Read Chapter 24: The Debt Collector

The east wing was still smoking when Odette found them on the back lawn, the sky above the mansion bruised orange and gray. Elodie knelt beside Julien, whose hands were black with soot, the deed clutched against his chest like a child’s blanket. The music box sat in the grass between them, its lid dented, its song silent for the first time in a hundred and sixty years.

Odette did not look at the burning house. She looked at Julien, and her face held something Elodie had never seen there before: fear.

“You have until the full moon,” Odette said. Her voice was flat, as if she were reciting a legal clause. “Eight days.”

Elodie rose, brushing wet grass from her knees. “Eight days for what?”

Odette reached into the pocket of her housedress and drew out a small leather pouch, worn smooth with age. She did not open it. She held it out to Julien, who stared at it without taking it.

“The debt. Abraham Fontenot’s debt to Marie Leveau. It was never about the gold, and it was never about the child.” Odette’s eyes dropped to the pouch. “It was about the promise. Abraham promised Marie that if she helped him build the family fortune—if she married his son and gave him heirs—he would make sure her name was carved above his own on the family crypt. He had a tomb prepared for her, a place of honor.”

“But she was buried elsewhere,” Elodie said slowly. “In St. Louis Number Three. Unmarked.”

Odette nodded. “Abraham broke his word the day she died. He buried her in a pauper’s grave and sealed his promise in a box of curses so that no Leveau would ever rise above a Fontenot again. The music was never mourning. It was the debt, singing itself awake every night, waiting for someone to make it right.”

Julien’s jaw tightened. “How do I make it right?”

“You settle the account.” Odette opened the pouch and tipped a single silver coin into her palm. It was old, worn nearly smooth, but the stamp was still visible: a crescent moon over a fleur-de-lis. “A silver coin on Marie’s grave before the moon is full. You speak her name. You acknowledge that the Leveaus were always part of the Fontenot line. And you walk away without looking back.”

Elodie’s heart dropped. “That’s it? A coin on a grave?”

“The coin is payment. The acknowledgment is the release.” Odette pressed the coin into Julien’s hand. “But there is a condition. The one who places it must carry both bloods. A Fontenot alone cannot pay a Leveau debt. A Leveau alone cannot claim a Fontenot inheritance. You, boy—you are both. That is why the curse waited for you. That is why Thorne tried to burn you out before you could find the grave.”

Julien turned the coin over in his fingers. It caught the firelight, glinting like a fallen star. “And if I don’t?”

Odette’s face went still. “Then on the full moon, the debt collector comes for what is owed. And it will not take your house, boy. It will take your bloodline.”

The fire spat and crackled behind them. A beam fell somewhere inside the east wing, sending a shower of sparks into the night sky. Elodie thought of the portrait of Julien’s mother, still wrapped in her arms, and the bassinet hair she had sent to Baton Rouge—the DNA evidence that had proved what Odette already knew.

“Where is the grave?” Elodie asked.

Odette reached into her other pocket and produced a folded square of paper, yellowed and creased along ancient fault lines. She handed it to Elodie without ceremony.

“St. Louis Number Three. The old section, near the wall. There is no marker. But the map shows the path.” Odette paused. “I drew it from my grandmother’s memory. She was the last one who dared to visit Marie’s grave, before the fire of 1906 burned the records.”

Elodie unfolded the map. It was hand-drawn, the ink faded to the color of weak tea, but the lines were clear: a main road, a cross-street, a small X circled twice near the eastern wall. The handwriting was tight, careful, the hand of a woman who knew she was writing something dangerous.

“You’ve had this all along,” Julien said. His voice was not accusing; it was tired. “You knew about the curse. You knew about Marie. Why didn’t you tell us from the beginning?”

Odette looked at him for a long moment. Then she reached into her housedress again and pulled out a scrap of paper, torn and ragged, covered in handwriting that was not hers. She held it out to Elodie.

“Because I did not know if you were worthy of the truth.”

Elodie took the paper. The handwriting on it was cramped and slanted, the ink blotted in places—a woman’s hand, urgent and afraid.

*My sister,*

*Forgive me. The child was not dead. I gave her to the Leveaus to keep her safe from Abraham’s wrath. I did not know they would take her as their own. I did not know they would love her more than I could. But I have watched them. She is happy. She is loved. And I have made my peace with the cost.*

*When you read this, I will be gone. Abraham has discovered what I have done. He says the debt must be paid in full, or the Fontenot line will never rest. I do not know what he means by payment. I fear I will not live to find out.*

*Keep the child safe. Keep the truth safe. And if the music ever stops, know that I have failed.*

*Your sister, Clarisse*

Elodie looked up. Odette’s face was unreadable.

“Clarisse wrote this,” Elodie said. “The birth mother. She knew about the curse. She knew Abraham was going to—” She stopped. “She wrote that she ‘gave the child to the Leveaus to keep her safe from Abraham’s wrath.’ But the adoption records said Marie and Émile adopted Céleste officially in 1860. If Clarisse gave her up willingly, then why did Abraham curse the family?”

Odette’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Because Abraham did not know the child was given willingly. He believed Marie had stolen her. He believed the Leveaus had cheated him of a Fontenot heir. And in his rage, he made a bargain that cursed both houses.”

Julien looked at the coin in his palm. “So Thorne isn’t the only one who’s been lied to.”

“No,” Odette said quietly. “And he is not the only one who wants the gold. He is just the only one who was willing to burn a house down to get it.”

The mansion groaned behind them, a sound like a wounded animal. Elodie looked at the map, then at the coin, then at Julien.

“We need to go now,” she said. “Before the fire spreads and the police block off the cemetery. We need to find that grave before anyone else does.”

Julien nodded. He tucked the coin into his pocket and folded the map into the deed. Then he looked at Odette, his eyes shadowed by smoke and something deeper.

“Thorne knows about the curse,” Julien said. “He knows about the grave. He knows about me. What if he gets there first?”

Odette was silent for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper.

“Then he will not need to burn the house to kill you, boy. He will only need to dig his own grave.”