The Wish Collector

by Mia Sheridan

  Clara said her name softly once and then again, as though to commit it to memory. “Do you think her family might be alive?”

  “I have no idea, but even so, you can’t just go knocking on strangers’ doors alone. There are dangerous people and lots of unsavory parts of New Orleans.”

  “Come with me.”

  Jonah expelled a breath. “You know I can’t.”

  Clara was quiet for a moment. “Maybe I could go there.”

  “Here?”

  “Inside Windisle. I could help you look through those papers.”

  “I don’t think so.” He shut his eyes, hating that he was rejecting her in any capacity. He’d stood her up once and this felt like he was doing it again but . . . no, he couldn’t allow her to go beyond the weeping wall, to see the place where he showed his scarred and ruined face. Not only did he not want her to see it, but this place was safe for him. Here, he didn’t hide. Not from the trees or the ghosts or Myrtle or Cecil. And not from a beautiful girl who would grimace when she laid her eyes upon him the way all the others had. Even his own mother hadn’t been able to bear the sight of him. His heart beat dully. No, he couldn’t invite her in.

  “Okay,” she said softly, understanding lacing her tone and causing him to feel even guiltier. “But will you call me tomorrow if you have a chance to look through those papers? Anything you find, Jonah, will you share it with me?”

  I’d share everything with you if I could. Even my blackened soul . . . “Yes. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Okay.” There was a smile in her voice. “Sleep tight.”

  “You, too. Goodnight, Clara.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  April, 1861

  Angelina removed the hood obscuring her face and shut the door behind her, turning to John with a smile that immediately fell. “What is it? The look on your face, John. Is something wrong?”

  He walked to her, his boot steps loud on the old wooden floor of the boathouse on his family’s vast estate.

  They’d been meeting there since Astrid had begun covering for Angelina by sending her on fabricated errands in town. Instead, Angelina would go to the small structure on the edge of the Mississippi, and she and John would spend a few hours together in a location where they didn’t have to worry about being caught. It still housed equipment and tools, but no one came to the Whitfield estate boathouse since John’s father had passed away earlier that year.

  As he approached her, John’s expression was so solemn it caused Angelina’s heart to contract and nerves to flutter in her belly.

  He took her face in his large hands and for a moment he simply gazed at her. She looked back at him, searching his eyes and finding the love always present in his gaze.

  She released a pent-up breath. Whatever it was would be fine. As long as he still loved her, she could endure anything else.

  “I’m going to war, Angelina.”

  A lump formed immediately in her throat, and she turned away, his hands dropping from her face as she leaned against the wall.

  “When?” she choked.

  “I leave day after tomorrow.”

  Her heart squeezed painfully and she brought a hand to it. “Day after tomorrow? Why, John?”

  He turned away, pacing as he ran a hand through his hair. “The Confederacy needs me.” He said it quickly, his tone making the hairs on the back of Angelina’s neck rise. His tone was different, one she’d never heard before. She had the vague notion he was lying to her, or leaving something out, and she didn’t know why she felt that, but she did.

  He turned back to her. “This war, Angelina, it could change everything. It could free you.” The sentence was uttered on a burst of breath and then his mouth settled into a thin line as a muscle jumped in his jaw.

  Angelina stared at him for a moment. This war that John had spoken of for months had all seemed so unreal, so distant and disconnected from her world. But she suddenly realized that that would not be the case for long.

  “But, John, you’ll be fighting for the South.” Fighting against the side that would see her free, that would see her mama free, and all those men and women and children who came back from the fields sweaty and dirty and without hope day after day after day.

  John let out a grunt of frustration. “I know. It’s the way it has to be.”

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath as he grasped her upper arms in his hands, holding on to her as though she might disappear at any moment if not for his strong grip. “It seems wrong. Damn it, Angelina, it feels wrong. But I . . . I have to. I’m sorry.”

