by L. C. Son
As we ride through town, I am shocked to see how so much has changed since my departure. Still, for whatever changes may have come, I am pleased to see New Orleans has lost none of the charm I recall from my youth.
Bright colors of teal, lilac, and yellow adorn many of the buildings and the delectable smell of creole cuisine fills the air. I even notice a small corner bakery I remember to be my father’s favorite. How he loved their pastries and croissants! I never had a croissant like the ones from his favorite bakery while living at the saloon; although our resident cook did make a decent dough—it wasn’t the same.
I make a mental note of its location, hopeful to ask Austin to make a stop there upon our return.
While the smell of New Orleans is comforting, there is one thing I’ve missed even more. The sound of New Orleans.
The sound of trumpets and trombones blaring along with the fiddling jangle of violins fills my heart with a joy I had long forgotten.
Memories of Calida taking me and Victoria out to hear the music and dance in the Quarter during Mardi Gras send a flurry of emotions through me. I do my best to push aside thoughts of her demise and instead linger in the pleasantness recollections of my beloved sister bring me.
For the first time at the remembrance of Calida, tears don’t flood my face. I actually feel happy. As odd as it even to admit it, a part of me hopes this feeling never goes away.
The carriage stops and Austin opens the carriage door as I take in the sight of the grandeur of St. Louis’ museum before me. A tall red brick building with orange and green shutters stands out from the nearby buildings. I can’t help gasping at the sight of it as it almost seems out of place along the array of taverns, small offices and bakery shops in its galley.
Stepping out of the carriage, Austin helps me down and tells me he will return in a few hours. Although I know little of the courteous young man who now holds my hand as I stand in front of the museum, I almost hate the thought of him leaving my side. He and Greta are all I know in this place I once called my home.
Pushing my angst aside, I pull the bell string at the thick black double door entrance of the museum, looking over my shoulder pensively as Austin prepares to leave.
“Can I help you?” A hoarse voice creaks out, making me a tad jumpy.
“Ah, yes, my name is Chartreuse Grenoble. I was sent by Lord Dalcour Marchand,” I answer, my voice slightly cracking as I look down at the short rotund man before me. “I was told to ask for Kellan St. John.”
“I see,” he replies, rubbing the stubble hair on his chin. “And you must be his ward,” he says with one brow raise and eyes fixed at my cleavage. Even though I’ve grown accustomed to men eyeing my bosom, it still bothers me. I step back, flicking my fan open to cover my chest and his gaze flits up to my eyes. A small smile hovers under the shadow of his pencil thin mustache, but the pipe at the corner of his mouth prevents his smile from stretching full. “Well, I am not him, but we were expecting you, my dear. Do come in,” he says with a brighter tone than his first greeting as the door opens wide.
Looking back over my shoulder, Austin tips his hat to me, shooting a narrowed glare over my shoulder toward the man before smiling once more and swatting the horse with the whip to move forward. I smile in return and begin making my way inside.
My eyes stretch far and wide as I take in the array of art and antiques adorned in the marble floor hall of the museum. There is such a stately, yet decadent allure amid the golden sculptures, paintings, and treasures throughout the hall, it’s hard to take it all in.
Simply breathtaking!
“The name is Oliver Burgin,” the man says after forcing out a faux cough, breaking me from my apparent musing. “I am the curator to all you see here,” he adds, pulling his suspenders and raising on the balls of his feet while proudly puffing his chest.
“It is very nice to meet you Mr. Burgin,” I reply.
“No need for formalities here, Oliver will suffice. Mr. Burgin is my father, and that old coot kicked the bucket some twenty years prior.” Laughing, his round belly shakes as he runs his hands up and down his suspenders. I only smile in return as he pulls the pipe from his mouth and extends his hand toward an adjacent hallway. “The meeting will start soon, my dear. Please follow me.”
He leads me down a narrow hallway that smells of cigar pipes and coffee causing more reminiscent thoughts of my father reading at the kitchen table flash through my mind.
