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“May I help you?” the maid asked.
Jilo never took her eye off the house. She saw the curtain move once again, and a lovely face peered out. Sun lit up the blonde hair framing the face, then the curtain winked closed.
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Taylor. Mr. Edwin Taylor, please.” She nearly choked as she used a title of respect for the boy.
The maid flushed red. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I don’t see how that is appropriate.” Jilo finally turned to face the maid. She came close to explaining to this blotchy creature just how appropriate her request was, but the fear in the woman’s eyes stopped her. She wasn’t a Taylor, she merely worked for them, her experience probably not so different from what Jilo’s nana’s had been when she worked at the old Pinnacle. “Mr. Edwin doesn’t make decisions about hiring for the household, and I can assure you we’re fully staffed. There are no openings.”
“I’m not looking for employment,” Jilo said, and the woman relaxed a bit. Perhaps she was only worried about a perceived threat to her position. “Please, if you will just tell Mr. Taylor that Jilo is here. He’ll know me. He”—she prepared herself to lie—“will want to speak with me.”
The maid hesitated for just long enough to arouse the curiosity of the woman who was still peeking out from behind the drapery. The door opened, and the woman whose lovely face Jilo had seen shining from behind the pane stepped out. “Is there a problem, Coleen?” she called out, her voice pristine, sweet. The perfect voice to sing lullabies.
The maid—Jilo surmised named Coleen—sprinted back to her mistress. Jilo watched the maid’s animated gestures, obviously intended to persuade the young miss to go back inside. To Jilo’s surprise, it was the maid who found herself shooed away. The young blonde stood on the doorstep for a moment, seeming to consider Jilo. Jilo felt a sensation almost like a tickle as the beautiful blonde witch—yes, witch, the magic in Jilo sensed the magic in her—with the long neck and clear eyes took Jilo’s measure from a distance. What she read, how much she understood, Jilo didn’t know, but the odd prickling stopped, and the beauty strode with a practiced grace down the steps and across the street to Jilo.
“What business do you have with my fiancé?”
Her question struck Jilo as hard as a slap. She staggered back a few steps and placed her hand, still holding Binah’s letter, against her temple.
“Are you quite al
l right? Do you need to sit down?” The young woman grasped Jilo’s free hand, wrapping an arm beneath hers to support her. “Would you like some water?” Jilo wondered that this usurper should seem so kind, so gentle, so honestly concerned about Jilo’s well-being. Jilo froze and turned to look into the woman’s sweet eyes. Could she be as innocent as Binah had been? Was she unaware of the situation she was walking into? Jilo fingered the letter in her hand, wondering if she should simply hand it over to the young woman and walk away. Let Binah’s words save this girl from making a huge mistake.
“Come into the kitchen,” the woman said, guiding Jilo across the street toward the Taylors’ house. They got as far as the lowest step, but then the woman stopped, seeming to remember herself. “Well, of course, you’ll have to go in the back way,” she said, releasing Jilo’s arm and motioning toward a stone pathway that led around the house. “I’ll go tell Coleen to see to your needs.”
“No,” Jilo said, causing Edwin’s new woman to startle. Let this buckra woman sleep in the bed she’d made for herself. “No,” she said again, this time her voice coming out softer. “I’m fine now. I apologize for being a nuisance.” She spun on her heel and began walking away, moving as fast as her feet could carry her.
“Wait,” the woman called. “You wanted to speak to Edwin. It seemed like it might be an important matter.” Jilo felt the tingling sensation begin again, this time around her temples. She knew the witch was making a weak and clumsy attempt to see her thoughts. Somehow, without fully understanding how she’d known to do it, Jilo slammed a heavy curtain down between them. The young witch stammered. “He isn’t here right now, but I’ll pass on a message if you’d like.”
Jilo turned back. “No, ma’am. That isn’t necessary. But your kindness is much appreciated.”
“Are you sure?” the woman said, her tone growing anxious.
“All right then, ma’am. Please tell him Juliette asked me to say hello to him when I passed by.” Jilo headed west, determined never to lay eyes on this house again.
