Deaderick said, “Nah. I’m sure I left some for this week. We might have to scrape the barrel’s bottom for it, but we’ll make it work.”

“Ma’am?” Ruthie asked.

Josephine patted at her hand to reassure her. Then, to the men, she said, “Things are under control here, aren’t they?”

“As controlled as they’re going to get,” said Honeyfolk. “Now it’s up to that crew to figure out what they’re doing. There’s nothing we can do to help from here, so you might as well head back, if that’s what you need to do. We’ll send someone ahead to let you know when we’re coming downriver, and you can catch up to the assist-boats in the Quarter. Someone’ll pick you up.”

“Ruthie, looks like you get your wish—and we’re heading home.”

“Mais non, madame. You do not understand. I wish to stay here.” She shot Deaderick a protective, almost possessive glance. “I will watch out for the men, eh? Someone has to keep them out of trouble. I will ride with the assist-boats, when they help lead the ship down the river, d’accord?”

Under different circumstances, Josephine might’ve put her foot down, but in truth, she didn’t want to leave the men either—and at least Ruthie could send messages, report back, and watch to make sure Deaderick didn’t overexert himself. If Josephine couldn’t remain, Ruthie was the next best thing.

“Fine, Ruthie. That’s fine. And you’ll keep me posted, won’t you? If anything changes, or, or … happens?”

“You know I will.”

An hour later, Norman Somers had deposited Josephine back at the Metairie lot near the street rail station, and shortly after dark, she was back in the Quarter.

Two Texians stopped her about the curfew, but all they did was demand that she find her way indoors. She assured them that she was on a mission to accomplish that very thing, at which point, one of them recognized her and escorted her back to the Garden Court.

She thought about inviting him inside, in gratitude for delivering her back to the house without further stops or inquiries. It was always good to play nice with the men who could shut off her customer base. But not tonight. Instead, she gave him a round of thanks and shut the front door behind herself. Until it was fully closed, her escort struggled to peer past her, then gave up and left when the front room curtains were drawn.

In the lobby, Hazel Bushrod was lurking near the large desk by the stairs, keeping watch for customers. When Josephine walked in, Hazel leaped up from her seat and seized her with a hug. “Oh, ma’am, I’m so glad you’re back!”

“Thank you, Hazel. I’m … I’m glad to be back, too.”

“Liar.”

“No,” said Josephine. “I’m mostly telling the truth. It’s good to be back in a place where it’s not just me and Ruthie in a skirt. The company of men is one thing. The company of men and only men … that’s another.”

“How’s Deaderick? Is he—?”

“He’s fine. Or he will be fine. He’s up and around too much, that’s for damn sure. If I had my way, he’d be lashed to a bed and forced to rest like a civilized man who’s recovering from a pair of bullet holes … not running the show as a member of the walking wounded.”

Hazel raised an eyebrow and asked, “You left Ruthie at the camp?”

“She insisted.”

“Then he might get lashed to a bed yet.”

“Oh, you stop it,” Josephine said, but she smiled. And she added, “But I want to thank you for sending Cly out, like you did. He was as well prepared as anyone could expect, and I appreciate it. But now that I’m back, I don’t suppose you could cover things for me just a few minutes longer, could you? I’m absolutely filthy from that camp, and if I don’t get a bath soon, I’ll chase away whatever customers we have left, now that this damn curfew is taking hold and sticking.”

An hour later she was back, freshly dressed and feeling fully human once more. Her hair was pinned and free of leaf litter or moss scraps, and there was no more peat beneath her fingernails.

Hazel was no longer alone in the lobby.

On the love seat under the frontmost window, much to Josephine’s surprise, Fenn Calais was happily chattering with Marie Laveau.

At first impression, they nattered as if they’d known each other for a lifetime already, but as Josephine descended the stairs and overheard more of the conversation, she realized that impression was misleading. It was a “getting to know you” chat of the strangest sort—the elderly voudou queen and the somewhat less elderly Texian, who was testing out his precious few words of French and getting a friendly, giggling reaction from the woman. She corrected him gently.

“Non, Mr. Calais. You spell the t on the end, but you do not say it. You let the word end a few letters from its conclusion. Say it again: vraiment. Say it, and don’t close your mouth at the end to make the t sound. It’s not so hard, vraiment,” she added with a wink.

“Ma’am, I just cannot do it to save my life. I think the French are the only folks on earth who are harder on their vowels than us Southerners. And if I never master it, c’est la vie!”

