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wondered as I started toward the living room. I was afraid to touch anything, afraid even to
walk on the expensive looking big Persian oval rug
that extended from the living room doorway, under
the two large sofas and beyond. The high windows
were draped in scarlet velvet with gold ties and the
walls were papered in a delicate floral design, the
hues matching the colors in the soft cushion high back
chairs and the sofas. On the thick mahogany center
table were two thick crystal vases. The lamps on the
side tables looked very old and valuable. There were
paintings on all the walls, some landscapes of
plantations and some street scenes from the French
Quarter. Above the marble fireplace was the portrait
of a distinguished looking old gentleman, his hair and
full beard a soft gray. His dark eyes seemed to swing
my way and hold.
I lowered myself gently in the corner of the
sofa on my right and sat rigidly, clinging to my little
bag and gaping about the room, looking at the statues,
the figurines in the curio case, and the other pictures
on the walls. I was afraid to look at the portrait of the
man above the fireplace again. He seemed so
accusatory.
A hickory wood grandfather's clock that looked as old as time itself ticked in the corner, its numbers all Roman. Otherwise, the great house was silent. Occasionally, I thought I heard a thumping above me and wondered if that was Gisselle storming back and
forth in her room.
My heart, which had been racing and drumming
ever since I let Beau Andreas lead me into the house,
calmed. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Had
I done a dreadful thing coming here? Was I about to
