• • •
I needed space. I needed air. The store felt suddenly stifling, the walls too close, my emotions too high.
I had to get out.
I’d go to the garden, my plot on the top of the former Florissant Hotel. There wouldn’t be anyone there, and it was up and away from Royal Street. I grabbed an apron and a canvas-lined garden basket from a hook in the kitchenette, flipped the CLOSED sign on the door, and locked up again.
I walked toward the river, passing the alley where my life had changed so suddenly only a couple of days ago. I passed the front of the abandoned hotel, the restaurant that had taken up a corner of the space completely empty, just like the rest of the hotel. Everything potentially useful had been removed long ago—from the chairs in the lobby to the snacks in the minibars. It had been scary and depressing, but also a little impressive, how carefully people could strip a hotel down to its bones.
I slipped around the building to the fire escape, pulled down to give those of us with plots access to the roof, and climbed the steps. The edge of the building was marked by potted trees and plants that received plenty of water and light on the open-air terrace. A cabana at the far end had once held a poolside bar. It was now the storage room for extra pots, tools, and consecrated earth. There was a compost bin on the far end of the patio.
We’d shored up the rafters beneath the pool, filled it with dirt, and turned it into a garden for small trees and plants with longer root systems. The rest of the patio held raised rectangular planters where we could grow plants of our choice.
I grew vegetables for me, Gunnar, Tadji, and a few other friends who lived in the Quarter, mostly older folks who’d survived the war and didn’t have any plans to leave, but also didn’t have many resources. I sold any extras in the store.
October was leaf and root harvest time in our little Louisiana garden—kale, collards, spinach, carrots, beets. I put the basket on the ground and tied on the apron. I pulled the few weeds that had snuck into my box, scooped a few ladles of collected rainwater over plants that looked dry, and picked off dead leaves.
When my little plot was tidy, I got to the good part. I snipped spinach and collard leaves, tossed them into my basket. Three carrots, including a white variety that looked like a really creepy finger, and four small beets. Personally, I thought beets were disgusting and tasted like dirt. But they had plenty of fans in the Quarter.
I shook the excess dirt off the beets, put them carefully in the basket so I didn’t stain the canvas. Beets stained easily, but made a pretty good fabric dye.
As I thought of the perfectly fucking fantastic ways to use these perfectly fucking fantastic beets, I used a dirty glove to wipe tears from my face, probably smearing dirt across it in the process.
I thought I’d found someone who could relate to what I’d been going through. I felt mortified. And completely and utterly betrayed.
Had any of it been real? His being in my store on War Night? Taking me into Devil’s Isle to “help” me? Or was this all some sort of plan? Liam Quinn, bounty hunter, just continuing his work investigating the traitorous members of the Connolly family?
I felt really stupid. And the fact that last night had almost happened—that near kiss—just made the pain keener.
I pulled off the gloves, threw them down, then walked to the edge of the roof and stared out at the city. Slate roofs, black balconies, gaps of broken buildings and rubble that stood out like missing piano keys. And in the distance, the glowing hulk of Devil’s Isle, of the prison I was trying to avoid.
Somehow I’d backed right up against it.
I put my elbows on the parapet, watched the river slink by. For just a minute, I let myself indulge in fantasy. I thought of grabbing my go bag and making a real exit this time. Starting over without the Quarter, Containment, Quinn. I’d give myself a new name, maybe cut and dye my hair. My gun was in the safe, extra bullets. I could use that to hunt what game was left, find a place to camp out. Or maybe find some of Nix’s friends, a roaming band of “good” Consularis Paras to hang out with, to avoid Containment with.
I needed space. I needed air. The store felt suddenly stifling, the walls too close, my emotions too high.
I had to get out.
I’d go to the garden, my plot on the top of the former Florissant Hotel. There wouldn’t be anyone there, and it was up and away from Royal Street. I grabbed an apron and a canvas-lined garden basket from a hook in the kitchenette, flipped the CLOSED sign on the door, and locked up again.
I walked toward the river, passing the alley where my life had changed so suddenly only a couple of days ago. I passed the front of the abandoned hotel, the restaurant that had taken up a corner of the space completely empty, just like the rest of the hotel. Everything potentially useful had been removed long ago—from the chairs in the lobby to the snacks in the minibars. It had been scary and depressing, but also a little impressive, how carefully people could strip a hotel down to its bones.
I slipped around the building to the fire escape, pulled down to give those of us with plots access to the roof, and climbed the steps. The edge of the building was marked by potted trees and plants that received plenty of water and light on the open-air terrace. A cabana at the far end had once held a poolside bar. It was now the storage room for extra pots, tools, and consecrated earth. There was a compost bin on the far end of the patio.
We’d shored up the rafters beneath the pool, filled it with dirt, and turned it into a garden for small trees and plants with longer root systems. The rest of the patio held raised rectangular planters where we could grow plants of our choice.
I grew vegetables for me, Gunnar, Tadji, and a few other friends who lived in the Quarter, mostly older folks who’d survived the war and didn’t have any plans to leave, but also didn’t have many resources. I sold any extras in the store.
October was leaf and root harvest time in our little Louisiana garden—kale, collards, spinach, carrots, beets. I put the basket on the ground and tied on the apron. I pulled the few weeds that had snuck into my box, scooped a few ladles of collected rainwater over plants that looked dry, and picked off dead leaves.
When my little plot was tidy, I got to the good part. I snipped spinach and collard leaves, tossed them into my basket. Three carrots, including a white variety that looked like a really creepy finger, and four small beets. Personally, I thought beets were disgusting and tasted like dirt. But they had plenty of fans in the Quarter.
I shook the excess dirt off the beets, put them carefully in the basket so I didn’t stain the canvas. Beets stained easily, but made a pretty good fabric dye.
As I thought of the perfectly fucking fantastic ways to use these perfectly fucking fantastic beets, I used a dirty glove to wipe tears from my face, probably smearing dirt across it in the process.
I thought I’d found someone who could relate to what I’d been going through. I felt mortified. And completely and utterly betrayed.
Had any of it been real? His being in my store on War Night? Taking me into Devil’s Isle to “help” me? Or was this all some sort of plan? Liam Quinn, bounty hunter, just continuing his work investigating the traitorous members of the Connolly family?
I felt really stupid. And the fact that last night had almost happened—that near kiss—just made the pain keener.
I pulled off the gloves, threw them down, then walked to the edge of the roof and stared out at the city. Slate roofs, black balconies, gaps of broken buildings and rubble that stood out like missing piano keys. And in the distance, the glowing hulk of Devil’s Isle, of the prison I was trying to avoid.
Somehow I’d backed right up against it.
I put my elbows on the parapet, watched the river slink by. For just a minute, I let myself indulge in fantasy. I thought of grabbing my go bag and making a real exit this time. Starting over without the Quarter, Containment, Quinn. I’d give myself a new name, maybe cut and dye my hair. My gun was in the safe, extra bullets. I could use that to hunt what game was left, find a place to camp out. Or maybe find some of Nix’s friends, a roaming band of “good” Consularis Paras to hang out with, to avoid Containment with.