  Hurt trickled through her. She couldn’t help it. She knew it wasn’t his fault, knew he was only doing his job as a soldier, following orders delivered by other men with other ideas. That’s how war worked, wasn’t it?

  But the knowledge that he would be fighting against her freedom was an arrow to her soul. Despite having no choice, the knowledge that his weapon would be aimed at the hearts of men who would free her if they could, crushed her on a level that defied logic or reason.

  “I know,” she breathed. Because she did, even if she couldn’t feel it.

  “Listen to me, Angelina. Keep your head down. Don’t take any risks. Just do as you’re supposed to do until this war is over.”

  She wanted to laugh, or cry, or both. What did he know about keeping her head down? She’d been raised to keep her head down—born to do so maybe, although that thought was too hopeless to consider—and everything else along with it. It was all she knew. All she’d done her whole life . . . until him.

  And now he was the one telling her not to take any risks. That would be easy, wouldn’t it, now that he was leaving? The thought should have brought her relief—there would be no more hiding and lying and sneaking around.

  And maybe the idea of him telling her to keep her head down should have made her angry. But her feelings were all over the place, and the only one she could identify was anguish.

  She didn’t want him to leave. She didn’t want a war—especially one the South might win. She just wanted to love him and feel loved in return. Why was that too much to ask? Why must the color of one’s skin determine destiny? Determine wars. Separation. How did the color of one’s skin create such distinction when no one asked to be born what he or she was? Surely God on High hadn’t intended that. Had He?

  “Kiss me, John.”

  His gaze moved over her face for a bated breath, hot, fierce as if he was memorizing her features one by one. Then his mouth was on hers, demanding, urgent, and she had the sense that time was ticking . . . ticking, because of course it was.

  He brought her to the floor, his hands moving under her dress, and something rough dug at her back. It didn’t matter. As long as he was with her, she’d sleep on dirt or rocks or the thorns of a hundred prickly rose bushes.

  He entered her body in one smooth thrust. “I love you. I will come back to you, do you hear me?” he breathed, his words punctuated by his pounding hips.

  “Promise me,” she gasped, her nails sinking into the damp skin of his back.

  “I promise you, Angelina.”

  She took his promise inside of her and locked it safely away. It was all she had in the world that was hers and hers alone. Nothing else belonged to her—not her future, not her happiness—not even herself.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Steam rose from a nearby manhole cover as Clara stepped off the curb, glancing both ways before crossing the narrow, deserted street.

  This was obviously not the safest of neighborhoods, but Clara was determined to get to the address she’d looked up online, the address of a shop belonging to Fabienne Simoneaux, who advertised herself as a voodoo priestess providing healing and spiritual comfort. It was the small line at the bottom of the ad that had given Clara the most hope: “Descended from a long line of voodoo priestesses.”

  Clara had called the number listed on the ad—repeatedly—only to get a message telling her the voicemail connected to that number was
full.

  So she was headed to the address where she hoped to have better luck. She didn’t know if Fabienne Simoneaux was a distant relative of Sibille, but apparently, there was only one way to find out.

  Clara glanced over her shoulder, swearing she’d heard footsteps, but the street behind her was deserted, not a soul in sight.

  Despite that the sky was still light, no shadows to fear, a strange bristling at the nape of her neck caused her to shiver, and she unfolded the printout of the ad, double-checking the shop number. It should be right ahead, on the next block. She hurried toward it.

  Jonah had warned her not to do this, and realistically, she knew she should be cautious. Bad things happened to women alone in questionable neighborhoods all the time. But that damn ticking feeling was growing louder, more insistent, and she could not sit idly by if there might be information somewhere waiting for her. It simply wasn’t in her nature to hesitate.

  She gripped the address in one hand and kept her other hand in her pocket, her fingers curled around the container of pepper spray.

  Clara walked past several boarded-up businesses, a Laundromat, a framing shop, and what had once been a deli. Was this one of the neighborhoods still recovering from Hurricane Katrina?

