iii.

THE CHAUFFEUR STARTED THE CAR—THE FORD MODEL T in an olive color, which Evangeline had had Herbert purchase for her alongside a hired chauffeur—and they were off, whizzing down Monticello Street in the scorching sunny morning of the Crescent city.

Beside her, with a safe distance between them, sat The Chief of Police—her official guard for here on forth.

If Evangeline hadn't at present been traumatized by what had occurred to Ruby Maxwell, she would've scoffed. She shut her eyes tight, trying to rein in her energy and composure, fixing her mind on one thing and filtering out everything else, imagining the residues all being tucked under a mat to be dealt with later—for there was no conceivable way she was going to move on ahead with her life with a guard at her side, and that too a Chief of Police! Could not a normal guard have sufficed? How was she to—

She cut off her lead of thoughts again, and exhaled. She was cautious of the man beside her watching her, and she felt his gaze prickle on her skin as though gaze was but a petulant fly hellbent on the taste of her blood. Such so, that she viciously wanted to swat it away.

"Do you mind?" She let out, her eyes turning to look at The Chief of Police—Theodore Stanhope, she remembered the name.

The man's dark brown eyes were fixed upon her with a determined.. observation? Evangeline couldn't say. She was quite adept at reading people, she had always supposed that—regardless of not being able to read the onslaught of a murderer and the death of her father, but still. She was a good judge of intention, if not character. But at present she couldn't glaze anything from the Chief of Police's persona, he reminded her somewhat of that beast from that Grimm fairytale of Beauty and the Beast—a monument in his own accord, unshakable and unmovable. What then was such a monument doing in her vicinity? Truth be told, he was inexplicably handsome—but Evangeline had no opinion of people who wore no emotion on their forms.

"I apologize," The man uttered, his voice hard and almost rumbling inside her own organs. "I was merely.."

"Observing?" Evangeline prompted, trying to keep frustration from her voice but failing to. As the vehicle whizzed by the streets, somewhere she heard a jazz band playing and wished desperately that she could stop, approach and listen. New Orleans jazz was truly something else—so magnificent and bright—but this wasn't the time and nor was her heart in the mood.

"Judging? Waiting for me to break into hysterics?" She snapped, getting irritated with herself. "I don't know what you think you have taken on, Mister Chief of Police, but I do not need a bodyguard. What you need to be doing is looking for the whys and whos of my poor friend being killed, instead of assigning yourself to this excuse of a position as my bodyguard."

The man's eyes bore into her intensely as her hair whipped in front of her eyes and she ran her manicured slender hands through her hair to hold it back—she had completely forgotten a cap. Perhaps she should ask what monstrous gel the man beside her was wearing, for not a single strand of his perfectly combed and middle parted dark hair—and not even a single hair of his handlebar mustache curled at the ends—was acting out of place.

"You are quite composed, for someone whose friend was just murdered," The words came out of his mouth, and she looked at him, her jaw tight.

He was right. She was going through different emotions than the ones she should be feeling in such a scenario. She felt frustrated at the NOPD, irritated with herself, pity for Rita.. there were no hysterics, and perhaps any other woman in her place would welcome the dissolution into hysterics.

"Well," She blinked. "I suppose I have worn myself out from the first time someone I loved got murdered."

She glanced back at him. "Is there such a thing?"

Theodore Stanhope faltered slightly, the intensity in his eyes only taking a slight tumble.

"I apologize. I spoke out of turn."

Evangeline turned away from him, letting the cool winds thread through her hair and throw her wavy short hair about as she breathed in deeply. She felt somewhat exposed being next to this person she knew nothing about. He knew everything about her—his position and status had called for it. No doubt Landry took exceptional joy in telling the Chief of Police every gritty detail of her life. Murdered father, exiled princess sent away by her elder sister the Queen of Maldonia on the pretense of her safety. Evangeline's hand fisted as she dug her nails into her palms harshly to stop herself. Don't go there, Evange, just breathe.

