windows lay, not Rue Burgundy, but the crisscross maze of swamp and bayou, trailing moss and cypress knees, and he knew his father was out there, running toward the light of the house, running with dogs on his track.
They chased, they hunted him with dogs, They fired a rifle at him...
In his mind he heard the words of the old song about St. Malo, the rebel slave.
They dragged him from,the eypress swamp. His arms they tied behind his back. His hands they tied in front of him. They tied him to a horse's tail...
He saw him in the darkness. Saw the tribal scars on his face, the whip marks on his sides and back. Saw also the face of the man who ran behind the dogs, and recognized the long jaw and pale glitter of beard stubble as Lieutenant Shaw's.
He ran to the window, called out, "Father! Here!" But his mother-and she was as he first remembered her, as he always saw her in his dreams, slim and fragile, young and breathtakingly beautiful-rose from her chair with the slow languor she had affected then, laid aside her sewing, and closed the shutters fast.
"It's time to come to bed, Ben," she said, and took his hand. "It's time to come to bed."
He wrenched his hand from her-he was only eight-and flung himself against the shutter, trying to wrestle loose the heavy latch. "Father!" he shouted again. "Father, here! I'm here! Come and get me!"
His muffled cry woke him. He lay in the gar?onni?re where he had lain as a child and heard the voice of the dead-cart man: "Bring out yo' dead!"
Afternoon sun glared through the jalousies. It must be close to three.
It was smotheringly hot outside, the air unstirring. He ran water from the cistern in the yard and sponged off in the kitchen, the silence of the town sawing at his nerves. When he'd returned from Rose Vitrac's school that morning he had checked beneath the floorboard in his room for Madame Lalaurie's purse of money, and he checked it again now; checked also the little chips of wood he'd placed just so on the edge of the loose floorboard, as if accidentally. They were in the same place. That didn't mean Shaw hadn't been in and seen them.
Slave stealing.
Accessory After the Fact.
Olympe putting a red-and-gold candy tin in his satchel.
His father running exhausted through the darkness to see his son.
Somehow he got through his lesson with the Lalaurie girls, who as usual hadn't practiced and who as usual looked brittle and waifish as children off the wharves. Only Olympe, with her bone-deep mistrust of any white, let alone Jean Blanque's widow, would have accused Madame Lalaurie of starving her own daughters. Their mother doesn't let them eat enough to keep a cat alive.
Madame Lalaurie was renowned for setting the best and most lavish table in town.
But for all Delphine Lalaurie's goodwill, January was under no illusion that she would take his part were he caught helping an accused murderess and runaway slave. Nor would Madame have to do more than deny indignantly that she had anything to do with the matter, should he be so foolish as to accuse her of giving him the purse that seemed to be burning a hole in his clothing. Police Chief Tremouille was related to the Joncheres, who were related to the d'Aunoys, who were related to the McCartys -not to speak of having a daughter to marry off.
All the way up the Rue de l'Hopital and along the Rue Burgundy, he kept glancing over his shoulder, expecting to see Lieutenant Shaw ambling with his loose-jointed walk, as if he simply chanced to be there, watching, waiting. But in fact the only person he saw was Mamzelle Marie, strolling along the banquette, remote and beautiful, her yellow seven-pointed tignon like a halo of flame.
"M'sieu Janvier."
He tipped the beaver hat he wore. "Madame Paris." She paused, and inclined her head. A smile touched the serpent eyes, that in the muck and stink of the charity wards were so calm and unpitying. "I haven't gone by poor Paris's name for some years now," she said. Her French was good, though her deep voice had a soft Creole burr to it. "You may make that Laveau, if you wish, or call me Mamzelle Marie, as your sister does. I take it your sister's well?"
"As of last night." It seemed a hundred years ago. The voodoos know everything in this town... "Have you heard word about