Seven children, thought Maureen. This had to be a sign.
Maureen spent the rest of the afternoon reading about the tribulations of Hopestill Wolfe. Hopestill was not like the witches they learned about in school, cunning women who could not be trusted and whom you never wanted to turn your back on. Of course, Maureen always knew that was untrue, as witches were everyday women in her world, but that ancient fear pervaded and became a modern one. Even today, the world was inhospitable to magic.
The cunning women of Appalachia were part Celt, part Cherokee, a mix of settlers and centuries-old natives. According to Hopestill, they were feared and reviled, but when prayer failed, they were also sought out, for their powerful healing. After Hopestill’s third child passed, a daughter named Grace, Hopestill ventured into the mountains to find these women.
From them, Hopestill learned powerful wards, which the women told her were needed to fend off the demons plaguing the Wolfe household. Demons, they said, were drawn to the weakness in man, and Obadiah had done something terrible, and this terrible thing had brought them to the mountains. The diary never said what that terrible thing was, and Maureen was so connected to Hopestill, as she had been to Miss Havisham, that she forgot why she’d come to the library to begin with and found herself powerfully disappointed.
But the women taught Hopestill something else, as well.
Hopestill mourned for her three lost children and was compelled, several times, to attempt her own life to be with them. When the Appalachian witches learned of this, they comforted her with a secret they had shared with very few: The dead never truly died. They were here with them, always, for those who had eyes to see.
These women were not born with magic, but had been born to it. From both the Celts and the Cherokee, they had mixed their knowledge into something united and very powerful, and they were not afraid of what it wrought. They showed Hopestill their deepest secrets, which was both a blessing and a curse. For once Hopestill learned how to see and speak with her lost children, she was never the same again.
Maureen had to go back and read a couple dozen pages, for the reference to how Hopestill accomplished this was so brief she’d missed it. She wondered, was that a rule of these mountain witches? That their magic could be passed by mouth alone?
She found it when she went back and made notes in her journal. Every person among the dead has a tether to their living life. You must find it. A physical item, different for all, but this is the link. It may be something they left behind, or something that speaks their truth. There was nothing else but this, no notes about the magic or the ceremony required. But Maureen realized she might not need anything else. She already had the magic. She only needed the link.
Maureen closed the book. She set the other ten books on the cart for the librarian to re-sort—oh, how she wished to be a fly on the wall when they saw this strange selection and tried to suss out the reasons!—but hesitated to set The Appalachian Diary of Hopestill Wolfe down with them. Maureen had only made it halfway through the woman’s story, and she had to know how it ended. She looked both ways and then slid the thin book up under her shirt, and then swung her handbag over the front before rushing outside, blood and heart pumping.
* * *
Elizabeth threw her dolls in the large box. She enjoyed the sound they made as they whipped through the air and landed in a heap, all higgledy-piggledy, nothing like the neat row they’d formed above her head for so many years. She smiled when she heard the distinct crack of porcelain as one broke.
“Your therapist might have something to say about the way you’re treating those dolls,” Connor remarked. He folded clothes into neat piles in another box.
“I don’t have a therapist.”
“It was a joke. Lighten up.”
“I’m not feeling funny right now.”
“Well, you look funny.”
When Elizabeth didn’t laugh at this either, Connor set his box aside and walked over to her. “What’s wrong, Lizzy? Are you sad about leaving here?”
She shook her head. “I never liked it here. It was nice to be away from the kids in my old schools, but… no, I won’t miss it here.”
“Something’s wrong,” he said. “If you don’t know by now you can tell me anything…”
Elizabeth dropped the last of the wretched dolls in the box. “The next two years are going to be terrible for my family, and us moving is just the beginning. I should have known better… I guess, I should have known that we could never be happy for long. Not us. Not the Deschanels, not—”
Her words were cut off by a kiss. Elizabeth gasped and at the last moment stopped herself from moving away. Connor pulled back and then did it again, this time parting her lips with his tongue, which was slimy and weird and wonderful.
A burst of life rolled to the surface from deep within her. It cried out for more.
Connor stepped back. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad,” she said and could barely hear herself over the intensity of her heartbeat.
“Want me to do it again?” The question was eager, but also tentative.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said.
* * *
Irish Colleen was busy packing when Maureen made it back to the house. She snuck quietly in, before she could get roped into the same chores. She had to practice! The sooner she mastered this skill, the sooner she could come to Charles, hat in hand, ready to reap their revenge.
Maureen didn’t dare risk trying to summon another Deschanel. She suspected those closest to you were the ones that stayed, and she already had a whole tribe of family ghosts she’d as soon be rid of. So she thought hard about an alternative.
The answer came quicker than she expected, because it was a story she’d never forgotten.