"I met Rita in a bookstore when I first came to New Orleans," She uttered then, her voice calmer. "We were trapped inside whilst it rained cats and dogs outside. We bonded over books, just like I bonded with the other girls there. Afterwards, we met for coffee once and for book club meetings five times. That's it. I've been with her six times—conversed with her six times on six separate occasions. So I do care, you know. I care for all of the girls. I have been here only a short time, but I—I'm not heartless enough to not care for the friends I have begun to make."

"I shouldn't have assumed," The man spoke thickly. "I do—"

"Apologize," Evangeline finished for him. "I know. It is alright. I do not condemn for the act of assuming things about people when I do it myself on the daily."

She met his eyes again. "What else is there to life? You cannot know everything about people or things, can you? Either you won't ever understand, or you won't ever be told. Curiosity prickles and ebbs, it's human nature. What choice do you have then, but to assume?"

Theodore Stanhope gazed into her eyes, considering something before he parted his lips to speak.

"Then allow me to assume that the act of seeing Miss Maxwell's body will do more harm to you than good."

Evangeline's ebony eyes looked at him, her heart numb in her chest.

"Perhaps the gore of it would make me understand if it happened because of me. Perhaps I will realize if what Mr. Landry suggests rings true."

"Can you tell that? Can anyone tell that for sure?" He urged, not out of intrigue, but out of making her reconsider the fruitless act he believed she was to do.

"Perhaps," She murmured, looking away.

He didn't say anything more, and the Ford arrived in front of the Charity Hospital, the driver shutting off the engine. Evange got up and clicked the passenger door open before the chauffeur could do it for her. She stepped out, and rushed towards the entrance of the hospital. The irony of the haste made her question herself, Rita was already dead, and the body would go nowhere.

Stanhope was immediately by her side as she pushed through the doors, his tall broad and muscled form turning every head towards them both as they entered. He had to duck a little to enter the door, and the mere act of it startled her. Walking side by side, she realized how small she was to his massive height and form. She was six feet and in her three-inch heeled shoes, yet still her head came only to his shoulders.

He took charge then, leading her towards the hospital mortuary as nurses and employees—as well as some visiting persons—parted to give them way, both the gleaming Chief of Police badge on Stanhope's chest and his form enough, to command authority.

Evange found herself in the mortuary in a matter of minutes, coming face to face with a sick display of sectioned square drawers in a wall full of them—each sectioned piece numbered. A forensic man was just beginning to wear his latex gloves, the only two singular rectangle silver tables in the room lay empty, as both Evangeline and Stanhope entered.

"Ah, Chief Stanhope," The man bustled, tugging his white coat around him properly. "I didn't expect the NOPD until later sir, I haven't yet begun—"

"That's fine," Stanhope uttered, his baritone thick. "I have brought Miss Milford, a friend of the deceased Miss Maxwell. She wants to see the body."

The forensic blinked. "Sir, I'm sorry, but is that necessary? There is no identification needed for the victim, besides the lady shouldn't like to see a body in such a state as—"

"Bring her out," Stanhope snapped.

"Y-yes, sir," The forensic stammered. "Right away, sir."

Then, Evangeline watched as the stout forensic hoddled over towards one of the sectioned drawers in the wall—gripping the handle of the labelled 20A.

Evange felt sick to her stomach suddenly. God, Maxwell was such a smart woman, was she not? She was well read, independent, had opinions and distinct tastes. She was vibrant and a creative—with her eccentric nail designs and colors and her presence. Evangeline wouldn't be able to forget the girl's aura in her drawing room—their conversations on books, characters, authors..

Once they had gotten into an argument over the genre of literary fiction and how the whole aspect of it being a category at all was pointless. Evange hadn't thought so, but Rita had. And she had had such good points to present that Evangeline was almost convinced by the end. God, how could such a woman be reduced to a mere number and an alphabet?