  Mr. Baptiste had told her some sections of New Orleans were still struggling to get back on their feet, though the disaster had occurred over a decade before. How awful.

  Were any of the shops still open for business? A sinking feeling descended over Clara, right before she spied the one she was looking for, the sign chipped but there. She was even more relieved to see light coming from under the door, even though the windows had been painted over with black paint.

  Clara tried the door but it was locked, and so she knocked, putting both hands in her jacket pockets as she waited. She heard footsteps from within and then the door was pulled open to reveal a woman with long, black curly hair and one of the most beautiful faces Clara had ever seen in her life. She was wearing low-slung jeans and a crop top that exposed almost all of her smooth, mocha belly. “Yeah?”

  “Hi. Are you Fabienne?”

  The woman eyed her. “Who’s asking?”

  Clara held out her hand and Fabienne took it suspiciously. “Hi, I’m Clara, and I was hoping you were open for business and I could ask you a couple of questions?”

  “Questions about what?”

  Clara heard voices in the street and glanced behind her. “May I come in?”

  Fabienne glanced over Clara’s shoulder, pressing her lips together before looking back at Clara. She sighed. “Spiritual readings are a hundred and fifty.”

  “Oh, I don’t want a read—”

  “Spiritual readings are a hundred and fifty.”

  “Right,” Clara said, drawing out the word as understanding dawned. This woman was only going to answer questions if she paid her.

  “I don’t have that much cash on me.”

  “I take credit.”

  Clara stared at her for a second, the woman’s dark gaze steadfast, without a hint of apology. “All right, but before I pay for a spiritual reading, I need to know if you’re a relative of Sibille Simoneaux.”

  Fabienne looked over her shoulder and pointed to a picture high up on the wall in a grouping of other photographs.

  Clara walked toward it, squinting her eyes as she peered at the picture of an old, old woman, her eyes milky white, as she seemed to stare straight into the camera. “That’s her?” she murmured, a small chill moving down her spine.

  Those eyes . . . Clara swore they followed her as she walked slowly back to where Fabienne stood, though obviously even in life, they’d followed nothing.

  “That’s Sibille,” Fabienne said.

  Clara pulled her credit card from the inside pocket of her jacket, handing it over to Fabienne.

  Fabienne took the card and swiped it on the card reader already plugged into her phone and then handed it to Clara to sign. Clara scrawled quickly, trying not to think about the fact that she had just given up a hundred and fifty dollars toward her car down payment. This had better be worth it, Clara thought, though she was already skeptical.

  “What do you want to know?” Fabienne asked, sitting down on a black velvet sofa that had seen better days and crossing her long legs.

  “Do I get a spiritual reading along with my questions?” Clara asked, taking a seat on the wooden chair across from her.

  “That’s extra.”

  That made absolutely no sense and Clara stopped just short of rolling her eyes. Not that she wanted a spiritual reading from the woman, who she had a feeling might have scammed her out of a hundred and fifty bucks.

  “I’m interested in the story of John Whitfield, a southern soldier, and Angelina Loreaux, a slave. They’re the two spirits said to be trapped at Winisle Plantation.”

  “Okay.” Clara was relieved. Fabienne knew of them and was willing to give information.

  “Your”—what would Sibille be to Fabienne? A sixth great-grandmother maybe?—“relative spoke a riddle at a party that she said would break the curse put upon John Whitfield. The curse that somehow tangled Angelina as well and keeps them both trapped at Windisle Plantation. Do you know the riddle?”

  “Refresh my memory.” Fabienne’s eyes darted up the stairs as a baby began to cry, but when the crying stopped a moment later, Fabienne’s gaze returned to Clara. Either the baby had cried out in sleep or someone had responded to it.

  Clara bit at her lip, moving her mind back to their conversation. “Sibille said the only thing that could break the curse that Angelina’s mother, Mama Loreaux, put on John Whitfield, is a drop of Angelina’s blood being brought to the light.”

