step back. As she looked around the room, she remembered the kiss nearly shared between Jeremy and herself last night. How strange it seemed now. Much like a memory one would pull out of a drunken stupor; she was certain she had not imagined it, but was uncertain of the details, and a bit confused about what prompted it all. She walked across the bedroom to pull the chair from Cinnamon’s vanity over next to her bed, but stopped when she saw a note. It was in a hand she did not recognize, but it was unmistakably masculine, despite being old-fashioned, and she guessed at one it was Jeremy’s.  She unfolded it and read it’s contents.

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

Rassmussen Plantation pt 13

Cinnamon felt sorry for having snapped at Alexandra, and was about to say so when simultaneously Tybalt arched his back and spat, and Ajax jumped off the crypt and snarled.

Cinnamon and Alexandra whipped around to see what the animals had warned of. They saw only the long branches of a weeping willow blowing lightly in the breeze, and the faint outline of the old abandoned caretaker's cabin beyond it. Cinnamon's eyebrows furrowed as she looked over the old cabin. It was half-hidden in the waving arms of the massive willow tree, with broken, vacant windows and a few loose shutters that swung loosely on their hinges. She had walked past it one day as she was gathering wood, but had never gone inside.

"What do you suppose is in there?" Cinnamon asked no one in particular, leaning down to pick up Tybalt, who's fur was still standing on end.

"Nothing," came Alexandra's reply, as hesitant and ill-concealing as Cinnamon's statements about the crypt.

"Nothing..." whispered the breeze, blowing over the plantantion grounds.

"Nothing?" Cinnamon repeated, taking a halting step towards the cabin and squeezing Tybalt a little closer to her chest, "I inherited an abandoned mansion, and expected to find nothing inside, but the rooms were still full of furniture, a feast still rotting on a banquet table. All this while, there has been no one here, but we all know that there is more here than nothing. We can all feel it! We all know it! Nothing.... There's something. And if it's not in the cabin then it's in the crypt, and I mean to find out just what is going on."

Cinnamon started walking toward the old cabin, a shovel in one hand and her pistol strapped to her thigh. Alexandra stood entirely motionless, rooted to her place with a terrified look on her face. When Cinnamon came to the front steps leading up to the cabin, she paused a moment. Tybalt struggled and squirmed away from her arms, but stayed near her left side, Ajax was at her right. Cinnamon had been this scared before, but had never felt so brave.

"If ye are prepared, ye shall not fear." Cinnamon quoted quietly to herself, alighting the first step up to the porch. The step groaned under her weight, but held her. She then took the second step with the same result. She took the third and the fourth quicker, and came to the door. Ajax sniffed around the entrance, and growled deep in his throat.

"Ajax," Cinnamon said, in an attempt to steady herself as she pulled her pistol from it's sheath and cocked it, "You are going to feel very foolish when this all turns out to be in your imagination."

Goosebumps raised on her arms as she reached for the doorknob, but the door seemed jammed. She set aside her shovel and laid both hands on the doorknob. A slight panic pulled at her to turn tail and run, but with a sudden strong, foolhardy will she pushed the door open and let it swing until it hit the wall. From within the cabin nothing stirred.

"No, no, no, no, no, no!" cried the panic inside Cinnamon's head as she quickly peered around the corner.

"Is someone there?" Cinnamon called, in a voice falsely loud, hoping that the faint tremor in her voice was apparent to only herself, "If someone is there, you have exactly five seconds to come out. I have a weapon!"

Five seconds came and went quickly. Cinnamon waited another five. And then another. Then, keeping her gun in front of her and ready to fire, she forced her terrified feet to walk. The living room was clean. It was meager, but clean. Even with broken out windows. No doubt, someone had been there.

There was a suddenly flurry of motion, and Cinnamon shot her pistol before she had a good look at her attacker. Her bullet missed it's target, and shattered the remaining panel in an unfortunate window. Cinnamon screamed and ducked, and outside Alexandra screamed, and a harrassed-looking owl flew out the front door, 'Hoooooo-oooooo'ing indignantly as it did.

