NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
New Orleans is a city ruled by the dead.
I remember the moment I first heard someone say this. The old man meant to frighten me. He said there was a time when coffins sprang from the ground following a heavy rain, the dead flooding the city streets. He claimed to know of a Créole woman on Rue Dauphine who could commune with spirits from the afterlife.
I believe in magic. In a city rife with illusionists, it's impossible to doubt its existence. But I didn't believe this man. Be faithful, he warned. For the faithless are alone in death, blind and terrified.
I feigned shock at his words. In truth, I found him amusing. He was the sort to scare errant young souls with stories of a shadowy creature lurking in darkened alcoves. But I was also intrigued, for I possess an errant young soul of my own. From childhood, I hid it beneath pressed garments and polished words, but it persisted in plaguing me. It called to me like a Siren, driving me to dash all pretense against the rocks and surrender to my true nature.
It drove me to where I am now. But I am not ungrateful. For it brought to bear two of my deepest truths: I will always possess an errant young soul, no matter my age.
And I will always be the shadowy creature in darkened alcoves, waiting . . .
For you, my love. For you.
JANVIER 1872 A
BOARD THE CGT ARAMIS
NOT WHAT IT SEEMED
The Aramis was supposed to arrive at first light, like it did in Celine's dreams.
She would wake beneath a sunlit sky, the brine of the ocean winding through her nose, the city looming bright on the horizon.
Filled with promise. And absolution.
Instead the brass bell on the bow of the Aramis tolled in the twilight hour, the time of day her friend Pippa called "the gloaming." It was—in Celine's mind—a very British thing to say.
She'd begun collecting these phrases not long after she'd met Pippa four weeks ago, when the Aramis had docked for two days in Liverpool. Her favorite so far was "not bloody likely." Celine didn't know why they mattered to her at the time. Perhaps it was because she thought Very British Things would serve her better in America than the Very French Things she was apt to say.
The moment Celine heard the bell clang, she made her way portside, Pippa's light footsteps trailing in her wake. Inky tendrils of darkness fanned out across the sky, a ghostly mist shrouding the Crescent City. The air thickened as the two girls listened to the Aramis sluice through the waters of the Mississippi, drawing closer to New Orleans. Farther from the lives they'd left behind.
Pippa sniffed and rubbed her nose. In that instant, she looked younger than her sixteen years. "For all the stories, it's not as pretty as I thought it would be."
"It's exactly what I thought it would be," Celine said in a reassuring tone.
"Don't lie." Pippa glanced at her sidelong. "It won't make me feel better."
A smile curled up Celine's face. "Maybe I'm lying for me as much as I'm lying for you."
"In any case, lying is a sin."
"So is being obnoxious."
"That's not in the Bible."
"But it should be."