Downstairs, voices were being raised. Every now and then a word would drift up, enough for Marion to tell they were quarreling neither in English nor French, but that language Felicia had told her about — Fourchaise.

It was an angry sounding language, with rolling Rs and gutteral consonants that made every word sound like a curse.

“She has lived in his house for four years and you’ve told her nothing! Leon is bedding her every other night and she doesn’t know what he is, what their child could be? Is that what you are telling me?”

“It… we…”

“You promised me,” he hissed. “You promised me the day of Papa’s funeral that you would tell her everything!”

“You talk to me of justification!” he was almost shouting now. “You talk to me of sins of omission, about our brother being damned when you’ve been decieving that poor girl since the day she was hauled into this house!”

“Oh yes, brother, you can judge can’t you, from a thousand miles away! You abandon us, run off in California so you can ogle film stars and bury yourself in books…”

“I made my reasons for leaving plain!”

“We could not tell her, Gregoire. She saw Leon, do you understand? Saw him after he’d changed and her reaction… She talked of demons, of the invisible world. That father of her’s, he taught her terrible things, and she still believes them!”

“The invisible wo….?”

“Oh dear God… She’s read Cotton Mather. A witch-burner. You have a witch-burner in this house, is that what you are saying? Is that what you are telling me, sister?”

“Gregoire, don’t you dare lay a hand on her!”

“I’m not going to bloody touch her with my hands or anything else you stupid woman!”

Leon stood trembling in the downstairs bathroom. As soon as he’d stepped into the house, he knew he was in trouble.

He could only understand a few words of what his aunt and uncle were shouting at each other, but he had an idea what they were going on about. Not that the words mattered. It was the voices, the anger. No, please, he thought, not tonight. Not tonight of all nights…

The smell and feel of conflict, of rage…

And upstairs, the sweet, salty, enticing scent of Marion’s growing fear, calling to him…

“Sit down, daughter,” said Tel quietly, looking down at the table.

“But…” The chess pieces were actually rattling. One of them tipped over and, without comment, Felicia righted it.

Tel looked at Marion with his vague eyes and smiled. “It’s nothing, ma fille, nothing. Gregoire is just waving his arms about.”

“…divorce her, pay her off, ship her mainland, I don’t give a damn how, but get her AWAY from the family, AWAY from this island before…”

“They are married, Gregoire, do you understand? They are husband and wife in the eyes of the church, in the eyes of God, in the eyes of our Holy Father!”

“Oh Christ, you Catholics! Who gives a damn about the Pope? This is the twentieth century and people no longer have to…”

“Unlike some people I could name, many of us consider the marriage bed sacred!”

“Witch, don’t you, of all people, DARE lecture me about sex and church law!”

And then there was only shouting —

Choice observations about Cassie Swift…

Ugly innuendo about Greg’s faithfulness as a husband…

Grievances from childhood and mockery of Laurette’s magic abilities…

While a few feet away…

The howl made the walls of the house shake.

She was ready for him. She was trembling, terrified, a lamb bleating to be taken tender flesh tender flesh the old man was gone broken the others were fighting and there was nothing standing in his way but two ancients he could bat aside without effort and tonight she was his he would assert his rights rend her without restraint fuck her bloody and taste her flesh bite bite bite her bite her as he bent her over put his teeth into the back of her neck feel the beast rising in her to meet him hear her screams turning into howls and…

Tel stared down at the board and heaved a sigh like a man reluctantly drawn away from his game.

“Look at me,” Tel said. “Look at me, daughter, and you’ll know you have nothing to fear.”

He rose from his own seat. He sounded like the man she used to know. There was an absolute surety in his voice that was impossible to resist.

“Marion, please sit down. Please, please, just sit down,” Felicia said, her voice hoarse with fright.

Marion looked at her father-in-law.

And she saw again, for the first time since that letter arrived, those gentle but oddly intent blue eyes, that smile with a touch of sardonic command. She felt strange, as though a hand had settled firmly and closed over her. It wasn’t so much that she’d grown calm. Papa Duday simply wasn’t allowing her to be anything else.

She knew. She knew and she couldn’t escape what she knew. It wasn’t just the thunder at her feet, the unholy flickers in the air, as though the echoes of angry words downstairs were visible. It was the howl.

“The demon,” Marion whispered. “It is in the house.”

“I won’t let it touch you,” he said, still smiling.

Papa Duday was of the invisible world. All of them were.

The Old Man was back.

The Old Man who could hurt him.

She was no longer fearful. She was no longer trembling. There was a horribly familiar solid wall of the the Old Man’s will surrounding her, so strong it could break Leon’s nose if he smacked into it.

Words were stirring somewhere deep inside Leon’s red consciousness. Words in his human voice.

Thank God. Thank God.

He had to get away, his human self was saying. He had to get far, far away from her before the Old Man weakened again, before his own resolve, his own lust and appetite…

The voices in the other room had gone silent. And that made him even more afraid. They were strong, the man especially so. If they were to come for him…

Laurette and Gregoire had shouted themselves hoarse at each other. They had wasted Talent waving their arms about, throwing out the petty half-formed spells of spite that were always behind such words. Both were drained, but Greg especially so. He’d already weakened himself crossing the water that day. Now he felt miserable, his head pounding, his back in agony, his heart rotten because he’d said such things to his sister, to Laurette, to the person who had protected and raised him, been more of a mother to him than Maman had ever been.

He had made her cry. He had never in his life been so ashamed of himself.

“I am sorry, Gregoire…” she whispered. “I am so, so sorry…”

“No, no sister. I am sorry. I… you are right. I am a coward. Only a coward would say such things.”

“You are no coward, Gregoire. I am. I’ve been afraid to do what’s right by Marion. No, now is not the time to argue about who’s a coward and who’s not.”

“Now is the time to deal with this shambles. Do what we can to comfort Tel and Felicia. Explain matters to Marion and then handle her, whatever happens.”

“Marion is asleep,” said Gregoire, frowning.

“That was sudden.”

“In her and Leon’s room.” Greg cocked his head and frowned. “Tel put her there.”

They looked at each other.

“I think… I thinks she probably knows, Laurette. If not now, then certainly when she wakes up tomorrow. What are we going to…”

“I am going upstairs to check on Tel and Felicia. Then I am going home to talk to my husband. You look exhausted and you are going straight to bed. The spare room is made up and ready for you. No arguments, Gregoire. At your age you really had no business exerting yourself the way you did today. We both need a decent night’s sleep.”

“Yes, sister,” he said. “About Marion,” he said.

Laurette looked at him, her lips compressed.

“Sister do you think we could… I could… Maybe confine her? Just for tomorrow morning! until we talk to her. I could do a spell on the locks. Just a little one?”

Laurette hadn’t looked at him that way since he was eight and she caught him with a mouthful of her brandied currants.

“NO, Gregoire.”

“Just asking.”