Ten years before, a woman on a neighboring plantation had been murdered by her husband. Salvatore Guenard had run his wife Constance over with a piece of equipment from the farm, and when the police arrived, he hadn’t even bothered with an excuse. Maureen still remembered the headline: Yeah, you bet I did it. And I’d kill the bitch twice, God willing.
Salvatore was serving a life sentence in Angola, and the property fell into disrepair. Guenard Plantation had been in his family for over a hundred years, so there was no bank to claim it, and no family, either. The estate had enough funds to pay the taxes for two hundred years. And so there it sat, in limbo, belonging to no one, exactly.
Maureen drove by the place every time she went to New Orleans. The house still looked all right, with only a few vines snaking up around the bottom of the columns, but without regular maintenance, the land was overgrown. Maureen remembered hearing that the police hadn’t taken anything with them, and so everything—including the infamous tractor—was still exactly where Salvatore had left it.
Maureen knew nothing about Constance, but she thought, perhaps, she might not need to. What if her link, her thing left behind, was the very thing that had taken her life? If it was still there… it couldn’t hurt to at least try.
With Hopestill’s diary tucked into the back of her jeans, Maureen emerged from her car after parking it behind the old house. She didn’t want to risk someone driving by and noticing that someone was lurking around a house that had been empty for a decade.
She wished she’d worn something more suitable than her platform heels. As she stepped through the chest-high grass and wheat and whatever else now grew wild here, her feet connected with one piece of debris after another. Who knew what was out here?
Past the curing shed, she saw it: the tractor. Someone, probably the police, had tried to cover it at some point, but the plastic shroud hung flapping in the wind, stuck on a piece of metal.
“Here goes nothing,” Maureen said. She touched the book of her new friend for good luck.
“Constance Guenard… if you’re here, I wanna talk to you. I’m not here to harm you… not like that bastard Salvatore.” Maureen winced. Bashing her husband
might not be the best tactic. Maybe Constance had died not knowing what happened to her?
Maureen ran her hands over the rusted metal. The key was still in the ignition. If she turned it, would it start? “Constance… this is weird for me, too. But I can talk to the dead, and if you have something to say, why not talk to me?”
A chill passed over the back of Maureen’s neck, and she turned to see a woman she recognized from the papers.
“Hi, Constance.”
“What’s happening? How is this happening?” Constance shielded her eyes from the sun, as if that, or anything, could harm her.
“I’m Maureen,” Maureen explained. “And I have no idea why I can talk to the dead, sorry. But I can, so feel like chatting?”
“How long… have I…”
“Ten years.”
“Ten…” Constance breathed out and a sob caught in her spectral chest. “Ten years. He took so much from me, that son-of-a-bitch. When I’d given him so much… saved this property from ruin, with my family’s fortune. And then he stole it. All of it.”
Well, this was progress. “So you remember?”
“Oh, yes.”
“You’ll be happy to know he’s never getting out of the clink, then.”
Constance’s eyes darted around, unsure where to land. “Oh, yes.”
Maureen smiled. “Any messages you want me to pass off to your man in Angola?”
Constance turned. “Oh, yes.”
Seventeen
The Compromise
Colleen hadn’t been back to campus since her fated meeting with Professor Green’s wife. Thinking back, perhaps she’d intentionally chosen the last day of the term, or at least subconsciously. Somewhere, somehow, she’d known what she’d find, and returning to classes after would have been impossible.
Her winter term was negligible, anyhow. She’d finished enough credits in her third year to graduate early, but Colleen didn’t know who she was if she wasn’t a human being set in constant, perpetual learning, and so instead of graduating early she’d drug it out as long as possible. In order to continue on through spring, she’d had to settle for only one class per term, a decision her guidance counselor told her, more than once, was patently pointless.
Colleen tried to explain to him that she couldn’t ever let herself be idle, but he’d only stared at her as if she’d begun to grow a second head while they were talking. He searched for ways to help her finish quicker, while she sought any possible way to prolong the inevitable. He didn’t understand her any more than she understood him.
She arrived to class early, as she always did, and was the first student in the lecture hall. But she wasn’t alone.
The professor sat at her desk looking flustered. Two men in suits flanked the desk. One checked their watch just as Colleen entered.
“Miss. Deschanel.” Professor Caan stood. Colleen knew her, because she’d taken one of her literature classes her second year. Colleen liked her, and the defensive waves coming off the woman set her immediately on high alert.
“We’ll take it from here,” the man on the left, the watch-checker said.
“Colleen,” Professor Caan said. She stopped whatever she was going to say next and shook her head. “Best of luck to you. In everything.”
“Miss. Deschanel, will you come with us?” the other man asked. He flicked at some lint on his suit, which was too heavy for New Orleans, even in winter.
“What’s this about?” she asked. She clutched her purse tight against her side and shifted into defensive stance without realizing.
