“What’d you use? Texas bluebonnets?” I lived for those emergencies, the ones where you ran out of the flowers you were intending to use, so you had to find something else, something that fit both the bride’s vision and your own sense of the couple.
“We only had purple statice.”
“I’m sure that worked great,” I lie. Purple statice is a filler, so the substitution would have changed the whole feel of the bouquets. I’m so dorky—I’m the only person in the world who would care about something like that.
“Anyway, what did you say about there being a wall around the town?” Meredith asks, and I’m relieved for the change of subject because it momentarily stops me from thinking about the life I left behind.
I quickly recap what Aunt Bea told me about the gate. Then I tell her about the weather, the cemetery just beyond the garden wall, and the strange, swirling mist.
“No offense,” Meredith says when I’m done, “but Carrefour sounds crazypants.”
I’m surprised to realize I feel a bit defensive. “It’s not so bad.”
“Whatever you say. Anyways, what’re you doing for your birthday?”
“Nothing yet.” In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if Aunt Bea has even remembered, because it’s just after eight p.m., and she hasn’t wished me a happy birthday yet. No cake. No ice cream. No singing. Nothing.
“Maybe Bea’s planning to surprise you.”
“Maybe.” I turn the flashlight off and tap it absently against my knee.
I’m about to tell Meredith about the intimidating-looking Pointe Laveau Academy when something darts across the backyard. I blink into the darkness and sit up, my heart pounding. Meredith launches into a story about how Jon Dashiell hit on Holly Henderson right in front of her boyfriend, but I’m not listening. “Shhhh,” I finally manage.
“Did you just shush me?”
“I think I heard a noise,” I whisper. “There’s definitely something in my backyard.”
“Kind of like how you always thought you saw some guy lurking in the shadows here in Brooklyn?” she asks, laughing.
“No,” I mutter, feeling stupid. Three months ago, I’d begun to notice a slender man with white-blond hair loitering behind me wherever I went. I’d be walking home from school, and I’d catch a glimpse of him in the shadows, or I’d be window-shopping in SoHo with Meredith and see his reflection in a glass storefront. When I finally told Meredith about it, she’d laughed for a full minute. Like she’s doing now.
But I tune her out as I strain to see across the darkness. The moon is half full, so it’s casting light over my mother’s rose garden, which Boniface has so carefully maintained. Beyond that lies her vegetable garden, lush with greens, tomatoes, and herbs. It backs up against the cemetery wall edging our property. That’s where I see a shadow slinking along now.
I squint, then draw in a sharp breath as I realize it’s human-shaped. I blink a few times and can just make out the faint silhouette of a person methodically picking something from one of the plants near the wall.
“Hey!” I drop my phone and call out. “Hey you! Stop!” I’m dashing across the backyard in defense of my mom’s beloved garden before I realize how stupid I’m being. How do I know it’s not some creepy guy waiting to rob our house—or worse?
Suddenly, there’s a thud, and the person goes down hard.
“Damn it!” comes a curse in the darkness, and I’m hugely relieved to realize the voice is female. I almost trip over her, and as I beam my flashlight down, I see a girl about my age with wild, sun-kissed blond waves. She’s in a white cotton dress, and her feet are bare.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I demand.
“Who in the hell are you?” the girl shoots back in a thick Southern accent.
“I live here. This is my yard. What are you doing in it?”
She looks perplexed. “But this is the Cheval mansion.”
“Yeah, so? I’m Eveny Cheval.”
The girl stares at me like I’ve just told her I’m the President of the United States. “Huh?” she manages.
“I just moved in,” I say, growing more confident. “And I want to know what you’re doing on my property.”
“Uh, picking herbs,” she says, adding defensively, “My friends and I pick stuff here all the time. It’s no big deal.”
“What do you need herbs for?”
“Recipes and stuff,” she mumbles.
She’s obviously lying. “What, is Boniface growing pot out here?”
The girl laughs and unfolds her left hand. “Not that I know of,” she says. I peer at her palm. Indeed, I see only lavender, thyme, and lemongrass.