I had no idea being back in New Orleans would drive me to such an emotional state. Nonetheless, I force my thoughts aside as Oliver pushes a thick red curtain open, revealing a large hall. Four men and two women are seated along a long table opposite one another, each with either a cigar pipe or cup of coffee in their hand.
Pulling a tall wingback chair out from under the table, Oliver gestures for me to be seated as he walks to the head of the table and taps a man on the shoulder whose back is to the rest of the room. He whispers something in the man’s ear and the man points to something on the other side of the room and Oliver almost races to pick up a large wooden chest and brings it back to the man. As the two continue talking with their backs to us, I look around the room and down the table, hopeful for a pleasant face.
“So, you must be Lord Marchand’s ward,” a petite woman says to me from across the table. Looking at her I smile, and she offers her hand, tipping it at her wrist as though she expected me to kiss it. Opting to wave at her instead, her eyes fall slightly, but she quickly forces a smile back to her face. “My name is Lucinda Warcraft,” she adds with a light chuckle.
“My name is Chartreuse,” I answer, purposely avoiding my last name. I am still unsure who knows the extent of my family’s involvement in the Great Fire of 1788, nor do I have desire to bring attention to myself.
“Well, I hope you have something of worth to bring to the table. Something more than the delusions of grandeur Marchand is obviously selling,” a tall man seated next to me huffs.
Turning my head to quickly meet his gaze, I see nothing that resembles strength behind his eyes. For years I’ve looked into the soulless eyes of men. Whether they be a cheap thrill of the night or pub congregant, the eyes of the weak are all the same. This man is weak. Even the words he speaks are those of fear, although he’d fashion his mind to think his retort revealed his strength; I know better.
There’s no way this man would dare speak such things in the presence of Dalcour Marchand and live.
“Please, Thaddeus, you mustn’t speak ill of the Lord Marchand in the presence of his young ward,” Lucinda teases with laughter. “I am so sorry, Chartreuse. You must forgive Thaddeus; he is not the most refined of nobility. He is, after all, only human,” she laughs once more.
“I need no pardon from the likes of you Lucinda. I may be what remains of the human faction represented, but do not forget my words hold the most weight,” Thaddeus counters.
“Ha! Ha! Is that what we let you believe?” Another man barks two chairs down from us. “Once the wolves reclaim our rightful place, we’ll have no need of you or any human!”
“Oh Cephas, not that again! For a wolf, you are such a bore!” Lucinda bites back. “I thought wolves were the fun ones.” At Lucinda’s lashing rebuke, the table breaks into an uproar and the sound of disharmony fills the hall.
“All right, that will be quite enough!” Oliver shouts, raising his short arms to his sides. “It is time we get started with the business of the day.” The others quietly mumble among themselves, trading final trite remarks to one another as they slowly turn their attention to the front of the table.
I inwardly chuckle at how much life in the saloon prepared me for this mildly combative atmosphere. Although it is apparent the members here are quite apathetic about my presence, and even about Dalcour for that matter, I am neither bothered nor worried.
I suppose in this, Mother trained me well.
“We will now hear opening remarks from Master St. John.” Oliver anno
unces, extending his arm toward the tall man at his side.
As he turns around, my mouth slightly parts with a gasp, awe overtaking me at the reveal at such handsomeness.
His tall, stately presence stands just as tall as Dalcour’s six-foot frame, dwarfing Oliver at his side. With curly brown hair framing his perfectly sheened, olive skin, his steel-gray eyes cut like glass as he stares down the table, instantly locking with my own. He offers a crooked smile that hides under the shadow of his perfectly sculpted mustache.
“Well, I see the young St. John is not quite grieving his father’s passing as we may have thought,” Thaddeus gruffly mumbles, narrowing his eyes over his shoulder toward me.
Thinking of my own father, my heart pains at learning of his father’s death. While I don’t know him, I know too well how tragic such a loss can be.
“Ah yes,” Lucinda whispers back, swirling a long pipe in the corner of her mouth, “he seems quite distracted,” she adds with a laugh.
