Gathering Deep (4 page)

I
knew
he had a point, but Mama Legba had been right too. Eventually, I was going to have to stand on my own. I couldn't keep letting people decide for me. Whatever happened, I needed to be the one to choose, or it wouldn't be any better than having my body taken over again.

“We just want you to be safe,” Lucy said softly, twisting at one of the knobs on her camera.

“So do I, but I won't be told what to do. I don't need to be protected like that or kept like I'm some kind of child, Piers.” I looked at him then, willing him to understand. “That ain't me, and you know it.”

His mouth went tight. “You think that's how I'm treating you?”

He looked so downright miserable and guilty that I couldn't help but feel a bit of my anger fading. “I think you mean well, but you've been hovering over me for weeks now, acting like I might break at any moment. Or worse. You haven't done more than kiss me on the forehead since everything happened.”

Piers glanced at Lucy, and I swear his ears went red at the tips. “I've been worried … ”

“And I 'preciate that. But I need you to feel something more for me than worry. I can't keep living at your place and feeling like you don't see
me
anymore.”

“I see you fine,” he muttered.

I shook my head. “You see the broken pieces that you took out of that cemetery. I need you to believe I'm putting myself back together, that I
can
put myself back.” I hesitated. “As long as I'm living under your roof, I'm not sure that you can see me any other way but broken.”

“Where else do you think you're going to go?” Piers asked, and I could tell his frustration was mounting. “You can't go back to your home. Thisbe made sure of that.”

The barb stung, but I kept myself from flinching. He was right again. I couldn't go home. And no way was any hotel going to let me rent a room on my own.

“She could stay at our place,” Lucy volunteered.

Piers snapped his head around to look at her.

Lucy shrunk back in her seat a little. “I mean, if you want,” she added weakly, chancing a glance in my direction.

“You don't think your parents would care?” I asked, ignoring the way Piers huffed his irritation. “After everything that happened … ”

“They don't know what happened,” Lucy said with a shrug. “As far as they're concerned, T.J. had some kind of mysterious illness that the doctors couldn't figure out and is totally fine now. They don't know your mom had anything to do with shooting at me, and I think it's probably better for everyone's peace of mind if they never find out about any of the rest. They already think your mom's helping a sick relative in Mobile, so it's not like we need a new story to cover for you.”

I looked at Piers, really looked at him. He wasn't saying anything, but I had the feeling that whatever happened at this point would matter to him—to
us
. I could go back to his apartment and stay like I'd been staying. I didn't doubt that Piers would do anything he could to keep me safe. But I also knew that all his protection might smother whatever was left between us.

Or I could go stay out at Le Ciel Doux, at Lucy's place. Her parents were nice enough people, but I didn't know how I was supposed to live under their roof knowing what I'd done—or helped to do—to their family. Even if they didn't know a thing about it.

If I went to live with Lucy's family, the distance might make Piers look at me less like some fragile doll and more like the person he once loved.

“Well?” he said, his face settling into the mask I'd come to hate. There was a part of me—an uncomfortably large part of me—that wanted nothing more than to smash it from his face.

I shook myself at the abrupt violence of that thought. It had to be the stress and pressure I'd been under. Or maybe it was the frustration and fear that had been haunting my every footstep these past two weeks. I thought about the shattered bottles and I prayed it wasn't anything more.

I took a breath and looked at Lucy. “I think I'd like to come stay with you for a bit, if you really think your parents wouldn't mind.”

I didn't even need to look to know Piers wasn't happy.

Three

After stopping by Piers's apartment to get my things, the two of us made our way from the Quarter out toward the River Road, where Lucy's family lived in the shadow of the antebellum mansion named Le Ciel Doux. Piers still wasn't really talking to me, but I figured that was better than arguing for the time being. As we drove, the land we passed was quiet and unaware of the frustrated energy thrumming between us in the car. The sun was settling into the lower part of the sky, creeping its way steadily toward evening, and the whole world seemed to be going on its way like nothing was amiss.

Once, sugar plantations around New Orleans held a
large part of the entire country's wealth, but not anymore. Now the River Road is just a stretch of half-dead towns and the refineries that kept those towns breathing. Most of the fields that once grew sugar stood unplanted, and the only things that grow out there anymore are the throats of
smokestacks retching their bile out into the world. On a good day, you can barely smell the stink of them. But the beginning of August is always too hot for it to be a good day, and that day, the stink was already coming in through the open windows and filling the car with its thick, chemical smell.

As we drove, patches of green interrupted the fields of concrete and piles of coal every here and there. Some of those patches had trailer parks planted on them, but others held stately homes—pretty little pictures of the past, all brought back to life by one committee or another. All of them were a testament to the glory that had been the South, once upon a time. Busloads of tourists liked to follow the winding roads, like ants drawn to the sugar that once made the area rich.

Le Ciel Doux is maybe the biggest and prettiest piece of green. It sits back from Route 18, popping up like a surprise. My momma had worked at Le Ciel since I was little, so I basically grew up on the grounds. But it didn't matter how many times I drove through the ornate wrought-iron gates that separated the plantation from the rest of the region—seeing that big house sitting at the end of the row of ancient oaks, all shadows and bone-white stone, always gave me a creeping feeling right up the back of my neck.