They must have sensed her tone, for the one on the left introduced himself as Mr. Dickinson, and then introduced his colleague as Mr. Sellers. “Everything’s fine. We’d love some of your time. It won’t take long.”
“I have class.”
They exchanged looks. “Don’t worry about that.”
“I’ll ask again, what’s this about?” She knew those names, Dickinson and Sellers, but from where?
Mr. Sellers put a hand on her arm and gently turned her toward the door. “Let’s go back to my office.”
“Who are you?”
“As I said, this is Mr.—”
“No, who are you?”
“They’re from the board,” Professor Caan blurted out with a guilty, but victorious look.
“The board,” Colleen said, and then some of the story started to come together.
“My office would be a better place for this,” Mr. Sellers urged, with a warning look to the professor.
Two more students entered the lecture hall. They paused at the serious situation unfolding.
“My office,” he repeated.
“Yeah, sure,” Colleen said, but rid herself of his arm and walked ahead of them.
* * *
She knew what this was about. Of course she did… what else could it be? Colleen Deschanel, model student, from the family who provided one of the largest annual endowments to the educational institution. She couldn’t guess where this was going, but suspected the journey there would be like walking on broken glass.
“What is the nature of your relationship with Professor Green?” Sellers asked, before she’d even had a chance to settle into her chair.
Colleen saw no reason to lie. She wouldn’t be here if they didn’t already know the answer. “We were sleeping together.” She cleared her throat. “This didn’t start until after I was no longer his student.”
Dickinson scribbled notes in his leather notebook.
“And you were aware of the code of conduct relating to students and teachers, were you not?”
“Have you had this conversation with Professor Green?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I’m aware that the onus and accountability for such an action falls solely on the teacher, not the student.”
Dickinson’s pen slid furiously across the page.
“Are you suggesting you are not accountable for the decision to take your relationship with Professor Green to a more personal level?” Sellers watched her closely.
“I’m suggesting he was no longer my professor, and that when I expressed concern with the arrangement, he assured me the rules no longer applied if I wasn’t his student.”
Dickinson raised a brow and continued writing.
“You are aware, I assume, that the responsibility for understanding the rules of this university are yours and that the blame cannot be transferred to another?”
“Why is this coming up? Why now?”
“A third party made us aware of the situation.”
“A third party?”
“The wife of Professor Green, who, as you might imagine, is quite beside herself at the betrayal.”
Colleen wanted to roll her eyes so badly. Philip’s wife wasn’t upset about the affair, only that he’d had the bad form to bring it to the family home. “Why are we here, gentlemen? I’m not denying I had an affair, however short-lived, with Professor Green. It’s over now, and I’m glad for it. But he’s not my professor, and I’m graduating in the spring, so what’s the point of this?”
Dickinson tapped his pen against the pad.
“We’re graduating you now, actually,” Sellers said with a slow drawl. He opened a folder on his deck. Inside was a thick, official document. Colleen didn’t dare draw her eyes there. “We’re gifting you the remaining twelve credits, for your exemplary scholastic achievements, and allowing you to leave Tulane with your bachelor’s degree today.”
Colleen tried hard not to gasp. “You’re kicking me out.”
“No! No… of course not, Miss Deschanel. You are, of course, one of our most treasured students, and one cannot be defined by a single mistake. But we deemed it best that you not be on the same campus as Professor Green, under the circumstances.”
“I’m sorry, you’re kicking me out, and he gets to stay?” Colleen gripped the wooden arms of the chairs so hard she felt the skin break.
Dickinson pretended to write.
&nbs
p; “We thought this would be an amenable compromise to you both. Professor Green has a long and reputable history here and has reached his tenure. We didn’t want this black mark to mar his career any more than we wanted it to jeopardize your future. Why, just today we heard you’ll be attending the University of Edinburgh in the fall. How wonderful!”
Colleen blinked away the dark spots threatening to send her into oblivion. This could not be happening… there was no way… it was impossible… not to her.
“You’re bribing me to walk away.”
“No, Miss Deschanel—”
“You know who I am… right?”
“Yes, of course, we’re honored you chose Tulane for your studies, and that your family continues to patronize us.”
“So you know how much money we donate each year.”
Sellers went silent. Dickinson closed his notebook and ended the farce.
“Miss Deschanel, we’re giving you two terms off. Most students would be thrilled.”
“Most students don’t work as hard as I do. Most students aren’t as dedicated and haven’t given as much of their lives to this place as I have!”
“This is a token of our appreciation for that. We felt punitive action would be too harsh for someone of your caliber, and we hoped you would be happy with our decision.”
Colleen rocketed forward out of her chair. She struggled to breathe, and if she didn’t get out of there, now, she’d scream or faint or something completely and wholly unacceptable.
“You understand our dilemma. With Green’s tenure and all,” Dickinson said, his sole contribution to the discussion, which earned him a hard glare from Sellers.
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