FOURTEEN
“Who is she?” Jilo asked as Ginny came down the sidewalk toward her. Jilo had been waiting on a porch swing outside of a strange house a bit south of Forsyth Park for a good hour, right out there for God and anyone else to see. Damn the Taylors. Damn their secrets. And damn any buckra fool who’d complain about her sitting there.
Ginny stopped before mounting the steps, casting Jilo a look of disappointment. “You used your magic to find me.” Jilo didn’t deny it. She’d known Ginny was away from the big house. That part wasn’t magic—deep down, she didn’t think Ginny would have left her standing out there like that. Jilo had to believe that despite her brother’s actions, Ginny herself had a shred of decency in her. So, yes, she’d used her magic, as much out of rebellion against these damned witches as from a desire to learn what had happened, and what was going to happen, from Ginny.
“I asked you who she was,” Jilo said, keeping her voice firm.
Ginny climbed the steps and stood before her. Holding a hand out in front of her, she announced in a stentorian voice, “Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Taylor of Savannah”—Ginny was being so loud that, in spite of her earlier resolve, Jilo glanced around her shoulders to see if anyone was near—“are pleased to announce the engagement of their son Edwin to Miss Adeline Rose Connelly. Miss Connelly, a graduate of the internationally renowned Institut Alpin finishing school, is the daughter of Riley and Marguerite Connelly of Richmond, Virginia. A date has not yet been set.” She lowered her hand and turned toward the house’s door. “There, satisfied?”
She opened the door and stepped through. Jilo expected Ginny to slam the door behind herself, but instead she called out, “Are you coming in or not?”
Jilo rose and took a few cautious steps toward the opening. Ginny stood in the hall with her hands on her hips. As Jilo stepped over the threshold, Ginny raised her hands and motioned around the space. “Like it? It’s mine. All mine. Not my daddy’s, not my mama’s. Mine. Close the door behind you, please.” Jilo did as she was asked, and Ginny flipped on an overhead light.
Seemingly intent on providing Jilo with a tour of the place, Ginny raised her hands and turned a full circle. “The foyer,” Ginny said, referring to a wide, but altogether ordinary, hallway. Ginny pointed toward the entrance, and Jilo followed Ginny’s gesture to an old-style chair that sat right inside the door. “It’s a Savery.” Ginny nodded at the blank wall facing the chair. “Of course it’s posing me a bit of a problem as I have a smaller work on paper by Rothko I’d intended for that very spot, but then I found the chair and began questioning . . .”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I didn’t come here to discuss decorating.”
Ginny shook her head. “No, I know you didn’t. It’s only I was thinking how much you and I are like that chair and the painting. Both,” she said, brushing past Jilo and placing a hand on the back of the chair, “of the highest quality.” She turned back to Jilo. “But so very different in our design.” She held a hand out to Jilo, but Jilo couldn’t bring herself to take it. Ginny let it fall back to her side. “I wasn’t allowed to hang the painting in my father’s house, but this house belongs to me. There’s room, and respect, for both Savery and Rothko in this house.” She cast a glance back up to the wall. “Oh dear,” she said, “would I be ruining my metaphor if I said I just decided that is entirely the wrong place for the Rothko?” She pursed her lips for a moment, then turned back to Jilo. “I’ll just leave that spot open for now, till the right work comes along.” She did an about-face and led the way into a sitting room on the left side of the hall.
Jilo stepped into the room, taking in the unexpected juxtaposition of antique furniture and cubist art. A sound caught her attention, and she turned to face a clock on the mantle that struck off each second, loud enough to wake the dead. Ginny motioned toward the sofa. As Jilo obeyed her unspoken request, Ginny crossed the room and retrieved a bottle of amber liquid from an unlocked tantalus. “Do you like scotch?”
Jilo shrugged. “Never tasted it.”
“Then you don’t like scotch,” Ginny said, pulling out the stopper and filling two tumblers almost to the rim. “But you’re going to learn to.” She crossed the room to Jilo and held one of the glasses out to her. Jilo took the drink, watching as Ginny swept her skirt to the side, bent her knees in a smooth, though Jilo reckoned practiced, motion, and sat down next to her on the sofa. “Until then, at least it’ll dull the pain.” She tipped the tumbler to her lips, downing a third in one draft. “So, how is Binah? Are she and Juliette settled?”