I don't think anyone was more surprised than me when I applied to work as a tour guide there, but I decided I'd rather wear a hoop skirt than work the night shift at one of the refineries like a lot of folks do. And if I wanted any pocket money, I had to work for it—one of Momma's many rules.

Or, it had been.

I turned up the gravel road toward the big house and that creeping feeling came back, like cold fingers tickling at the short hairs on the nape of my neck. Like someone warning me to stay away. I was so used to it that I didn't even shudder anymore. Guiding the car left at the fork in the drive, I brought it up next to an old Volvo wagon parked in front of a pretty-as-a-postcard cottage.

“You're sure about this?” Piers asked, and I knew he meant more than what he was saying. I wasn't sure, but I had a feeling that giving us some space was the only way our relationship would survive.

I didn't even have my bags out of the trunk when the front door of the cottage opened and Lucy came out. Piers took the bag from me and took my hand as she came down the front porch steps to greet us, a tentative smile on her face.

She glanced at Piers as though to read his mood before she said anything. “Everybody's excited you're here,” she told me. “Come on in, and I'll show you your room.”

I wasn't even to the porch when Lucy's little brother T.J. popped his dark head out the door. Even my forgot-how-to-smile mouth couldn't help but turn up a bit at the sight of his impish face.

This was a bad idea
, I realized. I'd put T.J. in danger once before. My staying at Lucy's could put her whole family in danger again.

Piers squeezed my hand, and I realized that I'd stopped moving. I knew Lucy was watching me, too.

“It's okay,” she said softly. Like she knew exactly where my thoughts had gone. “Mama Legba did some protective wards on my house after everything happened. You'll be safe here.”

I didn't know how she could sound so sure, because I sure wasn't.

“She doesn't have a hold on you anymore,” Lucy added gently.

“You could still come back to my place,” Piers suggested. I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was still frustrated he hadn't been able to change my mind about staying with Lucy's family.

“Why don't you stay for tonight and see how you feel?” Lucy offered. “If you decide to go back to Piers's place in the morning, you can. No hard feelings. But you're here now and they're already expecting you. If you leave, we're going to need an excuse for why you changed your mind. We don't need anyone trying to call your mom.”

I glanced over at Piers. He still didn't look happy, probably because he knew that Lucy was right.

“Okay,” I said with a sigh. “I'll stay for tonight.” But I wasn't going back to Piers's place. I'd figure something else out, if it came to that.

When we got inside, both of Lucy's parents were there to greet me. Dr. and Mrs. Aimes look exactly like parents should—late forties with bodies that have started to go soft, clothes that have long since gone square, and lines etching themselves into their faces. You can tell they're good people, though, because their lines are a map of all the smiling they've done through the years. A lot of people's lines map out a different kind of story.

I wondered for a moment about the lines my face might show someday. Then I thought about the lines my momma's face had never shown, and I felt that much worse.

“I'll show you to the guest room,” Lucy said, rescuing me from their fussing.

By the time I'd finished settling my stuff, Lucy, her dad, Piers, and T.J. had gathered in the front parlor to look at some old crate that Byron, the preservation manager at the plantation, had brought over to show Dr. Aimes.

Byron was in his mid-forties, and he had that kind of nondescript, doughy look to him that some men start to get at that age when they sit too long and eat too much. Lucy had hated working for him earlier that summer. Her dad had promised that working at Le Ciel would mean an opportunity for her to take pictures for a new book the university was putting together, but Byron never let her do anything but fetch coffee or hold his equipment. I hadn't had much experience with him myself, but every time I'd seen him around the property, he always seemed to be sweating.

As I walked in, Byron was wiping his brow with a rumpled blue handkerchief. “Thought you'd want to see it, so I brought it right over,” he was saying to Dr. Aimes.

“You say you found this in the attic?” Lucy's dad asked, peering at the crate through the thick lenses of his glasses. “I thought we cleaned that out back in June?”

Byron tucked the handkerchief into his back pocket. “We did. But when the electrical crew went in to redo some of the wiring, they ran into this tucked away in the back of one of the eaves.”

Piers motioned for me to come over to the table. I stood near him, and he wrapped an arm around my waist as we watched Byron and Dr. Aimes carefully pry open the lid. We all leaned forward a little to see what the crate contained, but at first I couldn't make out anything but some old fabric gone black with age and mold.

It took them a little longer to make sense of the box's contents. That whole big crate, and all that was inside was a couple of old books wrapped in yards and yards of the moldering old material.

“That's it?” T.J. asked, clearly unimpressed.

“Amazing, isn't it?” Dr. Aimes answered, completely missing his youngest child's disappointment.

T.J. shook his head, like he couldn't believe he'd waited around for nothing, and then took off into another room.

When they opened the first of the books, Lucy let out a small, strangled gasp.

