The towels were big, soft ones. After I washed my hair, I scrubbed it dry with one and then wrapped a towel around myself as I sat at the vanity and brushed out my long strands. Staring at myself in the mirror, I thought I detected more chubbiness in my cheeks and remembered Mama's warning about getting too fat. I indulged myself by spraying on some of the cologne and then I put on my dress and, after cleaning up the bathroom, carried my chamber pot back upstairs. I returned to fill my water jug and get a clean pail of water for the cleaning I would do.

As I was leaving the bathroom again, I heard a horrible sound. It resembled someone retching. I stood completely still and listened. It was definitely someone retching and it was coming from the first doorway down left. My curiosity was more powerful than Gladys Tate's warning not to wander. I tiptoed along, keeping close to the wall. When I reached the doorway, I inched my head around to peer into what I remembered from the model house was the master bedroom. I could see clearly through the room and into the bathroom because the bathroom door was open. Octavious was nowhere, but Gladys Tate was on her hands and knees, hovering over the toilet, vomiting.

I snapped my head back, an electric chill shooting up my spine.

Was she vomiting because of something she had eaten that was too rich or not good or . . .

No, I told myself. That's too far-fetched. She couldn't imagine it and then actually have it happen, could she? My jug of water tapped the wall.

"Octavious?" I heard her call. "Is that you?"

I didn't move.

"Octavious? Damn you, I'm sick."

I waited, my heart pounding. Then I heard her retch again and I quickly retreated to the doorway and ascended the stairs, taking care not to spill any of the water out of the pail.

I closed the door behind me and stood there, catching my breath and wondering if I had made the right decision after all. These people were rich, Gladys Tate's family was one of the most famous and respected families in the bayou. Their factory gave many people employment, and everyone, from the priest to the politicians, showed them respect. But there were shadows and memories looming in the corners and the closets of this house. I wondered if I could stay here and not be touched by the sadness and evil that I suspected had once strolled freely through the corridors and rooms. Perhaps, I thought with a shudder, it was all still very much here.

Sleep did not come easy the second night. I flitted in and out of nightmares and tossed and turned, waking often and listening to the creaks in the wood. Sometimes I thought I heard the sound of someone sobbing. I listened hard and it would drift away and I would fall back asleep. Shortly before daybreak, I was awake again and this time heard the soft sound of someone tiptoeing up the stairway. The door opened slowly, and for a moment, no one was there. My heart stopped. Was it a ghost? The spirit of one of Gladys Tate's angry ancestors, enraged by my presence in the house?

Then a dark figure appeared and made its way across the room to the window shade. I pretended to be asleep, but kept my right eye slightly open. It was Gladys Tate. She pulled down the shade, waited a moment, and then tiptoed out of the room, closing the door softly. I could barely hear her descend the stairs. She had moved like a sleepwalker, floating. It filled me with amazement. It did no good to close my eyes. I remained awake and saw the first weak rays of sunlight penetrate the shade and vaguely light the room to tell me morning, the beautiful bayou daybreak, had come. Only I would not be outside to greet it as I had all my life.

The next few days passed uneventfully. I cleaned and scrubbed the room until I believed it looked as immaculate as a room in a hospital, the old wood shining, the window so clear it looked open when it was closed. I took everything off the shelves and out of the closet, dusted and organized it, and then I dusted and polished all the small furniture.

Despite herself, Gladys Tate was impressed and commented that she was happy I was taking good care of my quarters.

I was lonely, of course, and missed Mama terribly, as well as the world outside; but every night, without fail, my night heron paid me a visit and strutted up and down the railing a little longer each time as I spoke to him through the window. I told him to tell all my animal friends in the swamp that I had not deserted them and I would be back before long. I imagined the heron visiting with nutrias and deer, snakes and turtles, and especially blue jays, who were the biggest gossips I knew, giving them all the news. At night the cicadas were louder than ever, letting me know that all of Nature was happy I was all right and would return. It was all silly pretending, I know; but it kept me content.

