Page 55 of Nineteen Seventy-Six

They exchanged looks. Maureen fled down the stairs and unbolted the door.

Before anyone could say a word, Edouard pressed Maureen to his chest with a firm hand. He ran the other through her hair, just once, and then dropped both his hands to his sides.

“Edouard!” It came out as a whisper. “What happened? How did you get here?”

“I got stuck on the bridge,” he said. “I came as soon as it cleared. It’s not important.”

“But… the bridge!” Maureen envisioned him huddled in his car as the wind whipped the metal over the Mississippi. “You could’ve died!”

“I didn’t die,” he replied. He looked past her and nodded at Soren. “Thank you, Mr. LaViolette. I’m taking Maureen home now.”

Soren returned the nod, giving Maureen a confused, helpless look, likely wondering if he should argue, if he should come to her, if he should attempt a proper goodbye.

“I’ll call you,” Maureen said, letting Edouard take her by the hand and lead her away.

Soren, mouth open, bounced his head in acknowledgment.

“I don’t think that will be necessary anymore,” Edouard said.

Charles waited until the conversation died before slipping away. This time, no one stopped him. Cordelia didn’t beckon him to return in that strange softness she’d offered when they went up into the attic, and Lisette didn’t beg him to be sensible. Neither of his women seemed to possess much care for his well-being anymore.

But he was still the master of this house, and this family, and if anyone should be the first to emerge into whatever was left of the world outside, it was him.

What about your brother?

What about Ekatherina?

Charles set his jaw and climbed down. Cordelia could go straight to hell. He’d talk to Colin soon about making sure she got nothing if he died. There’d be ironclad provisions preventing her from even stepping foot inside this house, or any Deschanel property. Hell, maybe he’d do away altogether with the idea of a singular heir and spread things equally, between his son and daughter, or any other children he might have, should Lisette choose to come near him again.

What about Ekatherina?

Charles hopped onto the carpet of the third floor hall. He glanced around, cautious, as if the storm could be lurking around any corner of the Big House. When things seemed safe, he moved on, down the hall, down the first set of stairs. The second floor looked no more worse for wear, other than a shattered dormer window at the end of the hall.

What about your brother?

Charles descended the final staircase more slowly. In the hurricane of ’65, this was where the house took the brunt of the damage, in the front, near the double parlor. His foot crunched through a pile of detritus, debris from the oaks that had blown through a window that had the storm shutters pulled off.

He stopped breathing. Listened.

The wind had died down considerably. It was still there, whipping through the tops of oaks, but it no longer screamed at them, demanding recompense.

With a deep breath, he pulled open the double doors to inspect the damage.

What about Ekatherina?

“What about her? She was killing him. I did what was needed, same as I always have.”

Charles stepped outside and released the breath. Well. There would certainly be some cleanup. Bits and pieces of plants, trees, farm implements, all came together in a strange marriage of chaos, littering the property and road beyond, as far as the eye could see. Even the levee was covered in the remnants of those things at Ophélie incapable of holding on.

Richard appeared behind him. Richard, the best man he knew. Richard, his uncle.

“Go on in and comfort that girl, Charles. She’s beside herself, and you know how it can be for women, so early in their pregnancy and all.”

“Sure.” Charles clapped the man on the back. He’d do something about the injustices done to Richard and his sister. He would. God knows why his father never did, but he’d do the right thing. Not today… today they had other things to focus on, like the hellscape outside. “Thanks.”

“I’ll start inspecting the property, Charles. Go on.”

Yeah, technically he had killed Ekatherina, but that would infer she wasn’t already dead inside when he placed the pillow over her angry, vengeful face.

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