The forensic pulled the drawer, and Evange saw that it wasn't drawer-like at all, in fact, the square section was just attached to a long rectangular plate-like tray upon which a body was lying. The forensic pulled the thing out as far as it could go, and Evange saw the white sheet over the body cover everything but the pale face she could now glimpse.

"Please," The forensic gestured for them to approach.

Evangeline swallowed thickly and slowly approached. Stanhope was right behind her for some reason, not approaching the body himself unless she did so.

Her own steps were slow, and she had begun to wonder why she came at all. This wasn't how she wanted to remember poor Rita. But once she saw this, she wouldn't be able to forget. But there was no backing out now.

Evangeline saw the girl's hair—the blonde frizzy hair that Rita kept looking so polished and curled, was a bird's nest now, mucked with grey dirt as though she had been dragged through a pavement. The mess was her real texture, Evange realized with a start, only the effort the girl put into her hair to tame it was the thing that she had let everyone else see. For a second Evangeline was upset at having invaded her privacy like this.

But the girl's face was unmarked, only her skin pale and leathery. The real horror was under the sheets.

"Can you remove the sheet, please?" Evange managed, her voice beginning to shake.

Why was she doing this? Why did she want to see? Perhaps Rita's body wounds would resemble the ones Evangeline's father had borne that day he got killed. Perhaps then she would know if this was just a misfortune or a planned terror attack. But what murderer cared enough to leave behind the same pattern of work?

Theodore Stanhope gestured to the forensic to get on with it, when the latter hesitated. The sheet was pulled off in a swipe.

Evangeline bit the inside of her cheek, her jaw tight as she looked.

Rita's neck bore an angry red cuff around her neck as though her gruesome wound had been deliberately fashioned into a necklace. It was indeed the aftermath of being strangled with a belt. The girl's naked body was marked with angry red bruises at certain points—her navel, her thigh, above her chest—it was as though she had been hit? Punched? Prodded with something blunt edged?

Evange's eyes travelled to Rita's face again, the girl's eyes closed and her lips—now purple—set apart slightly as though there was a word she had wanted to say that had died there the moment she herself had.

Evangline couldn't bear to watch then, she covered her face with her hands and spun away, pressing her hands and face into the hard muscled chest of the Chief of Police.

She felt Stanhope tense up, but he stood still so as to not bother her, letting her seek comfort in his sturdy presence as he gestured to the forensic to cover the body up and have it away. He smelled of hard musk and cologne mixed with perhaps the sharp starch of his shirt. She felt something tighten in the pit of her stomach, with her forehead and the back of her fingers pressed against a section of his chest. She was careful not to touch any more of him, and she could tell how careful he was to not move and make her touch any more of him. But still, through his thin starched buttoned shirt, the skin of his chest felt like it was barely containing the hefty layered muscle beneath—harder than rock.

Evangeline wasn't crying, only trying her hardest to get her breathing in order. She was grateful for this little shelter. She couldn't remember what wounds exactly her father had had on his own dead body, but she remembered so much blood. Still, in comparison, Rita Maxwell's body was shriveled up as though there was no blood left to come out of her neck wound. Perhaps there were as many different kinds of dead bodies and murders and murderers as there were hearts and minds. Evange couldn't tell if the terrible fate befell Rita because of her, but she was so overcome by it all at present that she couldn't disagree with Armand Landry's and Stanhope's suspicions. They had no proof of solid connection, and neither did she.

She straightened then, shutting her eyes briefly and trying to compose herself, running her fingers through her hair and tucking a piece behind her ear. Stanhope watched her intensely for any signs of.. hysterics, she supposed. Perhaps men like him supposed women like her to always be hysterical and needing protection—just as Landry projected.

"The killer will be found, Miss Milford," He spoke then, emphasizing each word. She could tell that he had felt the need to add to the silence, and she felt a tiny prickle of guilt suddenly, for making him feel that way.