Cinnamon caught her breath, tried to steady her heartbeat, and shouted, "It's alright, Alexandra! It was just a stupid owl!"

Ajax looked unimpressed, and went back onto the porch, where he sat and looked out at Alexandra, his head cocked slightly.

Cinnamon sighed and looked around her, and outside Alexandra continued to scream. Cinnamon shook her head, trying to shake out the tremors left in it by the adrenaline that still coursed thru her. As she slowly made her way to the middle of the small room, something on the table caught her eye. It was a familiar, leatherbound book. Her blood turned to ice. She opened it; it was the same photo album that Cinnamon had hidden away in the attic, dumping it into a chest and taunting Alyce as she did. She wished now that she had burned it, driven a stake through it’s hateful little heart. Dreading, she turned the page and there was Alyce, smiling her beautiful smile, watching with her beautiful eyes. Cinnamon lowered her pistol just a few inches, and shifted the book on her arm just an inch. Alexandra was still screaming outside, and Cinnamon was about to call for her to calm herself down, when a figure abruptly appeared from the dark recesses of the hallway, and she was suddenly knocked off of her feet. Before Cinnamon had a second to scream a terrible pressure snapped thru her shoulder, accompanied by a warm, wet, stickiness. Cinnamon screamed, not even seeing her attacker, just seeing the knife they wielded. She fought back, firing a shot into the midst of whom she supposed to be her attacker, just as a snarl escaped from Ajax, who reached them in less than a second, and the attacker was torn off of Cinnamon. The attackers blade caught Cinnamon's neck and chin as it passed, spilling more blood over Cinnamon and the floor. Cinnamon rolled over, scrambling to get herself back to her feet. The wound in her shoulder gushed hot, sticky blood down her chest. Cinnamon backed away, and grasped her shoulder, bloodying her hand and fingers.

A terrible, wrinkled old face leered at Cinnamon like a goblin from across the room, held at bay by a snarling black Timberwolf.

"You are not mistress of Eau d'Noir!" the old woman cried, a wild, crazy look in her eyes, "Alyce is the lady here, and always will be. You are nothing but trash, usurping little witch!"

With a strength betraying her age, the old woman threw the knife at Cinnamon. Cinnamon dodged, and instinctively fired again.

"I will kill you, old woman!" Cinnamon shouted, fear and adrenaline shaking her voice.

But she wouldn't need to. In that moment, Ajax was on the old woman. As Cinnamon screamed and tried to pull him back, he pinned the crone to the floor and ripped her throat out as the old woman gurgled and thrashed. Cinnamon stood in that same spot, her hands over her mouth and screaming uncontrollably until her voice was raw. She heard Alexandra on the lawn screaming. She heard Ajax licking his fur as her sat next to her. She even heard Tybalt’s faint meows at the door.

“He probably wants to be fed,” Cinnamon thought vaguely.

She sighed and looked down at herself, strangely calm, “Blood is so red! I mean, everyone knows that it’s red, but when you see it, it’s very shocking. Look at how red my blood is. That is so much blood. I wonder how much blood a person has. I wonder if I’ll bleed to death right here.”

Cinnamon realized that Alexandra was in front of her, talking to her, pulling at her hand and crying, but someone was still screaming. The old crone wasn’t screaming, not anymore. Cinnamon grasped that it was she, herself, who was screaming, screaming involuntarily, compulsorily, and she didn’t seem to know how to stop. Alexandra pulled at her, but Cinnamon stayed rooted in place until the sunset came, her blood first gushing, next dripping, then congealing, and drying all over her.

Cinnamon didn’t know if it was minutes later, maybe hours or even days, but she felt strong hands on her shoulders and a voice in her ears. This wasn’t Alexandra; the voice was too low and the hands too large. She perceived it was Jeremy, though she didn't see him. He shook her and called her name, until the fog left her eyes and Jeremy's face materialized before her.

