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faith, in the old ways and in Jesus. Selma knew Henry was still alive, could feel it, and knew Grace felt it too. On the day when Grace closed her eyes for the last time, a hard, bitter seed took root in Selma’s heart. If he would not come back of his own will, she decided, then she would damn well bring him back, using the only method available. Grace had willed her the means; it was time to find out if she had the power. And so she began to work her way through the spells, more in desperation than in hope.
    Opening the book, she could still remember the feeling of excitement tinged with dread the first time she had summoned a spirit to bring Henry home—and the crushing disappointment that followed. But she had persevered, through almost the whole book, each time with the same conviction. And each time with the same result. She had saved the most powerful spell for last, the one that summoned the fearsome Agaou. After nearly eighteen years, her hope of seeing Henry again had dimmed to a tiny glow in the farthest, darkest corner of her mind. In desperation, she had gone to the beach at midnight and drawn the veve in the sand with cornmeal and ash. She had shaken her snake-bone rattle, scattered a little grilled meat, and spilled her blood on the sand, to send the call of blood to Henry, wherever he was.
    And now he was back but, as was often the case with spells, not completely back. It had shocked her at first—he looked so different from the bright, smooth-cheeked young man who had set off all those years ago. Now he looked like an old man, a desperate old man. But she reckoned there wasn’t anything wrong with him that couldn’t be fixed with enough good food and rest. Of course, it should be her food, and a bed in her house. The camp rations were not fit for a dog, especially when the men worked hard all day under the punishing sun. Yet he would not leave the veterans’ camp, behaved like it was his home, rather than staying with his people, where he belonged. And when he confessed that he had spent months in the camp before she knew he was there at all… Well, the pain of it, and the shame, burned her up inside, but she figured he had his reasons, reasons she could not begin to understand. Someday she would hear them. Or not. It was Agaou’s price. The spirits never granted anything without a price.
    She wrung out the brine from her apron and went to get some fresh water from the cistern to rinse it. But first she climbed the steps to look inside. Two bright eyes blinked up at her through the gloom. A soggy raccoon stood on the little platform she had built for this purpose, after one fell in and drowned, ruining gallons of precious water. She lowered a stick and the animal scampered nimbly up it and dropped to the ground with a wet shake.
    She rinsed the apron and hung it on the line to dry. Henry and Missy belonged together, anyone could see that…except possibly the two of them. No matter, soon fix that.
    The raccoon eyed her from the shade of a scrub pine, wiped his face with his clever paws. He would certainly be back in the cistern in a few days. Just like with men , she thought: once an animal found something it liked, it kept coming back, even at the risk of death. With a tired sigh, she went inside to change for the barbecue.
    â€¢ • •
    Hilda Kincaid strained to fasten the buttons of her thin cotton dress, elbows out in a futile attempt to reduce the sweat marks. She was certain that Missy had shrunk the garment, just as she had the other pretty dresses that no longer fit. The shameful trip to Nettie’s shop that afternoon had almost undone her. Surely, she thought, there must be some mistake. Those measurements must belong to someone else. She pushed a damp curl from her forehead and yanked on the material where it spanned her hips, creating unflattering horizontal folds. It was the only thing she owned suitable for the Fourth of July barbecue.
    Honestly,