"Be assured, I will see him hang."

She raised her eyes to him, the darkness of her irises like marbles on the surface of a midnight lake glinting up at him. But that was just the color of her eyes, for the girl herself held merely a depth in her troubled gaze. For a brief second, he lost his composure.

"Will she gain life again, afterwards?"

His gaze sharpened in hers, both of them trying somewhat to understand each other—both of them, to some extent, indecipherable to each other.

"It's about gaining satisfaction, Miss Milford," He managed, his voice tight. "It's never about gaining life back. It's about justice, satisfaction, the act of avenging an innocent."

Evangeline looked away from him, feeling hot underneath the coat that she had on. She wanted nothing more than to fling it away.

"None of those things matter to me but life," She spoke the words, meeting her bodyguard and the Chief of Police's eyes again.

Not so much my own, she added to herself.

He didn't respond, a confusion coloring his eyes and threading through his stoicity. He was trying harder to understand her than she was doing with him, which puzzled her somewhat, for what was there to know about her that he hadn't already been told before? He and Armand Landry might've been spying on her since she set foot on the New Orleans soil, and she might've been none the wiser. They probably discussed her with smug looks and pitiful sentences over tea, perhaps waving around a file of all of her life data—she was no doubt no more than a case for them.

"There is somewhere else I need to go."

The Chief of Police nodded once, barely, his eyes hard in hers.

Evangeline was pushing her feet against the hospital flooring, forcing herself to tune everything she had seen out of her as she found herself out in the corridors and making her way towards the main entrance of the hospital. It wouldn't do to dwell on what happened to Rita, it wouldn't do to torture herself that it happened because of her. There was no proof of connection. And she had already done enough of that with her father's demise. But perhaps once she had some insight—some foresight—perhaps then everything would be smoother to bear.

She got into the Ford, as her chauffeur took her hand and helped her in.

"To Mama Hexaline Mourn DeClouet please," She managed to the man as he affirmed a response and set instantly about taking his place behind the wheel as the Chief of Police got in the backseat a few beats after Evangeline, for he had stopped to exchange a brief word with the forensic and fallen only slightly behind.

"May I ask where we are headed?" The Chief uttered then, as the Ford whizzed by, his tone that of simple inquiry but his heavy voice making it sound all the more weightier.

"To Mama Mourn DeClouet," Evange spoke, her fingers holding her hair out of her eyes slightly as strands continuously stayed veiling her vision, fuelled by the winds.

"A friend?" Stanhope pursed his lips at the name.

"More guidance, than friend," Evangeline considered, giving him nothing more as she looked away and to the streets—it was afternoon already, and everywhere she looked, the hubbub of the Crescent city had begun. She could smell the tangy scent of mixed perfumes and cigarette smoke in the air, hear jazz coming from open cafés and shopping stores, and she could hear laughter and conversation like a thick but muffled cloud in her ears—all underpinned by the incessant sound of vehicles against the roads and their obnoxious horns.

Mama Hexaline lived in her leaning house on Widow's row—a crooked antebellum house with sagging eaves and shutters that rattled even when there was no wind. She was one of three twin sisters, and lived with her siblings—including a deaf and dumb brother who tended to the garden overgrown with thorned roses and indulged his sisters in their love for having excessive wind chimes hanging everywhere he looked.

Evangeline had found Mama Hexaline the first day that July when she had set foot in New Orleans. That night, she had been driven to desolation with the lack of a spiritual outlet for herself, she had desperately needed an established one to immerse herself in before she could build her own spiritual sanctuary at her new stately manor house on 33 Monticello street. By a stroke of luck, Evange had found a half torn and neglected poster nailed to a tree on her street.

Mama Mourn DeClouet; reader of bones, palms, tea leaves, cards, and dealer of fortunes all past, present and future.

