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the house in the
spatch-cocked moonlight. A tiny spot of grimy yellow, half-hidden
by the house itself, marked where the slave-jail stood, about a
hundred feet behind it. As she watched, a shadow passed across that
light, where a militiaman – probably more than one – stood guard.
“There’s things I want to see in the house first.”
    Livia inclined her head graciously, as if
granting her permission. And, Rose had to admit, the older woman
was quick and quiet-footed as a cat, slipping from tree-shadow to
tree-shadow when they reached the double line of oaks that marked
the drive from the Marais landing to the house. She had been, Rose
recalled, a slave herself. There must have been times in that
portion of her life – of which she never spoke – when she had
needed that particular survival skill.
    The way was sodden from the bucket-line that
had passed along it earlier in the night, and littered with the
jetsam of the party guests as they’d fallen into the ranks of the
struggling slaves: a gaudy tabard trampled in the mud, that Rose
had seen Crowdie Passebon wearing; an embroidered Turkish slipper;
Father Abraham’s discarded beard.
    A curtain had been hastily nailed over the
broken-out French door of Leonie Neuville’s bedroom, to keep foxes
or stray dogs from getting at the body. Hannibal cracked the slide
on his dark-lantern enough to let Rose pick the lock on the
shutters that covered the French doors on the husband’s side of the
house. The rest of the shutters were bolted from within.
    “When will Jèrôme Neuville be back?” murmured
Rose, as they stepped into the absolute blackness of the house. The
smell of smoke almost choked her, of burned wool and burned flesh.
Hannibal raised the lantern-slide a little more, and flashed the
beam around the room. The walls were slightly smoke-darkened, but
showed no touch of burning. The single bed was covered with some
dark fabric – American brocade, probably – but had not been made
up, the mosquito-bar looped back and knotted to the tester. Still
the room had the air of a place inhabited: newspapers on the
bedside table, basin and ewer set on the shaving-stand. Benjamin’s
room, in the big old house on Rue Esplanade, though it contained a
bed as was considered proper in all Creole houses, was in fact a
sort of study, equipped with a desk and shelves of books.
    This looked like a bedroom.
    “Whatever Neuville’s relations with his wife
were,” said Hannibal softly. “It will be shock to the woman’s
family—”
    “The only shock anyone who knew Leonie likely
to sustain is that she was home on the night of the biggest
subscription ball between Mardi Gras and Easter,” retorted Livia.
“She spent all her time at the town house. Or she did before
Neuville got Tom Moberly as overseer.”
    “The one who left last week?”
    “Odd, isn’t it?” asked Rose. “That he went
immediately after the owner departed?”
    “After selling half the crop and two-thirds
of the plantation stores of food, I’ll be bound.” The older woman’s
voice was dry as they moved cautiously into the parlor. “Half the
parish knows the place was in trouble, but it was only
mismanagement – mismanagement and lies. That nonsense about the
fields that got water-logged… that’s a lie that would only stand
with a man who hasn’t been around on his own fields. And what else
they expected from a good-looking young snake like Moberly I’d be
hard put to tell. Every time Neuville would leave this place – he
has cotton land up near Baton Rouge, and is buying up acres in
Texas as well – hogsheads of sugar would start disappearing, and
cord-wood from the sheds. And Moberly would sweet-talk Leonie into
thinking it was all misfortune or her poor bookkeeping, belike… the
man could talk anybody into anything, I’ve heard. Like most
good-for-nothing men.”
    “I stand chastised.” Hannibal bowed his
head.
    “Get along with you. You’re the worst of the
lot.” But her voice