by Cutter, Leah
Uncle Rene started another tune and Francine followed, willing the music to fill her heart as it had before. These were her people; she wasn’t going to let them down, no matter how betrayed she felt.
* * *
Francine sat outside on the porch swing, wrapped in a blanket against the cold afternoon air. Dust covered the grass next to the road. Even the trees had no advice for her, standing muted and bare.
Since Thanksgiving the week before, Papa had only been home for one day before he’d rushed back to work.
Christmas without Mama—Francine couldn’t even bear to think about it. She wished she could howl her loneliness to the moon, but she was afraid that if she started screaming, she’d never stop.
Muriel saw her from the road and came up to join her.
“Vincent quit the band,” she said as she sat down heavily next to Francine.
“I’m sorry. I know you really wanted that to work out.”
Francine had quit the Zydeco Chicks when Mama had gotten sick, and Muriel had started a new band on her own.
Mama, Papa, and even Uncle Rene had warned Francine about dating musicians, particularly the ones you played with. But Muriel had been in love.
When Vincent and Muriel had broken up, the band didn’t stand a chance.
“We had a gig at Slim’s and everything,” Muriel complained. “Week before Christmas. Now that Vincent’s gone, the others will leave, too.”
Francine suddenly sat up straighter.
“You could form a new band, you know,” she said softly. “Different people.”
“How am I going to do that in such a short time? I could maybe get another accordion player, but—” Muriel stopped and looked at Francine.
“Really?”
Francine paused. It had been a while since she’d played, really played. She’d been going through the motions at school, at home, throughout her life. She needed something, and soon, or the holidays would drive her crazy with grief. She nodded.
Muriel hugged Francine, hard.
“Bless you! You are an angel of mercy, come here to save me from myself.” She stood up. “Come on. We need to practice.”
Francine laughed as she dropped the blanket, feeling like she’d just lost her shroud.
“Let me grab my fiddle and leave a note for Papa.”
Muriel was already on her phone, calling other musicians. She managed to talk two others into playing with them that night, Simone on the accordion and Layton on the guitar. Though it was the first time they’d ever rehearsed, they played well together, something gelling as the music became more than just the notes.
They named themselves Sticks and Stones. They wanted their band to be more than just words.
Francine practically danced back to the house after practice, smiling and feeling warm for the first time that fall.
“Papa!” she called as she came in, surprised to find him in the kitchen.
He sat at the table there, drinking a beer, his work reports spread out before him.
“Francine. Didn’t we talk about bands?” Papa said disapprovingly.
Francine took a step back. Why wasn’t Papa happy for her?
“It’s to help out Muriel,” she stammered. “And to make the holidays better,” she added defiantly.
Papa had the grace to look ashamed at that.
“I know you miss Mama. I miss her, too. But a band isn’t the answer. It’s time you started looking for a real job instead.”
“A job?” Francine asked, hating the way her voice became shrill.
“Do you know how hard it is to get a job here? At least with a gig I’ll get some money.”
Francine didn’t mention the fancy music college. Her grades had suffered too much, first from the accusations of cheating, then Mama’s death. She might be able to pull through it, and her music teacher was still willing to write her a recommendation.
However, it felt like just a dream, much like her comfortable life with both Mama and Papa had been.
“Not every roadhouse is like Slim’s,” Papa said stubbornly.
“Most bar owners will try to rob you. Charge you more for drinks than you’ll bring in, so you end up paying them.”
It sounded like a story from when Papa had been on the road, playing with Uncle Rene.
“I don’t care!” Francine said. “At least it’s doing something I love. At least it’s living. Not hiding and wishing I was dead.”
“It isn’t much of a living,” Papa argued. “It’s a scramble, with only pennies in your pocket day to day. It eats your soul, more than living here will.”
“Making music makes me happy. You just don’t want me to be happy,” Francine accused Papa.
“I want you to be successful,” Papa said sternly.
“Little kids are happy when they’re playing in the dirt. You can do much more than just that.”
“Making music is not the same as playing in the dirt,” Francine said, stung. “It makes other people happy, too.”
Papa set his lips in a thin line, but he finally nodded.
“Go. Make your music. We’ll see how good it actually is.”
Francine turned on her heel and raced to her bedroom, slamming the door.
She’d show him.
She stubbornly got out her fiddle and practiced for the next three hours, until her fingers cramped and her back ached. She’d been rusty that night, the others supporting her.
Fortunately, her fingers remembered.
She wasn’t quite as quick as she’d been before Mama had died—the music didn’t flow like it should—but by the time they played their first gig, she’d be ready.
* * *
Because they needed the practice, Sticks and Stones played at a smaller club later that week as a warm-up band. The bar had the same feel as Slim’s, with the same cheerful neon signs and a big dance floor.
After they set up, Francine and the others waited in a small room off the service entrance, chatting with the barmaids and laughing nervously at each other.
