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left to do but run. She had been intent on escaping New Orleans, whether by flat-boat or with travelers going up the Natchez Trace, when she’d paused at the cathedral. And then the blond angel of mercy had appeared.
    The carriage had by now left the city behind, traveling at what Celine considered breakneck speed. She could not recall ever having ridden in a carriage before, but if this were the norm, she was thankful she had missed the experience. Every so often she heard the whip crack over the horses’ heads. There was a wild sway and bounce whenever the carriage hit a mud hole as they bowled down River Road and along the levee.
    Praying that she had not exchanged one horrible situation for another, she was thankful that at least she was putting miles between herself and the city. While she was bouncing along, she decided that when she reached her unknown destination she would explain that her mysterious benefactor could not make the trip, then ask for shelter and employment.
    She would not refuse any opportunity. She would willingly work alongside house slaves for room and board just to have a place to hide until she could be certain she was not wanted in the death of Jean Perot.
    The carriage rumbled on for what seemed like hours. Lightning flashed. One loud clap of thunder forced her to cup her hands over her ears.
    Just as she was certain the carriage was about to tip over, she realized the vehicle was merely turning right. She pulled back the leather window shade. They were moving up a long, oak-lined drive toward a grand house, whitewashed and ghostlike, that was barely visible through the moss hanging from the trees.
    Even after the carriage wheels ground to a halt, Celine had the sensation that she was rocking. She fought back nausea, started to open the door, then put off revealing herself to the driver for as long as possible. She drew the hood of the cloak around her face and waited, perched on the edge of the seat with her hands pressed together between her quaking knees.
    Rain beat down on the roof of the carriage. Above the din she could hear the driver as he dragged something heavy off the roof. She recognized the sound of a door knocker and waited, listening intently. She heard voices, but it was impossible to make out the conversation over the rain. Then, without warning, the carriage door flew open. The driver, whose features were barely visible between his hat brim and his coat collar, reached in without looking at her and offered his hand. With her face averted, Celine took it and climbed down. He let go of her as soon as her foot hit the ground.
    She clutched the edges of her hood close to her face as the driver walked beside her. A balding, portly man stood waiting at the front door, permanent worry lines etched on his brow. He wore the clothing of a servant.
    “Come in, Miss O’Hurley. Do come in out o’ the rain. What a night, eh? We’ll have you right and tight in a minute, though, won’t we? By the way, I’m Edward Lang.”
    As he ushered her into the hall, Celine looked around to see who “we” might be, but the room was empty.
    Her driver, a lumbering dolt if she ever saw one, hovered somewhere behind her for a moment or two and then walked out. When he came back a few seconds later, he shoved a huge leather trunk inside the front door. Celine kept her back to him and the hood of the cloak up over her head.
    The worried servant glanced at the driver. “If you need to stay the night …”
    The other man waved off the offer. “I was paid to deliver the goods and see that she didn’t pull any stunts along the way. I’ll be heading back to town before the road’s flooded. You can keep this blasted bog.”
    Undeterred, Edward turned back to Celine as soon as the door closed. He was eyeing her speculatively, circling her, taking in everything: the ruby-colored velvet cloak and gold clasp, her filthy, waterlogged shoes, the uneven hem of her muddy skirt. Celine choose her words