"Look at how red my blood is." Cinnamon muttered, losing the strength in her legs; she would have fallen if Jeremy hadn’t caught her, "It was so fast. She attacked me and Ajax ripped her apart. The whole thing took half a minute. She attacked me. She’s dead."

"Don't talk," Jeremy said, helping her gently to the ground, "You've lost a lot of blood to that knife."

At the mention the knife Cinnamon began to scream again, seeing again in her mind the blade flash and sink into her shoulder, saw the old woman's insane eyes, those crazy eyes that glared and taunted even after the wolf had ripped her to pieces and left her all over the rug.

Jeremy firmly put his hand over her mouth. Cinnamon felt another hand on her head and realized that Alexandra was there, too.

"Cinnamon. Cinnamon. Stop it. It's all over now. You are safe. You are going to be fine," Jeremy repeated, looking strongly into Cinnamon's eyes.

Cinnamon's screams faded away.

Jeremy raised his hand, "No screaming. We need to get into the house, and quickly."

As Jeremy lifted her from the floor and carried her across the lawn, Cinnamon realized that her shoulder was bandaged, and wondered who had done it. She was vaguely aware that she was rambling, but didn't know what she was saying, or how to stop it.

Alexandra walked ahead of Jeremy as they walked toward the mansion, carrying a lamp. She opened the front door and let them in, followed by a very worried Tybalt. Jeremy paused just a moment at the door.

“Come on, get in here,” Alexandra said, and cast a furtive, fleeting glace back out at the night before firmly locking the door behind them all, and triple-checking all the locks and shutters.

Ajax was lying on the rug before the fire in the drawing room. He lifted his head as the party walked by, Cinnamon only half-seeing him and regarding him in the same way she would in a dream; nothing was real.

The fire was blazing in the Master Bedroom when they got to it, and Jeremy set Cinnamon down on top of Old Rassmussen's pillows and comforters. He checked her bandages with quick, deft fingers.

"You did well, Alexandra," he commented, leaving the injury on Cinnamon's shoulder and examining the deep cut on her chin and throat. Alexandra had sewn it shut with her mending needle and a bit of light pink thread; the closest match to Cinnamon's skin color that she could manage.

“A few centimeters and it would have caught her arteries,” Jeremy commented, “Her brachial in her shoulder, and her carotid in her neck. The old woman knew what she was doing.”

“How do you know so much? Are you a doctor?” asked Alexandra.

Jeremy chuckled deep in his throat, “No. But I know about arteries.”

“I’m so glad you came! I wanted to fetch you, but I couldn't leave Cinnamon, not like that, not after what happened…” Alexandra’s voice shook.

"I got here as soon as I could manage," Jeremy replied, "Ajax arrived on my door covered in blood. I grabbed my shotgun and ran my horse hell bent for leather to get here."

"She wouldn't move! I called her and called her, even as I stitched up her chin, she just stood there, looking into space with that vacant expression on her face," Alexandra poked at the fire, and checked the shutters in the room once again.

"She's in shock." Jeremy said, his voice ever steady and cool, "But she'll live. She frightens very easily, but there's something strong inside her, too."

"Who was that old woman?" Alexandra asked, breathlessly.

"Her name? I don't even remember it. She was one of the last servants that Old Rassmussen kept on. After he disappeared, it must have been easier to stay here than to move on. Being left alone on this plantation that long would drive anyone mad."

Alexandra cast a quick look at Jeremy, but dropped her eyes before he raised his.

"Is there anything else you should tell us, Mr. Tarleton?" Alexandra asked, her voice hinting at what she really wanted to ask.

"Not yet," he said, putting a finger under her chin and lifting her face to his, "But know this. I can protect you; you and Miss Cinnamon. But you will have to trust me. And my name is Jeremy, not Mr. Tarleton."

"You didn't protect us today," Alexandra said, doubtingly.

"Who insisted that Cinnamon take loan of that wolf that saved her precious skin today?" Jeremy’s voice was almost a snarl though on his lips was a smile, his finger still under her chin, their faces so close that they almost touched.