As the bar was the next parish over, not as many relatives showed up as for the gig. The crowd wasn’t interested in them—they were waiting for the “real” band. They talked through the start of their first song, and only politely applauded.
Francine didn’t blame the people sitting out there, waiting to be entertained. She knew the band could play better. They just had to gel again, like they had that first night.
The next song on their playlist was supposed to be a slow waltz. Francine asked Muriel to skip ahead to a later song that had a driving beat and catchy tune.
The crowd started listening, and a few got up to dance.
Francine kept pushing the band and the dancers, trying to inject more energy into the crowd.
When Papa came in, Francine relaxed a little. She nodded to him from the stage as they did a double-time two-step.
He sat down at a table right in the center, stretched out his long legs, and stared up at them.
Then Papa didn’t move.
He didn’t tap his fingers or move his feet. He just looked bored.
Francine couldn’t believe that Papa would try to sabotage her like that. It was just mean. She knew she couldn’t make him do anything, not here, so she divided her time on the different sides of the stage, trying to go around him, to push the dancers in the rest of the club to listen and kick up their heels.
She didn’t think she’d ever worked so hard, not even when they formed a bucket trail bailing out Uncle Gilbert’s house that one spring flood.
When the band took a break, Francine stormed out to Papa’s table.
“What are you doing?” she hissed, so mad she could barely speak.
“You call that music?” Papa sneered.
“I think we wasted all that money sending you to academy if that’s how you play.”
The room grew darker and the cold from outside suddenly snuck in, licking at Francine’s bones.
“Papa, how can you say such t
hings?” she asked, hurt beyond reckoning. She wished wildly that Mama would suddenly show up and make things better between them, because the road she saw before her looked awful and lonely.
“How did you get this gig? Did you pay the barman?”
“Papa, you don’t mean that,” Francine said. She felt as hurt as she had that first day of school, with the kids calling her “gator-bait.” However, even if this was her Papa, she wasn’t going to take it from him, either.
“Take it back.”
“‘Take it back’?” Papa scoffed. “I can see you’re still in high school, aren’t you? Maybe you should just go back to school and stay out of bars and clubs, making music you don’t understand.”
White fury lined the edges of Francine’s sight. How dare he be angry with her for her age? She couldn’t help how old she was—she was growing up as fast as she could.
“I hate you,” Francine said.
“I wish you’d died instead of Mama.”
She stalked away, shaking with anger, marching into the back where her bandmates waited.
Papa only stayed for a short while into their second set. It didn’t matter. Francine was on fire, using her anger to fuel her playing, skipping niceties and playing a dirty, strong fiddle.
Toward the end of the second set someone else came and sat at the table Papa had vacated. At first Francine didn’t pay much attention; she was too busy getting the crowd to kick up their heels like they never had before.
Finally something caught her eye—maybe his dark hair, or his pale skin, or the fact that he sat in the same position as her papa had, all stretched out. But instead of scowling at her, he was smiling and tapping his feet, moving his fingers as if he wanted to get up and join her making music.
After they finished the second set to thunderous applause, Francine went back out into the bar. She dripped sweat and the music still hummed in her blood, but she wanted to enjoy the crowd, their congratulations. Eventually she made her way to the familiar stranger’s table.
“Nice playing,” he drawled, standing as she drew near.
Most men only came up so high on Francine. With this one, though, she was the one to tilt her head up. His eyes were the same washed-out gray color as hers and her papa’s. His skin shone pale and white in the dark club, and his black hair had blue highlights.
“Thanks,” Francine said, feeling a strange fluttering in her chest.
The young man smiled at her, showing his city-white teeth, all clean and straight.
“You can call me Pierre, ma chérie,” he said, taking her hand, bending over it, and kissing the back of it. Pierre’s accent wasn’t French or Cajun, but something else.
The ghost of his lips against Francine’s skin sent chills like winter moonlight through her blood.
“You can call me Francine,” she said.
Warnings about dealing with the Fée that Mama and Uncle Rene had told her came rushing back. Never give one your name. Just something to call you by.
“How you doing tonight?” Francine asked, pulling back her hand. She wanted to hide it under her arm, scratch off the tingling that lingered. Her heart took up a fast beat, like it was dancing.
“Very glad I came out to hear you,” Pierre said. “Tell me about the bridge for that last song—did you go into a minor key for part of it?”
“Yeah, it isn’t in the original, but it felt right,” Francine replied, startled.
Pierre asked another question and they quickly fell into discussing music, talking about their favorite pieces, as well as difficult pieces and working hard to get that slide from one note to the next just right.
When Muriel made a thumping noise on the mike, Francine jumped, startled. She hadn’t meant to spend the entire break talking with this strange relation, but time had slipped away so quickly.
“I’ll see you later,” Francine promised, racing back to the stage before Pierre could say anything else.
For the last set, Francine concentrated on mixing technique with passion, trying to impress Pierre, racing through arpeggios and adding harmonics.