Evangeline had immediately sought the woman out, skeptical at first that perhaps she would be nothing more than a trickster or a fraud—but as fate would have it, Evange had left that leaning antebellum house feeling stronger and calmer than she had entered. And that was all she had required. Since that night, Evangeline had visited Mama Hexaline almost weekly and had even taken Charlotte La Bouff and Babette Laurent with her once, and both of the girls too had gotten a lot out of that visit—most of which Lottie wasn't too happy about. Evange had wanted to take Dorothy Carlton and Rita Maxwell too but those two couldn't be persuaded.

When the Ford pulled up in front of the familiar crooked house on Widow's row, Evangeline opened the door herself and jumped out, sunshine falling on her as she took out the buttons of her coat and peeled it off of her as both the Chief of Police and her chauffeur watched in surprise as she emerged into her purple satin gown—the material of it sparkling under the sunlight as every curve was hugged on her body by the dress, and emphasized by the sun.

A vehicle coming in from the opposite direction slowed down on the street, and from her periphery she saw a young, suited man in the driver's seat ogle her, his head completely turned in her direction, deliberately slowing his car as he forgot he was doing it at all, before he snapped back into realization and swerved hard—almost crashing into Mama Hexaline's neighbors' garden fence, before getting back on a straight lane and whizzing by.

Evange—shocked by the driver's carelessness like both her own chauffeur and The Chief of Police were—watched the vehicle drive off, before she turned to her driver.

"Please keep this on my seat," She handed the coat to him, who instantly snapped back into attention and took it in his leather gloved hands.

"Yes, Miss Milford."

"I hope you don't mind, Mister Chief of Police," Evangeline glanced at the man then, as he got out of the car—his frustration pooling at the misfit driver's carelessness and audacity to gape.

"I was positively boiling."

The policeman shook his head once, his gaze fixed intensely on her as he planted his feet firmly on the ground. He was altered, and he was desperate to not have it show.

"No bother at all."

She turned away from him, shaking her head and running her hands through the waves in her short hair, shutting her eyes briefly to feel the sun on her face and calm herself and her raging heart and mind.

She felt Stanhope usher himself beside her, waiting.

"I think perhaps you should take some deep breaths," She managed through closed eyes and an upturned face.

"My breathing is just fine, thank you."

"No," She opened her eyes and glanced at him, startled to see his form drenched in the same sun as she was. He looked.. explicitly handsome, his facial bone structure contoured by the wrath of the sun, his brown eyes displaying flecks of burnt orange as he gazed at her, and his dark gelled hair and mustache seeming even darker.

"I mean, Mama Hexaline doesn't like for outsiders to bring in anything in her house but their best energy," Evange managed.

The Chief of Police raised a brow, recognition flashing in his eyes as though he was realizing just the kind of friend he had accompanied her to see.

"Stuff and nonsense."

Evangeline narrowed her eyes, her consideration for him darkening into a distaste coloured by her annoyance of his dismissal. She tried to control it, it wouldn't do to let him or anyone rile her up.

"Then you can stay here," She offered, turning away from him and beginning to walk round the Ford to approach the garden gate for the DeClouet house.

"Wait," The policeman called behind her, catching up to her as she paused, her hand holding the short crooked wooden garden gate.

"As your bodyguard, I enter every building and establishment you do, Miss Milford. I hope you understand this mere fact."

She looked at him over her shoulder. "Then I hope you understand that you have to respect the wishes of people who own those buildings and establishments, as I do."

He furrowed his brows, before exhaling tightly. Not breaking their gaze.

"Very well," He uttered then, making a show of taking two deep but quick breaths that made his already broad muscled chest swell up and ease in succession.

"Done."

Evangeline shook her head. Mama Hexaline would be upset at her if he trudged into the house like that, disrupting the woman and her siblings' safe space like a herd of careless elephants trampling over a delicate honeycomb. The woman would be upset that Evange had allowed the intrusion, despite being so well aware how the woman disliked such interventions.

