by Alys Arden
“And that’s where we’ll start. Rue Royal.” Ren pointed out the window to the cross street. “Home to more ghosts than any other street in New Orleans. I’ve already told you about Perrin, the photographer, and of poor Alessandro’s balcony dive, but the best is to come.
“First let me bring you back to antebellum New Orleans: We were America’s third-largest city, a booming cosmopolis with a newly minted railroad and shipping canal that brought both rivermen from the North and Latinos from the South. This was post–Haitian Revolution and pre–Civil War. With so much frontier still to be explored, the hope of prosperity bloomed bigger blossoms than the magnolia trees. We were American on paper, Catholic on Sundays, French Creole by cultural société, and everything in between by blood. And while French culture might have been more progressive than most of Americana, it was still a time where race, class, and your daddy’s last name ruled. Interracial marriage wasn’t an option, legally speaking, which made for an unusual period in New Orleans, because people were already so . . . blended. And so, a life of plaçage was totally normal in La Nouvelle-Orléans.
“In Creole New Orleans, there was an entire hierarchy based on the amount of black versus white in your family tree. Julie Metoyer was an octoroon, meaning she was one-eighth black and seven-eighths white, so the hue of her skin was probably not too different than Miss Adele’s over there. Also, like Miss Adele, she was one of the most beautiful girls in the French Quarter.”
I looked at Chatham and rolled my eyes, which made him laugh. Onyx jumped onto the counter and rested next to me.
“Julie was sophisticated and educated, and eventually she caught the eye of Jean-Paul Vacherie, son of one of the wealthiest planters in all of Louisiana. His wealth, surname, handsome looks, and European education made him one of the most eligible bachelors with society’s daughters of La Nouvelle-Orléans. But none of that mattered to Jean-Paul after the very first time he saw Julie walking under a parasol in the Vieux Carré. He wasted no time making arrangements with her mother to formally meet Julie at one of the quadroon balls.
“And so they met and danced and flirted and danced some more. And it’s said that Jean-Paul and Julie never spent a night apart. Because of her lineage, Jean-Paul courted Julie like any heart-strummed Frenchman would: as the law and society would dictate. Instead of asking her mother for Julie’s hand in marriage, he negotiated contracts covering everything from the Royal Street town house he’d provide, to the support for any children she should bear, and what they would be willed upon the unfortunate event of his death. And with that, Julie formally entered into a life of plaçage.
“For a while this sufficed, for anything can seem perfect in lovers’ paradise.”
I scanned the room as Ren took a sip of coffee. I could tell that the booklover was listening to the story with bemusement, even though he was staring down at Macbeth.
“Jean-Paul was ruled by his heart, but his father only tolerated his philanderous arrangement for the length of carnival season. When Lent began, Jean-Paul was expected back upriver at the family plantation. Over the next two years, he gave up Julie for weeks at a time, sneaking down for weekends here and there. It was only during carnival season that he was able to stay, and they were able to truly live like man and wife. So Julie’s role at their Royal Street home remained full-time, and Jean-Paul’s part-time; after all, he was still expected to marry. A white woman.”
One of the tourists snickered. “The French have always loved to have their cake and eat it too . . .”
“And here in New Orleans, they could,” Ren said. “Jean-Paul was truly, madly in love with Julie, and she with him, but marrying her was out of the question. They’d be banned from society and run out of town, forgoing his wealth and reputation or possibly worse. But Julie didn’t care about any of that; she only cared about Jean-Paul, and she held on to the dream that one day they’d run away to a foreign land where no one knew who she was and would not give a second look to her pale skin and straight hair, and they could marry in peace.
“Two years later, Julie still held on to that dream, but she’d grown weary of being just Jean-Paul’s placée. Even though she was the third generation of freed people in her family, she’d never felt so trapped. She was chained by the inequalities of society, and deeply saddened that the family business was more important to her lover than she was.