She laughed and said, “Now I know you’ve only been teasing!” Then, upon seeing Josephine, stalled and perplexed on the bottom stair, she said, “Ah, my dear. There you are. Hazel told me you were in the bath.”

“Madame Laveau, yes. Hello. Welcome to the Garden Court. Can I … can I get you anything?”

“Non, sweet dear. Only your time, if I might impose.”

“At any time. Ever.”

Fenn took this as his cue to relocate, saying, “I suppose Delphine is starting to wonder where I’ve gone off to. Perhaps I’ll just rejoin her.”

“Have a good evening, Mr. Calais,” Josephine told him, never taking her eyes off the woman ensconced on the firmly padded seat. When Fenn was gone, she took his place. She did not bother to ask how her visitor made it past the curfew. Instead she asked, “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

Mrs. Laveau took her hand and squeezed it. “I’m here because you’ll be receiving a visitor, any minute now. A gentleman.”

“This is a certain kind of business,” she murmured, half joking but half nervous, too.

“Not a customer, a visitor. And I’m not telling your fortune, dear one. I’m here to prepare you for the introduction. He’s a man you’re likely to treat with hostility, insofar as you’re able. But I’m here to tell you, you must not do that.”

“I don’t understand.” Josephine frowned over at Hazel, who looked back anxiously.

“He’s a Texian. But he’s no part of your … present interests. He wishes to consult you, about the Dead Who Walk.”

“Ma’am Laveau, I try hard to be a hostess, and in this city that means I am compelled to be civil to many Texians, whether I like it or not. I’m sure I can find it in my heart to be polite to this one. Why is he coming here? Why would he think I know anything about the zombis?”

“He’s a Ranger, dearest. An investigating man, for a matter requiring careful investigation. And he’s coming here because I suggested it,” she said, lowering her voice and leaning close. She held Josephine’s hand tighter, and Hazel drew in her breath with a tiny gasp—reminding them both that she was in the room.

The hands that clasped Josephine’s were as thin as twigs, despite the woman’s otherwise stout appearance. Gas lamplight twinkled on the silver of her rings, and on the red, blue, and green of the gems or colored glass found therein. The queen smelled like sandalwood and sage, feathers and dust. And in her eyes, sunken with age, there smoldered a deep, grim light.

“Child, do you know how long I’ve walked this world?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Eighty years, give or take, as the Lord gives—and the Lord takes. I do not think I shall live to enjoy another one.”

“Ma’am, don’t talk that way.”

She released Josephine’s fingers and gave them a loving pat. “Why not? Such is the way of things, isn’t it? Time turns us all, and I’ve danced longer than many. I do not regret a single tune.” Her smile slipped, only a little. She restored it and continued. “But that’s why you must speak to this Ranger. He will help you, when I’m gone.”

“Ma’am, I am very confused. A Ranger?”

“Speak with him,” she pleaded. “New Orleans is home these days to worse than Texians, dearest. The zombis grow in numbers every day, and soon even the most determined nonbeliever will be forced to face them. They must be managed now, before they become unmanageable. And I will not be able to help. These Texians who you hate so much, they are only men—only living men, and most of them would leave as happily as you’d have them gone. While they are here, you must work with them. We do not always get to choose our allies.”

Josephine sat back, staring hard at Mrs. Laveau. Was the woman dying? She looked healthy, given her advanced age. But there was something … less about her. Something missing, or lacking—something that had been stronger in their previous encounter, not even a week ago. “People have … I’ve heard that you were controlling them. Has it been true, all this time?”

“Yes. And no. I can urge them, and guide them. As you saw, I can often stop them. But bend them to my will? Command them to do my bidding?” She fluttered one elaborately jeweled hand in a gesture of bemused contempt. “Not at all. Though if it comforts people to feel that they are controlled, so let them be comforted.”

“I think I understand.”

“I knew you would. We’re two of a kind, you and me.”

“You flatter me to say so.”

“You and I both understand, as women of color and women of power … that power is too often in the eyes of the beholders.” Her right hand drew up into a closed fist, a pointed finger. The finger aimed between Josephine’s eyes. “And let me give you some advice, eh? One devilish old crone to a devilish young one: Never, never, never diminish yourself by correcting the beholders out of modesty. When your beauty is gone, when your money is spent, and when your time in this world runs low … the one thing you’ll take with you into the next world is your reputation.”