She turned her body fully away from the gate and neared the policeman, tilting her head slightly back to look at him. She took his hand in hers—carefully taking it from his side. He tensed up instantly but did not retrieve his hand from hers—instead, his eyes displayed only shock and bewilderment as he let her do with him what she wanted to, finding all his faculties of movement faulty suddenly in front of her bold presence.

Evange lifted his hand in front of her, and turned the palm up. She was distinctly aware of the warmth of his hand, the thickness of it, the sheer hardness of it. It was bigger than both her hands combined, infact, even if Herbert had added both his hands to the pile, The Chief of Police's would still be bigger. The thought made her flush and she bit the inside of her cheek to focus. She was trying to get him to become in a state of flow, so that his energy could reflect that. It wouldn't do for her own energy to become tipsy in the process.

She lightly pressed her thumb on the large muscle on his palm at the base of his thumb, once. Then she pressed her thumb in the middle of his palm.

"Breathe," She spoke, her voice soft as though she was leading a guided meditation like one of her teachers from the yoga classes she often took in the city.

"Inhale, hold for ten seconds. Then exhale, hold for ten seconds."

A tremor fluttered in his hand and for a moment she thought he would jerk his hand away, but he stood still and she heard him inhaling and adhering to her instructions.

She lifted her gaze from his palm to meet his eyes, and an electricity circuit shot through her body at the way he was looking at her. His brown eyes—a golden in this sun—were penetrating in hers, and it made Evangeline almost stumble. She had met and flirted with many handsome men in her life, in the court of Maldonia there were many bachelor charmers her elder sister kept introducing her to. Princes, Dukes, Earls, and even men her sister recently knighted—all in hopes that Evange would form a connection. There were men in her literary salons and book clubs too—educated and learned charmers that could recite Voltaire blindly and knew the world's atlas like they knew the veins on their palms.

Evangeline had talked to all of them—most of them. She had flirted with them, she had let them think they had all impressed her, she had laughed with them and often at them with some of her friends at court. But they had all had things about them that had jarringly screamed in her face from the first meeting alone. Many were vain. Some too careless, too judgemental, obsecene in their opinions of things she enjoyed. Some had the audacity even to brag to her about the plethora of girls already in their armoire. None of them had truly stood out to her, and she had started to believe no man ever would.

But the Chief of Police of The New Orleans Police Department? What an odd surprise he was. How could he stir her in a way that no man had ever? Especially when they haven't even really.. talked? Could she be falling for his looks alone? No, if she was that susceptible to looks she would've given in to one of her potential prospects in Maldonia a long time ago. This wasn't about Stanhope's looks. But then what? He hadn't even said anything to her from which she could glean out his true personality, he had just called stabilizing his energy for Mama Hexaline's house 'stuff and nonsense'! Why then was Evangeline thrown so far off kilter by him?

"Evangeline!" A scream infiltrated the air, and crows squawked in panic—a dozen or so off them initially perched ontop of Mama Hexaline's house and her neighbor's, flying off collectively in a panic.

Evangeline let go of The Chief of Police's hand and stepped back, her heart hammering in her chest as she spotted the woman at her doorframe—all five feet of her under the fifty or so windchimes dangling above her head at the entrance.

Evange smiled at the sight of Mama Hexaline, and made her way towards her, opening the garden fence door to let herself in and not wanting to turn to look at the policeman behind her. He would follow her, that much was sure.

"Mama Hexaline," She beamed. "How are you?"

Evangeline jogged up to the woman, bent down as they kissed each other's cheeks—Evange placing air kisses whilst Mama Hexaline's were more intense wet smooches against the girl's lightly rouged cheeks.

"I'm same as you left me, chile—two nights back, sittin' in the same ol' chair, sippin' tea and mindin' everybody's business but me own," The woman exclaimed, the dangling charms from her necklace and heavy earrings clicking and clashing together. "Dusk come knockin', I tell it, 'Not tonight, sugar—I already got enough spirits talkin'!'"