“One February night during a particularly cold carnival season, Jean-Paul was entertaining some bachelor friends in the parlor, which is now the Bottom of the Cup storefront. The men were smoking pipes and drinking bourbon and playing cards. Around midnight, as per usual, Jean-Paul went to the third floor to check on his love. Instead of sleeping, she was laid across their bed, weeping. She pleaded the same case she always did: ‘If you love me, Jean-Paul, you’ll marry me, mon amour!’
“Jean-Paul was already quite tipsy and didn’t want to fight, so he asked her in a fashion that he took to be jest, ‘How much do you love me?’
“Her tears stopped long enough to listen to his proposal.
“‘Do you love me more than you hate the cold?’ he teased, kissing her. ‘Strip off all of your clothes and spend the night on the roof. Then I will marry you tomorrow!’
“Julie dried her tears, and he kissed her some more, and then went back downstairs to his card game. His friends were the kind who didn’t know when enough was enough, and so they stayed until the last drop of bourbon was gone, and then the brandy too—by the end of the night, Jean-Paul could hardly see his cards, they were so blurry. After he finally ushered everyone out, he didn’t even make it past the couch.
“The next morning, he stumbled up the stairs, longing for the comfort of his bed and his beloved in his arms. Halfway up, he noticed a chill in the air but didn’t become alarmed until he arrived in their room and Julie was nowhere to be seen. The last embers had burned out in the fireplace, the bed was still made from the day before, and the window was open, letting in the February air.
“Julie’s dress fluttered toward him from the open shutter like a lacy ghost. ‘No!’ he cried. ‘Julie, ma vie!’
“He sprang out the window and up onto the roof, yelling her name, but the poor girl didn’t answer, nor would she ever again call out to her lover. Never in a million years did Jean-Paul think she would do such a silly thing, but never did a plaçee love a Creole boy like Julie loved Jean-Paul.
“He found her body, naked just like he had asked, but now her skin was a hue of dusty blue, and a light frost clung to her hair. Jean-Paul had killed his love. Well, Mother Nature had, but he blamed himself and none other.
“In a bizarre twist of fate, less than six months later, his body was found in the bed he’d shared with Julie. The coroner said Jean-Paul died of natural causes, but at such a young age of twenty-six, it remained a mystery to his family, although not to the residents of the French Quarter. Those who knew him best said that Jean-Paul died of a broken heart.”
Ren paused as his audience let out loud huffs and sighs and rounds of “Poor Julie!” Then they all clapped. Chatham and I joined in, as did the guy in the corner, whose leather cuffs and silver-ringed fingers made him look like he could easily fit into Ren’s crowd.
“Merci, merci beaucoup,” Ren said, bowing at the waist.
For another few minutes he answered questions, and they all commented on the horrors of antebellum society. I refilled their mugs while Chatham answered questions about his family home. One of the women in the group had asked him how to contact a ghost, and he crossed his arms, indicating that he was about to give her a carefully considered answer. I was sure he’d been asked the question a thousand times in his life.
“Making contact with the unseen can be complicated. People often assume that ghosts in specter form want interaction with the living, simply because they are still hanging around in the natural world, but I can tell you this is almost never the case. Unless you have a very good reason for making contact, I would advise that you don’t. If a ghost ha
s a message for you, they will find a way to deliver it . . . if you are open to the signs.”
“What if the ghost has already crossed over?”
Something in Chatham’s demeanor changed. His smile got bigger, but his arms crossed tighter. “Breaking through to the other side is an activity reserved for the truly gifted. Ghosts of the natural world are nearly impossible to catch, but once they’ve crossed over, well then it’s a task that should absolutely be left to the professionals. Or your priest.” He winked.
She smiled and thanked him.
“Now that we’ve caffeinated,” Ren said, “it’s time to go across the street to the Bourbon Orleans Hotel, where the steps of little ghost children are said to patter the hallway.”
Chills bumped up my arms—no matter how many times I heard it, there was still something freaky about ghost children.
