DISCLAIMER: None of the characters mentioned in this spec are my own, even if I do name them and elaborate on them. I respect the author's rights and do not intend to infringe on the aforementioned. In other words, I'm not getting paid for this, so lay down your lawsuit and walk away.

It's been a quiet night. My daughter is displeased and letting me know it, refusing to speak unless spoken to, whereupon she addresses me with a chilly formality. So angry and yet so polite; all my children are polite, just as I've taught them to be. They're also hardheaded, every one, and I suppose that's my fault as well.

"He's no good for you, Zéphine," I tell her, "and you know it. What kind of match would it be? You're beautiful, well bred, well mannered, and well educated, and what's more, you've got a good head on your shoulders. That man is a fool."

She eyes me sideways over her sewing. "He's a great lover of books, Maman. I never thought you'd be one to call reading a foolish passion."

Her hands continue to flash across the fabric, pausing to tug at stubborn stitches. I already have the beginnings of arthritis, and I admire the nimble fingers that embroider with less skill but far more dexterity than mine.

"It wouldn't matter how many books that man read, he'd still be a fool because he doesn't have any common sense. Look at your brother, taking right up where your father left off and making it possible for you to sit here and nurse these foolish notions. He has a head for business as well as books, and that's the sort of man you deserve, darling, not a young fop who'll run you into ruin."

"Ah, Louis," she says, mouth hardening into a derisive little smile. "I see he's back on his pedestal. I thought the favorite had finally fallen out of favor when you started accusing him of murder. I suppose I should have known that'd only last a few months. If my brother is so sensible, why don't we ask for his opinion on the matter?"

Such things she says! I'm her mother and I deserve her respect, but tonight my pampered child says things that chill me to the bone. "You're wild tonight, Joséphine de Pointe de Lac! I've lost one son already and now I'm losing another," I gasp before I gather my wits enough to realize I don't owe her any sort of explanation. "You can ask your brother yourself, though I'm sure he'll agree with me. He still has respect for his elders. Don't scowl like that or you'll be old and bitter before your time."

Zéphine drops her needlework and stares, dark eyes wide with horror. "He's not coming, Maman! He never comes! You invited him for this afternoon and now it's nearly ten. There'll be a note for you tomorrow with another of his excuses, just like every time before." She's beside me now, hands clasped around mine, beseeching. "It's as if he doesn't care for us anymore. He spends all of his time holed up in the house at Pointe du Lac, and no one sees him, no one! He's going mad!"

"Hold your tongue, you foolish child! He promised me he'd come and he will. Sit back down and wait." I settle my feet back on my footstool triumphantly, but my daughter just shakes her head. "Or better yet, go upstairs and go to bed. I'm not up for your pettiness."

There's a soft rap at the door and Zéphine hurries to open it, startled to see her brother at the door. He removes his hat and steps into the hall, almost shy as he greets her, lightly embracing before my daughter makes a graceful exit. This is the first time I have seen my son since his heat stroke, and his paleness pains me. He passes the mirror on his way into the parlor and he quickly removes his handkerchief, dabbing at his mouth. He closes his fingers around it, but not before I have seen the bloodstains on the cloth. I realize that the rumors are true: Louis is dying of consumption.

"Good evening, Mother," he says, his voice polite and low as always. "I tried to come this afternoon, but I was held up."

I can't stop staring at his face, so changed from when I last saw him. He shows all the signs of advanced illness, his skin frightfully pale save for two stains of color high on his cheeks. His eyes are fever bright-such beautiful green eyes-and he seems somehow thinner.

"It doesn't matter now," I reply, holding out my hand. He hesitates, but comes to embrace me. His cheek is hot when it brushes mine. "Louis, you're burning up!" I exclaim, and he smiles as he sinks into a nearby chair. His garments seem odd to me for the first time, and I realize that he is bundled up although we've already laid the straw mats across the carpets for the summer.

"Yes," Louis says, "but it doesn't matter now."