On my first Thursday morning after my arrival at The Shadows, Gladys Tate announced that I would enjoy my first meal downstairs in the dining room and then be able to wander about freely. I decided to wear the nicest of my three dresses, not to impress and please her but to please myself. I brushed down my hair and pinned it and then waited as the time drew near for her to call up to me. I heard the downstairs door open, followed by her declaration.

"It's all right for you to come down, Gabrielle."

I appeared instantly. "Thank you, madame," I said, and descended.

She gazed at me and then smiled coldly. "Octavious will not be joining us," she said. "There was no need to make any extra preparations. I made a promise to your mother that you would not see Octavious, and I mean to keep that promise."

"I made very little preparation. I have no desire to see him, Madame Tate. In fact, I'm rather relieved he won't be there," I added. She raised her eyebrows, but looked at me skeptically before we went down the stairs to the dining room where our dinner of whole poached red snapper had been laid out. Although I thought the table was rather fancy, Gladys Tate made it perfectly clear at the start that it was dressed nothing like it was when she had significant guests.

However, the fish itself was covered thickly with sauce and decorated with parsley to cover the separation marks at the head and tail. Radishes had been placed in the eyes and a row of overlapping slices of lemon and hard-boiled egg was down the center. The platter was garnished with lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes, olives, pimentos, and stuffed eggs. If this was an ordinary meal, I wondered what an elaborate one looked like.

She told me to sit at the opposite end of the table so we faced each other. The chandelier had been turned down and two candles were burning. Shadows danced on the walls and had a strange and eerie effect on the faces of the people painted in the scenes of sugar plantations and soybean fields that hung on the adjacent walls. The sad or troubled faces of the laborers looked like smiles, and the smiles on the rich landowners looked sinister. The far wall was all mirror so that I was looking at Gladys Tate's back and myself, only in the mirror, I seemed miles away.

"You may pour us each some iced tea," she said, and I rose to do so. The crystal goblets sparkled and the silverware felt heavy. The dishware had a flower print.

"This is a beautiful table setting," I remarked.

"It's our everyday tableware. But it has been in the family a very long time," she admitted. "I suppose you're used to eating off a plank table with tin forks and spoons."

"No, madame. We have plates, too. Not as elegant as these, of course, but we do have dishes."

She made a small grunting noise and took some of the red snapper. "Help yourself," she said.

I did so and found it delicious. "You have a very good cook."

"She was trained in New Orleans and never ceases to surprise us with her Creole creations. As you can see," she said, throwing a gesture in no specific direction, "our baby will enjoy only the finest things available. You have made a very wise decision."

"I think the events made the decision for me, madame," I said. No matter what she claimed to be doing for me, I wanted to be sure she understood I was the real victim, not her.

"Whatever," she said. "How's your appetite in general?" she inquired.

"Unpredictable. Sometimes I'm very hungry in the morning, and sometimes I don't feel like eating anything. Even the thought of food upsets my stomach."

"Pregnant women have these weird cravings, don't they?" she asked, once again making me feel as if I were the adult and she the young woman.

"They can. Mama told me about a pregnant woman who used to eat bark."

"Bark? You mean from a tree?"

"Out, madame."

"Ugh," she said, grimacing. "I was just referring to strange combinations. Do you have any such cravings?"

I thought a moment. "I had a passing craving for pepper jelly smeared over a piece of pecan pie."

She nodded. "Yes, that's more like it," she remarked. I started to smile, but she suddenly looked very angry.

"I want you to tell me these things as they occur. Hold nothing back," she ordered. "I must know exactly what to say to people. We'll be showing soon and they will have questions about my pregnancy. Understand?"

"Oui, madame."

"Is there anything else you want to tell me right now?" I thought and then shook my head.

"Very well, eat your dinner," she said, and ate silently for a while, her eyes vacantly focused on some thought rather than on me. All the food was delicious. I enjoyed every morsel.

"There's French chocolate silk pie," she announced, and lifted a cover off the dish.

"I'll have just a small piece, madame. Mama told me to watch my weight."