Ren ushered the group out, turning back to wave to me and yell to Chatham, “See you soon! Start shuffling the cards!”
Chatham nodded. “Well, Miss Addie, send my love to your pa, and please do keep my offer in mind. The door at Bottom of the Cup is always open for the young and gifted Adele Le Moyne.”
“Thanks, Mr. Daure.”
I nodded, and he walked out the door, moon in hand, cat on neck, umbrella overhead.
The booklover jumped up. “Thank you so much for the coffee, miss. And the fiction.”
“Anytime . . .” My voice faded as he ran out the door.
“Excuse me, sir!” he yelled to Chatham, who stopped, and held the umbrella over the guy as they spoke.
I walked over to the table to retrieve the book and the mug, and through the window I watched them walk off together toward the tearoom.
Maybe he’s a psychic? I laughed and went back to my spot.
I took a sip of my café au faux lait—I was actually getting used to the taste of the powdered milk; Mémé and Pépé would be appalled. I pulled out Susannah’s sketchbook and opened it up.
It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen Isaac’s grimoire a few times before, but there was something more intimate about it now, as I was flipping through the pages alone, listening to the rain pounding onto the street outside. The first part of the book was filled with more words than drawings, and the handwritten, antiquated English was almost as difficult to read as the Old French in Adeline’s. Accompanying the long paragraphs were a multitude of diagrams, charts, and mathematical equations.
In the next part of the book, the handwriting changed and her drawings and watercolors of Bermudian beaches began. Clearly magic wasn’t the only talent Isaac had inherited from his father’s side. As I turned the page to the next sunset-drenched spell, Sébastien came through the back door, with a twenty-pound bag of coffee beans slung over his shoulder.
“Good Lord, has someone answered my prayers about not wanting to be alone in here today?” I said.
He dropped the beans on the counter. “What do you mean? You’ve been working here by yourself since you were twelve.”
“Oh, I just meant . . . it’s been different since—never mind.”
“Adele, how many times do I have to tell you not to stay here out of obligation.”
“I’m not staying out of obligation. It’s my job.”
“You’re not being paid.”
“Business will come back eventually.”
“But—”
“This is not up for discussion, Sébastien. Jesus, are you and Chatham Daure conspiring to get me out of here?”
“Hé!” He grabbed my hand. “You know that we want you here forever. I just want you to remember, it’s always your choice.”
“I choose to stay,” I mumbled in French.
“Super, mon petit chou. Un café s’il te plaît.”
I smiled and made him a coffee as he asked me about my last precal test, which he’d helped me study for.
“B-plus, thanks to you!”
His nose scrunched. “B?” But before he could make me feel like an underachiever, his expression changed. “Oh!” He pulled a newspaper out of the messenger bag slung over his back. “I brought this for you in case you want another copy.”
For the last few weeks, the Times-Pic had been printing a few sheets every couple days, but this was a thick newspaper. As he unfolded it on the counter and smoothed it out, I realized it was yesterday’s New York Times.
“Why would I already have a copy of the New York Times?”
“Because your boyfriend’s on the front page?”
My forehead crinkled as I bent over the paper. The feature article was about the Storm—lambasting the Army Corp of Engineers, citing new evidence that proved they had known for years about how weak the levees were. Just from skimming, I could tell it attacked everyone at all levels of government, including both Isaac’s and Désirée’s fathers.
Sébastien’s finger tapped the photo, pulling my attention from the article.
“Holy . . .” The expletive tapered off as I looked closer at the picture.
It wasn’t an aerial shot, but it’d been taken at a high angle—the perfect vantage to capture the giant tunnel of water rushing down St. Claude. A little girl was being held above the wave by the taut arms of a boy breaking the surface, mouth open in a giant O, gasping for air. A boy who, even with water pouring down his face, was very distinctly Isaac.
The caption underneath said: “Unknown hero nearly drowns saving NOLA girl amid levee breach.”
“Did he ever tell you about it?” Sébastien asked.
“No . . . I mean, he’s talked about being a first responder, but nothing like this.”
