Page 30 of One Last Regret

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I finish showering and dress in my nightgown and slippers. After checking to make sure the coast is clear, I head downstairs to make myself some coffee. Like most Englishwomen, I drink tea regularly, but I am also American, and when I’ve had a particularly trying day, I find the bold richness and greater kick of coffee more helpful than the soothing warmth of tea.

Heaven knows today has been trying.

It’s after two in the morning when I sit at the table with my coffee and a few butter cookies, but the party still rages outside. I wonder what the city will look like in the morning. I wonder what the partygoers will remember of the night before and what emotions will linger once the fog of debauchery has worn off.

Marcel’s piece, theVie Apres a la Morts, fits perfectly well with Mardi Gras. It is excessive, aggressive, mischievous and leering, just like this holiday. I can only wonder what on Earth possessed Marcel to compose something so disturbing.

I scoff lightly. Considering the effect the song seems to have had, perhaps possession is the right term. I wouldn’t be surprised at all to learn that some demon truly did have a hand in all of this.

Soft footsteps approach. I spin quickly toward the noise, but it’s only Philippa. In the chaos of the past few days, I’ve completely forgotten about her.

She lifts a hand in apology. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

I sigh. “You are among the least startling things to happen to me today.”

She gives me a sympathetic smile. “When I was young, my mother told me that Mardi Gras was a day of witchcraft. Here, it’s worse than Halloween. I think she was right.”

“I think so too,” I agree. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, thank you. No don’t get up, I’ll get a mug.”

She returns a moment later with a mug of coffee and sits across from me at the table. She bites her lip pensively and says, “I heard about what happened at the club tonight.”

I sigh again. “Forgive me, Philippa, but I really don’t want to talk about that right now. The children are safe. That’s what’s important.”

“They’renotsafe,” Philippa says with sudden vehemence. “Gabriel is not safe.”

A chill runs through me, but at this point that’s so common I might as well not bring it up. “What makes you say that?”

She looks upstairs as though afraid Josephine might come shrieking after her, claws extended like a harpy. On second thought, that’s not at all unlikely.

She turns back to me and says, “That music is cursed.”

“So I’ve heard,” I say drily.

She mistakes my sarcasm and says, “No, you mustlisten! I know it sounds crazy, but there is dark magic in that music. Marcel, he was not well at the end of his life. He spent most of his time at the piano playing. Much of what he played wasn’t any sort of music that people should hear. And he had thislookabout him, like he wasn’t really here anymore. He would whisper to himself too, like he was communing with spirits beyond. I believe hewascommuning with spirits beyond.”

The sound of nearby laughter reaches our ears. I look out the rear window to see a young man who must be still in college atop the backyard fence. He sees us looking at him and giggles, then lifts his hand and bows to us before dropping back over the fence. More laughter reaches us as he and his friends move on to find a more private location to finish their evening.

“My mother was aVoudoupriestess,” Philippa continues. She pronounces the word with a Creole accent. “Not the sortwho would summon the dead or curse others. She would make charms for people and ask for protection from benevolent spirits on their behalf. But she knew all of the old magic, even the darker sides of it. When she was a girl, her own mother summonedzombis. She told me that they weren't gross, monstrous creatures like you see in movies. They looked like men. They walked like men, too, and sometimes even talked like them. But you could always tell by their eyes that their bodies were possessed by inhuman spirits."

Her lips tremble. Her hands are folded tightly on the table, the knuckles white. She lifts her eyes to me and says, “Mary, you must believe me. Marcel was possessed by inhuman spirits when he died, and Gabriel is possessed by those same spirits now. It’s that music! You must burn that piece. I know you have it. You must burn it so the spirits attached to it can depart this place. Otherwise, they will steal Gabriel’s soul.”

I don’t reply right away. I admit I’ve behaved quite superstitiously—hypocritically so, even—since I find the playbill in my closet at home, but I’ve not become so superstitious that I can countenance this claim. Still, Philippa is obviously very upset. When I reply, I phrase my response gently.

“Philippa, grief affects people in terrible ways. I can’t speak for Marcel because I didn’t know him, but speaking for Gabriel, I can assure you that he’s not possessed. He is a young boy dealing with a tragic loss. When young people suffer tragedy, they act out. Some behave rebelliously and try to push boundaries, like Amelia. Others withdraw into themselves and seek the comfortable and familiar. Gabriel’s obsession with his grandfather’s composition is him seeking to focus his attention on something comfortable and familiar, like his grandfather's memory. It will take time for him to recover from Mr. Durand’s death, but he is not at risk of having his soul stolen by demons.”

Philippa sighs and wipes tears from her eyes. She clasps her hands in front of her and says, “Mary, please. You’ve seen the demon. You have the gift. You’re the only one who can stop it. I can’t see like my mother and grandmother could. The spirits haven’t blessed me like they blessed you.”

“I can’t see any demons, Philippa.”

“Yes, you can! You see the woman!”

My smile fades. “The woman?”

“Yes! The tall spirit with the empty eyes. I know you see her because I heard you calling her name the other night when you were playing the piano.”

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