“Anything of interest to report Lady Warcraft?” Master St. John sneers, pounding his hand flat on the long wooden table. Lucinda throws her head down shamefully and Thaddeus looks away from me. The sound reverberates through the hall and both Lucinda and Thaddeus straighten themselves in their seats.
Taking three paper rolls from Oliver, Master St. John lays them on the table along with a thick stack of paperwork before pulling out the large chair at the front of the room and taking his seat. “I see we have a new guest with us today,” St. John begins as Oliver whispers in his ear.
“Yes sir,” I begin, pushing myself up from the table to stand. “My name is Chartreuse. I am Lord Marchand’s ward.”
“Yes, ma’am and welcome, Ms. Grenoble. We are fortunate to have you here with us today,” he says with a warm smile. As I take my seat, a few others grumble at the end of the table and both Lucinda and Thaddeus share knowing glances, and an eerie feeling swarms the pit of my gut.
As much as I should endeavor this a time to enjoy myself, as Dalcour instructed, much like my time under Monroe and Mother’s rule, I see I’ll have to protect my own interests.
And I shall do so by any means.
Chapter Twenty-One
The meeting ends just as combative as it began. It is a wonder why Dalcour wants to do anything with this group that bears no likeness of civility. As they are truly anything to the contrary.
Most of their angst seems to surround trivial matters such as the preparation of baskets of wine and cheese for distribution to notables and supernaturals during an upcoming grand ball. I suppose the thought of such a task seemed too trite for most in the room to perform. Since no one took an interest, I quickly volunteered my hand when Oliver read off the to-do list. No one seemed to bat an eye, likely thankful that I alone chose such a menial task.
Lucinda opted to work with a quiet woman on the other end of table in selecting the paintings to hang in the exhibit hall in preparation for a cotilion while Thaddeus agreed to secure financial backing for the event.
Master St. John was noticeably quiet during the remainder of the meeting after he made opening remarks about the cotilion and a bit of rambling about creating a formal census of the factions of supernaturals as well as notables in the City. The only time he had an affirming word to say, Thaddeus seemed to be the only other person who agreed a census was necessary, while the others balked at the idea.
Clamoring shouts and shared expletives echoed through the room for more than fifteen minutes before Oliver pounded a mallet against a small wooden board and the room went silent.
Without a word, everyone got up from their seats, taking their exits.
“Madame Chartreuse,” Oliver says, now at my side, handing me a thin leather binder. “Here is the list of those requiring baskets of wine and cheese. You can return here at the same time tomorrow to begin the preparation.”
“Thank you, Oliver,” I reply, taking the binder and stuffing it in the folio Dalcour gave me.
“I trust you do know your wines. There’ll be no time to educate you on the difference between a Bordeaux and a Chablis.”
“Well, that depends on if you prefer a Larose over a Volnay, my dear Oliver. I tend to favor a Sparkling Hock or port of Madeira myself. What about you?”
“Ha! Ha! Very well Madame Chartreuse, bright and early then. Bright and early,” Oliver says with a hearty laugh as he takes my satchel and helps me up from my seat and leads me down the hall.
As we near the main entrance, we come upon Thaddeus and another man who are talking with Master St. John.
“Listen St. John,” the other man says, “I don’t care what that superpowered negro wants to do, this will not work! We all know the mess the Marchand and Grenoble families inflicted on this City twenty years ago! I lost family! Friends! I tell you nothing good will come of this,” the man exclaims.
Thaddeus catches my eye and taps the shoulder of his companion and the man glares at me with a tight scowl.
Horrific flashes of fires blazing through the city streets score through my mind. The sounds of shrilling cries echo in my memory as do thoughts of my family and I narrowly escaping those who wished we meet the same fate as Calida. My eyes glass with tears, but I bite my lip, refusing any droplets their escape.
I will not let them see me cry.
