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frustrated energy thrumming between us in the car. The sun was settling into the lower part of the sky, creeping its way steadily toward evening, and the whole world seemed to be going on its way like nothing was amiss.
    Once, sugar plantations around New Orleans held a large part of the entire country’s wealth, but not anymore. Now the River Road is just a stretch of half-dead towns and the refineries that kept those towns breathing. Most of the fields that once grew sugar stood unplanted, and the only things that grow out there anymore are the throats of smokestacks retching their bile out into the world. On a good day, you can barely smell the stink of them. But the beginning of August is always too hot for it to be a good day, and that day, the stink was already coming in through the open windows and filling the car with its thick, chemical smell.
    As we drove, patches of green interrupted the fields of concrete and piles of coal every here and there. Some of those patches had trailer parks planted on them, but others held stately homes—pretty little pictures of the past, all brought back to life by one committee or another. All of them were a testament to the glory that had been the South, once upon a time. Busloads of tourists liked to follow the winding roads, like ants drawn to the sugar that once made the area rich.
    Le Ciel Doux is maybe the biggest and prettiest piece of green. It sits back from Route 18, popping up like a surprise. My momma had worked at Le Ciel since I was little, so I basically grew up on the grounds. But it didn’t matter how many times I drove through the ornate wrought-iron gates that separated the plantation from the rest of the region—seeing that big house sitting at the end of the row of ancient oaks, all shadows and bone-white stone, always gave me a creeping feeling right up the back of my neck.
    I don’t think anyone was more surprised than me when I applied to work as a tour guide there, but I decided I’d rather wear a hoop skirt than work the night shift at one of the refineries like a lot of folks do. And if I wanted any pocket money, I had to work for it—one of Momma’s many rules.
    Or, it had been.
    I turned up the gravel road toward the big house and that creeping feeling came back, like cold fingers tickling at the short hairs on the nape of my neck. Like someone warning me to stay away. I was so used to it that I didn’t even shudder anymore. Guiding the car left at the fork in the drive, I brought it up next to an old Volvo wagon parked in front of a pretty-as-a-postcard cottage.
    â€œYou’re sure about this?” Piers asked, and I knew he meant more than what he was saying. I wasn’t sure, but I had a feeling that giving us some space was the only way our relationship would survive.
    I didn’t even have my bags out of the trunk when the front door of the cottage opened and Lucy came out. Piers took the bag from me and took my hand as she came down the front porch steps to greet us, a tentative smile on her face.
    She glanced at Piers as though to read his mood before she said anything. “Everybody’s excited you’re here,” she told me. “Come on in, and I’ll show you your room.”
    I wasn’t even to the porch when Lucy’s little brother T.J. popped his dark head out the door. Even my forgot-how-to-smile mouth couldn’t help but turn up a bit at the sight of his impish face.
    This was a bad idea , I realized. I’d put T.J. in danger once before. My staying at Lucy’s could put her whole family in danger again.
    Piers squeezed my hand, and I realized that I’d stopped moving. I knew Lucy was watching me, too.
    â€œIt’s okay,” she said softly. Like she knew exactly where my thoughts had gone. “Mama Legba did some protective wards on my house after everything happened. You’ll be safe here.”
    I didn’t know how she could sound so sure, because