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smaller dress sizes.
    The old woman began to open and close jars, making meticulous selections. She held one under my nose.
    “Lavender, my favorite.” I inhaled deeply. “By the way, I’m Adele—”
    “Le Moyne,” a resonant female voice finished for me.
    I turned to find a middle-aged woman standing behind me. She had the same long hair and almond-shaped brown eyes as Désirée, but she exuded authority. With her tailored turquoise dress, navy blazer and gold bangles, she was way more Jackie-O than new-agey Voodoo priestess.
    “You are Mac and Gidget’s daughter,” she said.
    “Gidget?” Trying to imagine my mother with a girlish nickname almost made me snicker. Even hearing the Americanized version of her name, Bridget, sounded weird. To me, she was only Madame Brigitte Dupr é .
    “Your mother was — i s an amazing woman.”
    “Ugh…,” I fumbled.
    Everyone in the French Quarter knew my father, and most knew me, but very few people knew my mother. She had lived here for only a few years before her sudden departure more than a decade ago. Or maybe people did know her and just never spoke about her? At least not to m e .
    “I’m Ana Marie Borges, Désirée’s mother, and this is my mother-in-law, Ritha.”
    The old woman came from behind the counter.
    “Borges? As in Morgan Borges?”
    Ritha smiled in the way only a mother could. Lost in the moment, I didn’t notice she had drawn close behind me. “Ow!” I flinched when she plucked a few strands of hair from my head; my scalp was still sore from the bird attack.
    She quickly retreated behind the counter to her herbs, muttering something indiscernible under her breath.
    Borges was a household name in Louisiana, with deep roots in the political history of New Orleans, and like most political families, people tended to love or hate them. Morgan Borges had been elected mayor of the city of New Orleans earlier that year. Most of his campaign had revolved around bridging the socioeconomic divide. It was pretty apparent which side of the divide his daughter stood o n . It made sense that Désirée would attend the Academy of the Sacred Heart, being the mayor’s daughter and all. I wasn’t old enough to vote, but I had always thought the mayor seemed like a genuine guy, for a politician.
    “It’s nice to see you again, honey,” old Ritha said. Agai n ? “Take this.” She leaned over the counter and curled my fingers around something soft. She had a wide grin and seemed a little kooky. I liked her.
    Ana Marie moved directly in front of me and examined my face. Before I could protest, she peeled back the bandage and smeared something across my cut. I winced as it tingled.
    Overcome with awkwardness from all the matriarchal attention, I searched for purpose by inspecting a basket on the floor at my feet, and grabbing a few bundles of herbs.
    “Sage,” said Ana Marie. “Smart choice. Wards off evil.”
    “Right…” I produced a few dollars, which they refused to accept. “Well, it was nice to meet the both of you.”
    “Send our regards to your father,” said Ana Marie. “It’s been far too long.”
    Was she just being polit e ? I hoped she meant it.
    I exited the shop and paused out front to examine the object Ritha had slipped me. There was a small muslin satchel attached in the middle of the long white ribbon. When I pressed my fingers against the little fabric pouch, I could feel dried herbs and stones. And apparently my hair , I thought, rubbing my scalp. Ritha’s warning about protection echoed in my head.
    “What’s the harm?” I whispered as I tied the ribbon around my neck and hid th e gris-gri s underneath my dress.

Chapter 5 Blue Eyes
     
    The conditions of houses significantly worsened after I crossed Esplanade Avenue. The change was so sudden, it almost seemed like it had been purposely engineered. Once I left the French Quarter, signs of life went from slim to none.
    Historically, the Faubourg Marigny was a neighborhood where