Song of the Shaman by Annette Vendryes Leach Page B

them on the hall railing. “I’ll be dining with a colleague in town before returning home. Rosa will stay here with you and Maud until—”
    “Oh, Father, Rosa needn’t stay!” Louise cut in. She reached out to straighten his tie, sure that the colleague was a lady. “I am more than capable of taking care of myself.”
    “Rosa will stay.” He brushed her hand away and tucked the papers back under his arm with a militant air. “How is Maud this morning?”
    Louise turned her back. Four months had passed since her twentieth birthday. He expected her to be an exemplary young lady—when would he treat her like one?
    “Well enough. She wants to have breakfast on the terrace.”
    “Excellent! My little Maudy! Can she take the stairs?” Charles gleamed beneath his spectacles.
    “You needn’t worry. Benjamin and I will help her down.”
    “Good! Now I can send that young man back to his grandfather. A rig will take him to Guabito by the end of the week.”
    Louise felt the color drain from her cheeks. “Friday is too early! What if Maud has a relapse? Do we want to be left to the whims of the local doctors again?” She wrung her hands. Would the dour hospital image change his mind? Charles gazed at his shoes, stroking his beard.
    “No, I suppose not. But if she’s well enough by Friday he will return to his village without haste.” He fingered his timepiece through his suit pocket. “I must go. Tell Maud I’ll see her before bedtime. Promise.” He patted Louise on the arm and hurried away, shoulders bent as if he were some commander rushing off to battle. When would her life cease to be at his mercy? She kicked her door closed and dragged the bedroom curtains aside. Down in the garden Benjamin was trimming a vine of flame-colored flowers.

2006
    Brooklyn, New York
    RUSHING TO THE SUBWAY she rang both Roland and Marcus several times—their cell phones went directly to voice mail. Her text messages went unanswered. Grace’s line bounced to voice mail, too. Was the whole agency out to lunch? For Marcus and Roland to be unavailable was not good. In the dank station she reorganized the contents of her bag and picked invisible flecks of lint off her raincoat. Forty minutes late to the restaurant. Gotham had been her recommendation, too. She was sick of the starched power scene at Sparks and at Smith & Wollensky, the medieval slabs of bloody meat hanging over the edge of heavy plates. Hopefully the artsy Greenwich Village energy would help revive Aeon’s declining image. There would also be a good supply of hip young women to keep Karston’s eyes busy. She peeled a scrap of milky nail polish off her thumbnail and checked her cell for the umpteenth time, despite there being no signal underground. Why won’t they answer? She wondered how the creative presentation came off without her. The international campaign was by far some of her best work—sexy, clever, right on target for JetSet’s new branding. All night long she’d edited a barrage of speculative commercials; the booming music track still throbbed in her head. The No. 4 train pulled into Union Square. It was raining again. Outside, wet drops pelted her umbrella and sounded like a staccato dialect. “Hercule, serva nos.” Zig quoted Latin. It’s not offered until seventh or eighth grade at Excelsior. Water trickled in long stringy streams off her umbrella. What else did he know? She imagined him playing “real pretend,” leading his friends in a game so real one of them actually passed out. She imagined the panic on the teachers’ faces, pictured Zig scrambling off the ground, dazed, and then his stoic silence. Maybe he sees things other people can’t see. To him this was not make-believe. Gotham’s triangular awning came into view, prompting a sharp twist in her gut. Something had gone wrong.
    Sheri strode into the airy restaurant filled with a stylish lunch crowd. The maître d’ appeared just as she spotted Roland at the end of the crowded