No more is said about the fact that he's sitting on a covered chair in his winter overcoat or that he never leaves the plantation. We both know the truth about his condition, so what's left to talk about? Truth be told, Louis does not say much at all, leaving the gossip and chatter to me, but he's always been a quiet soul. He's very much like his father in that way, so gentle and obliging, but he has my blood too, which has given him a core of iron. I gave my own mother grief as a girl and it gives me a strange satisfaction to know that my children have the strength to carry on even after I'm gone. But then, Paul is already gone and Louis is quickly following.

Can I imagine my firstborn dead and me still living? Zéphine was right; in my heart of hearts I do have a favorite child. My daughter is like me: petty, determined, spoiled to no end by a father and brothers who indulged her because she was pretty and precocious. Paul was docile, too docile. His passions were so intense it was as though he had no room for anything else. He was never quite right, and the misty, almost bovine expression in his blue eyes reminded me of an epileptic cousin of mine. But my eldest, Louis, how can I not love him more when he reminds me so much of my late husband? I don't dare show this favoritism, and it makes me very hard on him.

"Why don't you socialize?" I ask. "The Gagiers have been asking about you. They want you to come to their soiree. Baptistine has her heart set on it." If half the mademoiselles in New Orleans were enamoured of Louis before, the other half have joined them since he inherited the townhouse and the plantations. Have I mentioned that he is handsome? There's not a flaw on him, save that he's a bachelor. "How are you going to find a wife if you don't go out in society?"

This is an argument of habit, for I know Louis is past marrying now. He might not have more than a few months, though he's strangely without a cough. If he married, the properties would be left to his wife's family, and where would that leave us? No, it's better he die unwed. My son smiles gently, lips pursing as though he would speak, but suddenly he's sitting straight in his chair.

"Do you hear that?" he hisses, eyes wide with fear.

"No," I answer, a little frightened. "I hear nothing. Calm down! You're wild as well. You and your sister. What is wrong with you two tonight?"

He shakes his head, his hair coming loose from its ribbon as it always does. He settles back into the chair, but his hands stay clenched on the arms. I lean back as well, but Louis is on his feet. I can't remember him rising, he must have... but that's impossible!

"Forgive me," he says, brows drawn together anxiously, "I can't stay here a moment longer. There are things that still need to be done tonight, I'd only forgotten... I couldn't possibly make it to the soiree... I'm so busy, but I wanted... wanted..."

My head spins from the strangeness of the entire evening. "Collect your thoughts before you start speaking, Louis," I say crossly. "You're talking like a madman. Sit down and calm yourself."

Louis sobers somewhat, drawing himself up and speaking in a rational tone. "No, Maman, I can't stay any longer tonight. I'm terribly sorry, but... good evening."

He makes a quick little bow and is gone, just like that, disappearing into the hall to retrieve his hat. He's out the door before I can even stand, leaving me alone in the parlor. I rush after him, but by the time I reach the door, he's nowhere to be seen.

Ah! There he is!

Louis stands at the end of the street with another man. They appear to be arguing, and though I can scarcely make out my son's form in the darkness, a slender shadow dressed completely in black, the other has golden blond hair that shines like a beacon in the lantern light. His fair face is animated; here and there I can see the flash of a bright eye or a white hand as he waves his arms about. Louis leans sullenly against a wrought-iron post.

"Maman?"

Zéphine stands on the stair, wide eyed.

"Maman, there was a strange man loitering around the house just now. A tall blond man I've never seen before. He seemed to be waiting for Louis. Who is he?"

I wave her off. "A friend, perhaps. Someone with business about one of our properties, most likely. Go to bed, darling. It's nothing."

But I know better. The man on the street is unmistakably the same one who has been running with Freniere. The sisters are respectable young ladies, but the brother keeps bad company and is a well-known gambler, given to all sorts of vices. It hasn't been long since Louis was making appearances in houses of ill repute, spending his evenings on the riverfront in questionable company. He thinks I don't know; men think we are oblivious to these things, but women see through every lie, know about all their goings on, especially mothers. It's just not our place to talk about them. We smile demurely at their falsehoods, but we aren't fooled.

Louis, my child, I believe you've gotten yourself into more than you'd expected.