Mama Hexaline Mourn DeClouet was a Creole of African descent, and she wore her personality on her body like it was a regal cloth. Her eyes were honey colored against her dark skin, making her appear almost.. traumatizing, when she focused or when she had grave predictions or readings to depart. Her hair was short, thick, fine curls standing atop her head and bound against her scalp with a piece of white lace—always a piece of white lace, regardless what dark coloured gown she wore on her stout and amply body. Her arms were crowded with bangles of every size and stature, and for her, there wasn't such a thing as creeping without making a sound.

"Now, whatchu doin' with that handsome bloke in me street?" The woman raised a thick dark brow, her dark and equally thick lips pursed. "This ain't no that typa house for you to be displayin' your pickin's so! Why, I could see you swoonin' from me parlor window!"

Evangeline blushed, acutely aware of her bodyguard's presence behind her.

"Mama Hexaline, I do apologize," She managed. "I was actually helping the gentleman level his energy, before we cross your threshold. I cannot imagine why you presume so!"

"Presume now! Why, me dusk daughter, you looked like you was fixin' to pounce on him quicker'n a cat on a mouse if I hadn't stepped in! Lawd, that ain't the kind of show I'm wantin' at tea time, no ma'am," The woman-cum-oracle gasped haughtily before tilting and throwing a very obvious wink in Stanhope's direction.

The wink wasn't even complete before a horrified look stopped the woman's amusement short, her eyes flitting over the badge on the man's chest. She looked at Evangeline, her features morphing into grave contemplation.

"That man's a cop," She uttered in a low voice, her tone slightly trembling as she tried to maintain her composure. "Tell me, why you gone and brought him to my house?"

Evange startled at the woman's change in tone—that distraught look in her wise honey eyes. She couldn't have imagined ever seeing that look there and it made her tremble with guilt suddenly, knowing that Mama Hexaline had such a look on standby for those who betrayed her. Could there be plenty of those people that she had faced? How many times had somebody brought a policeman to her door? Or threatened her with police for her to be so skeptical of them?

"No, no," Evangeline hastened to correct her, feeling slightly sick. "Mama Hexaline, I've only got myself into a skittle. I've been assigned Mister Chief of Police of the NOPD as my bodyguard, he is to essentially follow me wherever I go."

The woman tilted her head to eye Stanhope for a few beats. Evange too looked, meeting the policeman's brown eyes and hoping he would say something to reassure the woman, something to say that he was harmless or wouldn't ever dream of—

But Theodore Stanhope wore an impenetrable look of stoicity on his features like an iron mask. He broke his gaze from Evangeline and returned the old woman's scrutiny with hardness in his eyes, as though he was warning her to be cautious around him—threatening her almost.

Mama Hexaline looked back at Evangeline, a resolved look in her eyes.

"A'right now. But it's jus' you steppin' in, me dusk daughter. He stay out there, y'hear?"

Evange parted her lips to speak, but Stanhope's feet shuffled as he neared the porch.

"No," He let out, his footstep heavy as he climbed a wooden step of the porch.

"I am duty bound to guard Miss Milford—"

"Now look here—if I was fixin' to kill me dusk daughter and toss her down that bog, baby, I'da done did it a while ago."

Evangeline and Stanhope both stared at the woman in shock. Evange composed herself then, meeting Mama Hexaline's knowing eyes, before the woman turned and sauntered into her house. From the open door, the mess of potted plants and dangling windchimes and threaded rugs were the only things visible.

Evangeline turned to look at the Chief of Police.

"How did she know—," Stanhope swallowed thickly, trying to assemble his own composure again. "We've let no news get out of the incident—every journalist was kept away—"

"She's Mama Hexaline," Evange spoke by way of explanation, her voice heavy. She had so much to talk about with the woman, and the weight of discussing it all was already making her weary.

