“Lip gloss?” I ask.
He chuckles. “It belonged to your mother.”
“Oh. Thanks.” I force a polite smile. I’d hoped he was going to give me something that could help me, but I appreciate him trying to make me feel better. “It’ll be nice to think of my mom when I wear it to the ball.”
“No, you misunderstand,” he says. “I’m not giving you this to remind you of your mother. I’m giving it to you because once upon a time, she imbued it with power.”
I look at him and then back to the tube of gloss.
“She spent months working desperately to come up with the right combination of herbs,” he explains. “This sort of thing is difficult, because in zandara herbs are used in the moment, in ceremonies, not to give inanimate objects power of their own. But just before she died, she told me she thought she’d done it; she added ground alder leaf to uncover someone’s true motives, thyme to reveal a liar, and peony to bring the truth to light. She never had a chance to charm it, though.”
He hands the tube to me. “It’s meant to show you betrayal around you.” I roll it over in my palm while he continues. “It will be clear on your lips, and it will be clear on people who are being honest with you. But if you charm it correctly, it will show up blood red on the face of the person who’s lying to you about the night Glory Jones died. And only you will be able to see the mark of the traitor.”
“Are you sure it will work?” I ask.
“No,” he admits. “But it may be your best chance.”
I consider this for a moment. “What made my mom so desperate to perfect this before she died?”
He frowns. “She had the feeling she was in danger, and she wanted to find out if there was someone here in Carrefour lying to her.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Your mother’s magic didn’t save her. But it could be the thing that saves you.”
Mardi Gras arrives crisp and clear in Carrefour, the first cloudless day we’ve had in a while. Pointe Laveau is closed in honor of the holiday, so I don’t set my alarm, but I’m up before five thirty anyhow, my nerves on edge.
The first thing I do is cross to my window and look out at the garden. I’m startled to see Caleb sitting in the predawn darkness on the bench beneath my mom’s favorite roses, staring up at me.
I open the window. “Come inside,” I call down.
He shakes his head. “Thanks. But I’m okay.”
“Caleb, you don’t have to do this.”
He looks down at the ground and then back up at me. “I’m fine, Eveny. Go on with your day.”
I pause and say, “You’ve been avoiding me all week. What are you doing here now?”
I’m hoping he’ll say he’s here because he wants to be. But instead he says, “It’s Mardi Gras, Eveny. The most dangerous day of the year for our sosyete.”
I stare at him for a long time before nodding and closing the window, a lump in my throat. He’s here because he has to be; that’s all. But that doesn’t stop me from being touched. Or from making him a cup of coffee once I’m dressed and bringing it out to the garden. I hand it to him and sit down on the bench next to him with a mug of my own. I try not to notice as he scoots away.
“You know, you don’t have to take me to the ball tonight,” I say.
He turns to look at me as the steam rises from his coffee mug, blurring his face for a moment. “I want to,” he says bluntly.
“Of course you do,” I say, trying not to sound bitter. “It’s your job.”
He seems to choose his words carefully before speaking. “I’m obligated to protect you, not to take you to the ball. I want to take you to the ball.” He doesn’t look at me, but he takes a sip of his coffee, which feels a bit like an acceptance of my olive branch. “That’s why I asked you,” he adds a moment later.
We sit in silence for a long time. Finally, he says, “I’m sorry,” in such a low voice that I almost don’t hear him.
“For what?” I ask in disbelief.
“For everything. For all of this. You didn’t ask for any of it.”
“Neither did you,” I say.
He nods and takes another sip of his coffee, and I take a sip of mine. Around us, the world comes to life as the sun rises, turning the sky a million beautiful shades of watercolor blue.
I lock myself in my room that afternoon and, after poring over my mother’s herb journal and thinking a lot about what Boniface said, I take a deep breath, hope my mother was right about the lip gloss, and call on Eloi Oke.
“Alder leaf, thyme, and peony, I draw your power,” I say. “Spirits, please imbue this gloss with the truth that could save our lives tonight. Let it show up blood red on the face of the person who’s lying about the night Glory Jones died.” The air pressure shifts, and I feel a breeze as I murmur, “Mesi, zanset. Mesi, zanset, Mesi, zanset.”