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going to the gathering.”
    So as not to listen to their private conversation, I tried to focus on the small daggers – when suddenly, without warning, two of the weapons near my elbow shifted and clattered onto the floor.
    The girl dropped the bowl onto the counter and spun around.
    “I swear I didn’t touch anything!” I mumbled, double-checking the proximity of my elbows. The girl shot me a glare that meant either she was embarrassed or that I should leave. Probably both.
    “Child,” the old woman called out to me. “Child, you need to protect yourself. You need protection.”
    The girl let out an exasperated sigh.
    I brought the daggers to her and placed them gently in her hands. “It’s okay. My dad is a broken record about the crime in the city these days.” She rolled her eyes with annoyance and left them on the counter for the old woman to deal with. To say she was stunning was a major understatement. Long, black, pin-straight hair hung past her waist, and her toffee-colored skin was flawless. She towered over my average frame and could have easily passed for twenty-three, but judging from the private-school uniform and her attitude she must have been closer to my age. Immediately, I became self-conscious about the giant bandage across my cheek.
    “So, your school has reopened?” I asked. The words came out rushed and slightly desperate sounding. “Do you go to school down here?”
    “As if. I attend the Academy of the Sacred Heart. Uptown .”
    Historically, Americans who had migrated down the Mississippi River had settled uptown, away from the wilder and more superstitious European, African and Caribbean Creoles who ruled downtown.
    The Academy of the Sacred Heart was the most prestigious all-girls school in the city, possibly in the entire South. The campus was only a couple of miles away, in the uptown Garden District, but it might as well have been a world away. Supposedly, couples put their progeny on the Sacred Heart waiting list as soon as the birth certificates were inked. The school was chock-full of carefully curated pedigree – a mix of old money and nouveau rich e , southern debutantes, daughters of politicians and oil tycoons, and even the offspring of celebrities who made New Orleans their home to escape the limelight of Hollywood.
    “So Sacred Heart has reopened?”
    “Obviously. In fact, it’s better than ever. Holy Cross flooded, and we graciously took in their all-male student body.” She was now fully scoping me out. Her blatant gaze started at my feet, where my worn boots got her utter disapproval, and then moved up to my dress, where her disapproval faded to befuddlement. Perhaps she recognized it from this season’s runway?
    “Nice dress,” she muttered.
    After navigating Parisian boarding school for the last two months, I was a professional in these kinds of situations. “ Merci beaucoup , I bought it in Paris. Just got back in town late last night,” I said, as if I flew to Paris every Saturday for shopping and croissants. As soon as the words came out of my mouth I wanted to slap myself, but I had her attention now. Her left eyebrow raised, perplexed.
    “I’m late.” She flipped her hair and grabbed her bag.
    “How did your family make out with the Storm?” I tried to change the subject but had maxed the quota of attention she was willing to allocate to me.
    “We don’t have problems with storms.” She smirked and pivoted to the front door.
    I stood, a little stunned by her resolute manner.
    “Don’t worry about Désirée, my dear. She doesn’t understand yet.”
    I turned to the old woman. “Understand what?”
    “Her importance in the world,” she answered tenderly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the universe.
    The comment caught me off guard. My paternal grandmother had died when I was little, and ma grand-mère certainly didn’t think I had any importance in the world. All she cared about was my French accent and cramming me into smaller and