"Can you please wait outside?" She tried then, meeting his eyes.

"No," He uttered bluntly, "I am assigned to—"

"I know," Evange sighed. "But please, you heard her. Mama Hexaline doesn't want you inside."

Stanhope scoffed, his eyes sharpening in hers.

"Like I give a fuck about that. I am the Chief of Police, she will have to swallow her displeasure."

"Please!" Evangeline urged. "Can't you see? She does not seem to trust.. policemen." Or people who show up on her family doorstep with them.

"That isn't my due," He seethed, his jaw tight and eyes bearing into her. "I am here to protect you—"

"What do you mean it isn't your due?" Evangeline's anger raised. "Can't you at least try to be considerate? Besides, I have been here a lot of times before. I am in no danger here!"

"Still," Stanhope snapped. "I will be coming. I am taking no chances. If this woman has information only the police is supposed to have, she must be involved somehow."

Evangeline let out an exhale in frustration, shaking her head before looking at the man in front of her again.

"No she isn't involved!" She hushed, irritated beyond measure. "Mama Hexaline merely deals in tarot, tea leaves, fortune telling and voodoo. If you do not have faith in that, then allow yourself to believe that she probably heard about Rita from someone. You cannot possibly object that some bystanders did not see Rita's body being recovered by a bunch of policemen at the riverfront in this tourist season!"

Stanhope seemed to consider that, before his face scrunched up.

"Voodoo? The practice is condemned—"

"It's not illegal," Evangeline uttered, her hands fisting in her defense as her chest tightened.

The Chief of Police looked at her, observing her carefully, his facial features stoic again.

"The Queen of Maldonia has banned the practice in The Kingdom of Maldonia—your sister, Miss Milford," He let out, adding the last bit with scrutiny.

Evangeline swallowed thickly, not shying from his gaze. He hadn't mentioned her relation or her origins before in any short spurt of conversation they had had today. She had known, of course, that he knew everything about her. But somehow, she had preferred him not mentioning it.

"And it is condemned now in the state of New Orleans as well," He finished. "Such so that the police is allowed to arrest without warrant, and detain, all practitioners of voodoo who cause disruption and unrest in the city."

"Well," Evangeline spoke defiantly. "There is a difference between something being condemned but not illegal. Thus, the allowance given to your police force is truly despicable in nature, a needless profiling on mere discriminatory basis. Mama Hexaline is an angel, the only disruption she is bound to cause will be in her tea parlor."

Stanhope didn't say anything, merely looked at her, his eyes intense in her defiant one.

"Now, if you will please stay outside whilst I—"

"No," He uttered. "I'm coming."

Oh moon, Evangeline cried out inside. Please give me patience.

"Alright, atleast give me fifteen minutes alone with her then," She managed, lowering her voice lest Mama Hexaline hear, her eyes earnest and almost pleading in his unrelenting brown gaze. "You can come in afterwards. Give me only fifteen minutes. Please."

Stanhope's nostrils flared, but he maintained her gaze, his jaw tight. He was only inches away from her, both of them standing their guard and not stepping away. Something in her manner, her look, her form even, began to force him to reconsider. She could see him the process flicker on his face now. He was considering her request much reluctantly, and Evangeline's eyes turned hopeful.

He was so tall and muscular in front of her that she felt certain if she lost focus on her purpose, she would only stutter and stumble in front of him like a shy schoolgirl. One of Mama Hexaline's wind chimes hanging above was half resting on his head and she could tell how frustrated he was by it, but he wasn't the kind to fidget and keeping shoving a flying bee away from him. He was the kind of person across whom if a bear chanced, the animal would only wonder if there were life inside the statue and just depart of its own accord and leave him alone. 

"Fine. You have ten minutes, Miss Milford, not fifteen. I will be coming in after exactly ten minutes."