“Would you look at that,” Dr. Aimes said with a kind of satisfied triumph that made it clear he hadn't noticed his daughter's distress either. He turned the book to show us that the object wasn't a book at all. Beneath the cover, a startlingly crisp image of a couple peered out from behind thick glass.

I recognized who they were immediately—in the big house there were matching portraits of Roman Dutilette and his
much
younger French wife, Josephine. But seeing them like this, I understood Lucy's reaction. The images were so clear, so lifelike that it seemed like the pair had been shrunken and trapped under the glass.

“Did you have any record of Roman commissioning a daguerreotype?” Dr. Aimes asked Byron, but he didn't wait for an answer. He was already moving on to the other book, which turned out to actually be a book this time.

“It appears to be a journal,” he said, holding the slim volume in his gloved hands and opening it carefully. It was covered in dark, cracked leather that looked near to disintegrating, but the edges of the pages were tipped in gold. Even I could see that at one time, it had been a rich man's book.

As Dr. Aimes turned the pages of the book carefully, his whole expression was rapt and almost possessive. He was looking at the book like it was some kind of buried treasure for him alone. “From my very meager French, it looks like a journal that belonged to Roman Dutilette. But much of it is written in some kind of code.”

“Why would he write in code?” Lucy asked doubtfully.

“Probably to keep his thoughts private. It's not like he would've been the first,” Piers explained. “William Byrd's is probably the most famous example of a slave owner keeping a coded diary, but I doubt he was the only one.” Piers leaned forward, his brows drawn together as he looked at the book. “Can I see it?” he asked.

Dr. Aimes frowned, like he wasn't quite ready to give up the volume, but Piers was already pulling on a pair of the white gloves they use for handling the old stuff. Reluctantly, Dr. Aimes handed it over.

“It's not a code,” Piers said after a few moments of studying the pages.

“What do you mean?” Dr. Aimes looked completely baffled.

“It's a language,” Piers explained, pointing out something on the small volume's yellowed pages. “See here, this marking is the Nsibidi symbol for woman.”

“En-sigh-what?” Byron asked, narrowing his eyes at Piers.

“Nsibidi. It's a language that's used in Western Africa by the Igbo people,” Piers said. “I did a paper on some of the ceremonial uses of it a few years back for Professor Lamont's grad seminar. It's still used, but there are hundreds of secret symbols that are only passed between family members or between teachers and their students.”

“Why would Dutilette be writing in some African language?” Byron asked, scowling at Piers.

“Oh, there could be any number of reasons,” Dr. Aimes said. “It's possible that he didn't write it, or it's possible that one of his slaves taught him.”

Byron snorted.

Dr. Aimes didn't acknowledge Byron's derision. “Can you read any more of it?” he asked Piers.

Piers shook his head. “Languages aren't really my thing,” he said. “But if I'm right about what it is, it shouldn't be all that hard to translate.”

“Leonard, you're going to have to put that away now.” Lucy's mom peeked her head through the door. “Dinner is almost ready, and we have a guest.” Mrs. Aimes gave me a smile that was a welcome and apology all at once. It was a motherly smile, and it felt like a punch to the gut. “You're staying too, Piers?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said, flashing her a smile. Then his eyes met mine, and the smile dimmed.

“Byron?”

“No, ma'am, but thank you. I'll just be getting these artifacts back,” he said, reaching for the book.

“Oh, I can bring them later,” Dr. Aimes said, still studying the book with a resolute intensity.

Byron scowled. “I think it's best if I take them to the office, where I can secure them,” he said, determined.

Dr. Aimes looked up, clearly irritated. “Byron, I understand that you worked for the last owner, but
I'm
the director of the project now. The house and its contents are
my
responsibility. Not yours.”

“You might be director, but I'm in charge of the artifacts,” Byron shot back darkly. “Anything happens to them, and it's my ass on the line.”

“I'll walk them over later tonight,” Dr. Aimes said. His tone was so stark that it was clear the decision was final.

“I really think we need to follow protocol on this … ”

“Are you implying that I don't know how to handle artifacts?” Dr. Aimes asked. I'd never heard his voice go steely like that.

See, Lucy's dad is all gangly limbs and tufts of hair sticking out at odd angles, and he has a way about him that makes you think of a snug corner in an old library when he speaks. Like there's book dust in his voice. He'd brought his whole family to Louisiana because restoring Le Ciel was his dream, and his family loved him enough not to hate him for it. But glaring at Byron like he was, I saw a side of him I hadn't noticed before.

For a moment, Byron looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn't. He glared at Dr. Aimes before he sullenly took his leave, looking back more than once before he finally left the parlor.

Dr. Aimes took a moment longer to look over the book before he set the two artifacts back into the crate reluctantly.

“Oh, Piers,” Dr. Aimes said, his voice back to its usual softness and his expression relaxed. “Hold on. There's one other thing I wanted to talk to you about … Let me just grab it.” He stood abruptly and disappeared into another room.

“Are you okay?” Piers asked Lucy. “For a second there, you looked like you were about to fall over.”

Lucy's cheeked flushed in embarrassment. “The picture took me off guard.”