“That is quite enough Henrik!” Master St. John shouts back at the man. His eyes soften as he regards me, but he keeps a stern watch on both Thaddeus and Henrik.
Words fail to form in my mouth. Nothing but anger now fuels my thoughts as I push through the crowd of men and barrel out of the double doors.
I don’t see Austin as I exit, looking up and down the street. Nonetheless, I begin walking east, recalling our path from this morning. A steady stream of tears floods my face, but I keep my march onward. I need to get as far from the museum as possible.
While I understand their pain, they fail to understand my pain is comparable to their own. For surely, they are not the only ones who lost something on that great and terrible day.
The sun is bright as I make my way down the street and its heat seems to dry my tears along the way. It’s a comforting conundrum. The one thing that I shall one day see no more, is the only thing that now consoles me.
A small chuckle escapes me at the thought and a sweet and familiar smell feathers my nose. Stopping in place, I look up and notice I am at the bakery we passed by this morning. Smiling, I look up at the sun, thankful for yet another reassuring reprieve.
Going inside, memories of my father once more flood my mind and my once incensed thoughts dissipate.
“How can I help you, ma’am?” A young girl asks with a bright smile.
“Yes, I’d like two croissants and a small tow of biscuits,” I answer, inhaling the savory aroma.
“Yes, ma’am,” she answers as she gets a small woven tray. “I must say, that is a very pretty dress. The color suits your complexion perfectly.”
“Thank you,” I answer, thankful for the most sincere compliment I have received all day.
She smiles wide while putting the pastries on the tray, peering over my shoulder. “I bet you have all sorts of lovely fabrics that she’d look lovely in!”
“Yes ma’am, Miss Emily!” A lush voice calls from behind me. Turning around, I am surprised to see a face I had only seen in a shadowed memory.
“Oh yes, Mr. Elias has the prettiest fabrics this side of the Mississippi!” The young woman exclaims, now placing the food in a small white box.
“Well, I am not sure about all of that, Miss Emily, but I sure do appreciate your kindness,” he answers, tipping his feathered brim hat, smiling at us both as he exits.
My feet are tethered to the ground as I come face to face with my sister’s betrayer for the first time. Heat rises from my skin and a kindling rage grows within me that feels almost sinister. Murderous musings score through my mind at the sight of him and it takes everything in me not to act upon the impulses ur
ging me to strike him where he stands.
Keeping my gaze set on him as he walks out of the store and down the street carrying two loaves of bread, my heart beats like a mad drum in my chest. Feverish sweat thickens along my brow and above my lip and an almost sickeningly violent urge erupts through me. Still, I dig my feet deeper into the wooden floors beneath me, preventing the malice within from performing the vile acts flashing through my mind.
Closing my eyes, I am hopeful that lessening the sight of him will douse the errancy gnawing within me. Taking a deep breath, I work hard to force aside the enchanting words of the Changelings. But for as much as I try, haunting melodies of mulberry trees and juniper stir through me, igniting familiar homicidal thoughts of old.
Stay calm Chartreuse.
“Your order is ready, ma’am,” the young woman says in a bright tone, obviously unaware of the melancholy brewing within me.
I take another deep breath and exhale. I can only hope the smell of the bakery and the fond thoughts that once captured my state, are enough to sate the sinister desires begging for their release.
“Ma’am,” she calls once more, this time her tone reveals a shade of concern.
“I’ll pay for it,” a familiar masculine voice answers before I have an opportunity to open my eyes.
Blaring my eyes wide, I am surprised to find Master St. John standing just a few feet from me now. Paying the woman, he takes the small box from her and turns back to me with a luminous grin.
“I figured it was the least I could do—I mean after the foolery of Henrik and Thaddeus,” he adds, still smiling wide. Staring at him, his face is more youthful than I originally thought. Even as he smiles, his perfectly peach-colored lips reveal a swoon-worthy perfection, I thought most men incapable.
“What are you doing here?” My tone is sharper than I intend as frazzled thoughts of Elias and the words of Henrik and Thaddeus replay in my mind.