Muriel rolled her eyes but grinned. During one of the guitar solos she leaned over and said in Francine’s ear, “You know what they say about dating musicians.”
Francine shook her head, shy and a little embarrassed.
“Not dating,” she said.
She’d never been on a real date. And she couldn’t assume Pierre was interested in her like that.
“Not yet. I saw how he looked at you.”
Francine was glad the lights were low enough so no one could see her blush.
When they finished, the crowd rose to their feet and applauded. Francine bowed and smiled so hard it felt like it would break her face. This time, Francine hung out for a while backstage, talking with her fellow musicians, sharing the incredible high of their first real performance. They made plans for at least two rehearsals before their next gig, on Midwinter’s Eve the following weekend.
Finally, Francine slipped away and out into the crowd.
Of course, Pierre was gone.
She swallowed her disappointment, and instead talked with the people who came up and congratulated her, not accepting any beer or whiskey. She was still underage, and while she’d had a drink now and then, she didn’t want to get the owner of the bar in trouble.
As the crowd settled back down for the second band, Francine stepped outside into the cool night. A half-moon shone down on her, coating everything in silver.
“I really liked that set.”
The words came out of nowhere, making Francine jump and turn.
“Thank you,” she replied as Pierre stepped out of the shadows. She would have sworn he hadn’t been there a moment before.
“I know some others who would love to hear you play,” Pierre said, stepping closer.
The feel of magical moonshine swept across Francine’s skin. She understood now why all her relatives had warned her against talking with these lost cousins.
Pierre was mesmerizingly beautiful, as well as dangerous.
“I don’t know.” Francine hesitated. She should talk with Uncle Rene first. She’d promised him she would.
“Please,” Pierre said. “I’ll have my fiddle there as well. We could play together.”
That tempted Francine more than just meeting her lost cousins.
“Unless you think your papa wouldn’t approve…”
Anger stiffened Francine’s back.
“Where do you want to meet?” she asked flatly.
Papa had lost the right to tell her what to do.
“At the crossroads, Bellechasse and Dryades,” Pierre said, giving the streets the old names that Francine’s grandparents had used.
“I’ll be there.”
“At midnight,” Pierre said as he stepped backwards off the porch and out into the moonlight.
Francine’s breath caught in her throat.
The dark of the bar had hidden much about Pierre, making him appear much more human. The true light of the moon made his eyes shine overly bright, liquid and expressive. A ghostly pall coated his skin, making it glimmer. He waved his fingers through the air in an impossible pattern, as if they had extra joints.
“Midnight,” Francine said, making a pact with herself as much as with the others.
* * *
Francine sat through the next set nervously. She danced when people asked her, laughing when one of the older men swung her around the floor like he was her age, solemnly holding the hands of a pimple-faced boy who shyly asked her and then couldn’t stop tripping on his own feet.
They weren’t her people—she didn’t know anyone here. But they were from the same background and they understood dancing and having a good time.
When it drew close to midnight, Francine told Muriel she was going to the ladies’ room and would be right out. Once there, Francine wrote a quick note and gave it to one of the other girls to take to Muriel at the end of the next set.
“Sneaking of
f to see a boy?” the girl asked with a sly smile.
Francine shrugged. “You know how it is.”
“Honey, I sure do. You don’t have to pay me none. I’ll do it for free.”
“Thanks.”
Francine slipped out the back, heart pounding as she made her way up the road, her fiddle strapped to her back. The woods on either side called to her, the wind talking through the branches. Everything else lay quiet and still. Even with the moon half-hidden behind the clouds, Francine easily saw every bump in the road. That was another thing she shared with her papa, and maybe these others.
A group of people had gathered at the crossroads. Clouds covered the moon so Francine couldn’t see them clearly as she walked forward.
Someone whispered, “She’s here.”
The crowd parted and a tall African American woman stepped out.
Francine recognized her from the first gig. She wore her white hair piled high on her head, and was clothed in a simple blue shirt, jeans, and boots.
“Welcome, cousin,” she said, holding out her hands.
The moon came out of hiding.
She had gator eyes.
Chapter Four
Francine froze in fear and surprise.
Uncle Rene’s words came back to her, about how the others had mixed with the native spirits here. She hadn’t believed him, not really, not until now.
She looked around at the people surrounding her. The moonlight brought out donkey snouts, feathered arms, glinting rock bodies, and tall woven-weed frames.
The same blood flowed in Francine’s veins.
After only another moment’s pause, Francine moved forward, taking her cousin’s strong hands and kissing both her cheeks.
At the academy, she’d been called a freak, or worse, every day. Though she loved her cousins, she knew that she was different from them.
These people were her true kin.
“You can call me Yvette,” the woman with the gator eyes said graciously, bowing her head. The smile she gave Francine warmed even the air between them.
“And you can call me Francine,” Francine replied.
“Pierre said you can play,” Yvette said, indicating the other fiddler should join them.
Pierre came up, carrying a black fiddle.