Maybe a tall tale to pass a long, hot afternoon.
But maybe not.
The hiding place draws power. It always has. The original group of spiritualists and seekers came down in 1887 from somewhere in upstate New York. They were tired of being run out of town after town by church people, and they were looking for a place where nobody would bother them.
Except the dead, of course.
So here came the psychics, wading into the swamp with their crystal balls and their tarot cards held high.
Honey’s great-grandmother was one of them.
Elora’s and Hart’s families are both descended from that founding group, too.
Even before that, though, the runaway enslaved and the Creole people, along with the Houma and Chitimacha and others who shared these swamps, used to tell stories about this area. The Acadian settlers, too. Strange things happened here, they all said.
I think about Case and Wrynn. Bilocation. And the gift of healing.
And Zale. The power of the sea and the sky.
But if my mother had some gift like that – some deep power, like Sera said – I’ve never known anything about it.
And I certainly didn’t inherit it.
I get dressed and wander into the kitchen to find Honey sitting at the table. She dumps a spoonful of sugar into her coffee and stirs as she listens to the radio.
Someone from the National Hurricane Center reports that Elizabeth has emerged from this side of the Florida peninsula, and that she’s strengthening as she crosses the Gulf of Mexico’s warm waters. In only a few hours, winds have increased to over one hundred miles an hour. She’s a category 2 now.
Honey keeps stirring, and the radio station goes live to a press conference where the governor of Louisiana is declaring a state of emergency ahead of the storm’s predicted arrival here.
“I’m not leaving,” I say as I sit down across from Honey with a bowl of cereal.
She sighs. “Grey –”
“We don’t even know what’s going to happen yet. Give me a little while longer,” I beg. “Maybe it won’t be bad.” I’m stirring my cereal around, but I haven’t made myself take a bite yet. “I can’t leave. Not until I know what happened to Elora.”
“Sugar Bee, in the end, not everything is knowable.” Honey takes a small sip of her coffee. “Even for those of us entrusted with the gift of sight.”
“This isn’t the end,” I tell her. “And this is knowable. I feel it.”
Honey studies my face for a long minute before she nods. “One more day. But I won’t take chances with your safety. If it looks like we’re going to take a direct hit, you’re going home.”
“I already am home,” I remind her.
All that morning and afternoon, we stay busy in the bookstore. I spend the whole day helping clueless people pick out decks of tarot cards and incense and books on astrology. I even sell that ugly Himalayan salt lamp.
Case’s mama, Ophelia, comes in to pick up some herbal tea and to talk to Honey about the storm. It’s the first time I’ve seen her all summer, and she gives me a big hug. It makes me ashamed of the way I treated Case. The things I was ready to believe about him, just because I was desperate for an answer. I can’t help but wonder what he told her about his bashed-in face. That missing tooth. I imagine her laying a gentle hand on his cheek, to make the bleeding stop.
Wrynn hides behind her mama, just peeking out at me through that long red hair of hers. I see her snake out a skinny, freckled arm to snag some peppermints from Honey’s candy dish. But she doesn’t say a word. And I’m glad. I can’t stand to hear any more rougarou talk. I have too much on my mind as it is.
All day, I keep waiting for an opening to bring up what Hart told me last night.
About my mother.
It’s late afternoon when I finally get my chance. There’s a lull between customers, and I jump right into the deep end. I figure I don’t have time for wading.
“What was my mother’s gift?”
Honey glances up from her word search to give me a strange look. Her earrings are dangly stars, and she has a bright purple scarf tied around her head. “You know she could see colors.”
“You mean auras,” I say. “People’s energy, or whatever.”
“That’s right,” Honey tells me. “We’re all made up of energy. And that frequency creates a field around us. Different energies show up as different colors.”
“Like grey.”
“I know it’s not the most exciting color in the world, Sugar Bee.” I roll my eyes. Honey says her own aura is pink. “But grey is symbolic of a long spiritual journey. It means you’re an old soul. You’ve traveled a long path in this life. That’s something to be proud of.”