  Fabienne stared at Clara, unmoved. “You believe in that?”

  “Believe in . . . curses? Or that they can be broken?” She wasn’t sure about anything involving ghost stories, or curses, or riddles said to break them. It was all so . . . beyond her. But she didn’t know which other leads to follow that might provide the answers to the many questions swirling in her head.

  Maybe the legend of Angelina and John being trapped wasn’t even true. Perhaps their spirits didn’t wander the rose garden, blind to the presence of the other, eternally trapped, despite the stories and the reported sightings, despite the definite weeping she’d experienced at the wall that day with Jonah.

  But there was a reason John betrayed Angelina, a reason he never married Astrid Chamberlain, a reason—

  “No. Curses are very real.” Fabienne leaned forward. “And every curse has a weak spot—something that, if done in the right way, will break it and set the person free.”

  Fabienne pointed her finger at the gallery of portraits hanging on the wall. “That’s what that old blind priestess must have meant. Good luck solving the riddle.”

  Clara frowned. Good luck? “That old blind priestess? I thought she was related to you.”

  Fabienne shook her head. “I never said that.”

  “But your last names—”

  “There are thousands of Simoneauxes in New Orleans.”

  Good grief. Clara sighed. She couldn’t even be mad. Clara had made all the assumptions while this woman had neatly convinced her to hand over a decent sum of money that she could have used better elsewhere. Great. She almost demanded Fabienne give her a refund, but was interrupted by the baby who began crying upstairs again, this time in earnest. Clara looked at Fabienne. “Do you have any knowledge at all of John Whitfield and Angelina Loreaux?”

  Fabienne studied her nails for a second, though Clara sensed that her casual display was an act. Her muscles looked tensed to go to the crying baby. “Just what you told me. Sounds like quite the story.”

  Clara’s shoulders dropped and she began to stand. “It is. You should look it up.” She turned to leave.

  Fabienne stood too. “I can tell you one thing, though.” Clara turned back toward her. “Curses do not trap those they’re not intended for.”

  “What . . . what do you m
ean?” Clara asked as the baby’s wail increased in strength and volume and Fabienne began inching toward a set of stairs that obviously led to living quarters.

  “If there was a curse put on John, Angelina isn’t locked in it. If Angelina lingers, she lingers for him. For the soldier man.”

  The baby let out another sharp wail and Clara nodded at Fabienne, thanking her before letting herself out the door of the shop.

  For a moment she stood in the doorway overhang, Fabienne’s words ringing in her head. If Angelina lingers, she lingers for him. But why? Why would a woman linger for a man who, until the moment of her tragic death, she believed had betrayed her? Or . . . so the story went.

  The bare bulb hanging in the doorway suddenly extinguished and Clara realized that in the time she’d been in the shop, sunset had come and gone.

  The streets were now dark, though sounds—both distant and nearby—told her that this place was not as deserted as it seemed.

  A dog barked, another answering, something that sounded like the lid of a garbage can clattered on the ground, someone laughed and glass broke just down the street, spurring Clara to begin walking toward the bus stop a couple of streets over.

  She had planned on hiring an Uber to get to the shop, but there had been a wait for a driver when she’d gone to schedule one. A quick check of the bus schedule had told her she could get there more quickly that way.

  She’d assumed it was an area full of plenty of well-lit businesses, but if that had been the case once upon a time, it definitely wasn’t now.

  However, the chill that moved down her spine convinced her that rather than walking a few blocks in the unfamiliar, questionably safe neighborhood, she’d call for a ride.

  She stopped walking, stepping into a shadowy doorway and taking her phone from her pocket.

  “You here for me?”

  Clara let out a startled yelp, whirling around to see a homeless man slumped in the corner. He laughed, holding up a bottle in a paper bag. “Join me, sweetheart.”