Vivienne's parents found the perfect house. A stunning Nineteenth Century Victorian at Rue Renaud, in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
One of those houses with personality and vibe; good enough to charm even a reluctant teen into moving to what she dubbed th...
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Old buildings have a soul, and sometimes the walls whisper stories that no one is meant to hear, in an effort to cleanse it. This is one of those...
Renaud arrived at his house a couple of hours before dawn. What transpired in his carriage was not even acknowledged by his driver. All revelations were kept within a bubble, a separate reality, close enough to affect it.
Had he been another type of man, he'd succumb to madness, and perhaps he did, without noticing. He just called it hope.
The man ran to his wife's room, eager to tell her what he had seen, what he had done for her, against all odds. His heart broke as soon as he opened the door.
The woman lying on the bed looked more dead than alive. The perfect cupid's bow of her lip had receded, her teeth showed, reminding the painful grin of a skull. She struggled to breathe through her mouth. With her lips barely parted, it looked as if the insides of her mouth were covered in cobwebs of dried spit. Even running her tongue through in an effort to hydrate was excruciatingly painful.
"Hello, love. I didn't stop through the night. I did good on my part, and I'm happy you held on as well." His hand shook, caressing the hollow of her cheek, such was the fear of hurting her. "This is the box that Laveau sent for you. You'll know what to do."
The woman took the offering in her hands, but was too weak to open it. Pleading with her eyes, her husband understood that she couldn't help herself to it. Putting his hands on top of hers, they opened it together. As the tiny dancer swirled in an everlasting circle, she took a deep, desperate breath.
Sandalwood, sweat, and road dust, nothing more. Claudette asked him to close the box. He did, setting it aside. She tried to cry and curse through sobs, but the disease had taken her tears.
"Nothing. " She whispered, pulling in all the energy she had saved until that moment. "How could she mock me like this? Is this the vengeance she was waiting on?"
For an instant, he wanted to tell her what really happened: that Laveau was dead, that he had been a fool that heeded no warnings, but he only said "Sorry", and left her to fill the blanks. His wife was condemned, and he didn't want her to hate him with her last breath. If he had it in his hands to go back and beg, he would, but she wouldn't last the night, and they knew it.
Renaud brushed away her hair and wiped her face. Love was evident in the gentleness of his touch, and although he smiled because he thought it would please her, the sadness of imminent loss showed in his eyes. He wanted to kiss her one last time, but she used whatever strength she had in her body to turn him away.
"Don't risk it. It's enough that you are here. I'd rather not die thinking I've exposed you to this hell. Go, see Pierre Petit. Sit with our son. Tell him his mother loves him. Make him believe, just for a night, that his daddy has the answer to all questions, and the cure to all illness."