I was stunned. It was the kind of photo that made you burst into tears—not because of the devastation it depicted, but because of the humanity. It was the kind of photo that stopped your heart. The kind that would be taught in university art classes and would make lesser photographers give up their craft.
“The photographer won a Pulitzer,” Sébastien said. “For breaking-news reporting.”
“Whoa.”
“I think your new boyfriend deserves free coffee for life.”
“I think you’re right . . . but he’s not my boyfriend.” It seemed like a really big word to just throw around without it being official.
“Adele, I’m no subject matter expert, but he’s here every day, and when he’s not, the two of you are always texting. And . . . I saw you kissing last week.”
My cheeks flushed.
“I’m pretty sure ‘boyfriend’ is exactly what he is. Boyfriend and hero, according to the Times.” He kissed my cheeks good-bye. “Au revoir.”
“Au revoir . . .” I looked back at the paper, mesmerized by the photo. “Hero, definitely,” I mumbled to myself. I pulled out my phone, wanting to ask him about it, but what text message could possibly be appropriate for the questions this photo made me want to ask?
I stared at him and the little girl and thought about us rescuing my mom—even if he was currently at target practice. I picked up my phone and punched out a message.
Adele 4:03 p.m. What do u say to a second training session tonight?
Isaac 4:03 p.m. Are you coming on to me, Adele Le Moyne?
Adele 4:03 p.m. That depends. But I was thinking more of the magical variety.
Isaac 4:04 p.m. Oh, it will be magical.
I smiled, shaking my head, glad now that the café was empty.
Adele 4:04 p.m. I’ll tell Dee.
I paused, waiting for the inevitable three-way joke, but he didn’t go there.
Isaac 4:05 p.m. I knew u were up to something. See u tonight. <3
CHAPTER 11
Voodoo Soup
Raindrops plopped onto the umbrella overhead, but the downpour had reduced to a calming shower, so I took my time walking to Vodou Pourvoyeur. I tilted the umbrella back slightly as the teacup-shaped storefront sign at Bottom of the Cup came into view. From afar, the bay window beneath it appeared dingy, but if you got close, you could see the glass was just dark like smoky quartz, helping conceal th
e pasts, presents, and futures of the Daures’ clientele.
When I reached the window, I paused and pressed my nose to the glass despite already knowing what the shop looked like inside: we’d played there a lot as kids, and not much had changed since then, maybe not even since the 1920s when the tearoom first opened.
There was a box on the marble mantel that I loved. It had a glass window and a red-tufted cushion, upon which sat a crown. Not the fancy tiara kind with a million jewels like the Mardi Gras queens wore, but more like a wreath of metal garland. Mrs. Philomena, the Daure matriarch, had once told me that it was her great-grandmother’s wedding crown. I thought that meant surely her great-grandmother had been a princess back home in Germany.
I moved on down the street, hurrying under the gray clouds, thinking about the day the box had been seared into my memory. I’d been seven at the time. We were playing hide-and-seek, only “it” was a crystal ball and we gave each other cryptic clues until it was found, kind of like I Spy. When it was my turn to be the hider, I dragged a chair to the mantel, careful not to make a sound, and even more carefully placed the crystal ball in the center of the crown on the little tufted pillow. Knowing the ball could be seen through the glass window made me think I was so clever, hiding it in plain sight. I called the others back into the room and gave them the first clue: “The crystal ball sleeps on a pillow.”
I could still remember the suspense as Caleb, Cameron, and Codi ran to the bay window and turned over all the cushions . . . How I threaded the hem of my dress through my fingers, anxiously waiting for one of them to step near the fireplace and see it.
As their grubby hands pillaged the room, turning over each and every thing—and in a psychic shop nearly a hundred years old, that was a lot of things—I never once looked at the box, having previously learned it was the quickest way to give away your hiding spot. Instead I focused on an antique gilded birdcage that hung from a stand in the corner by the clerk’s counter.