Free Iron Lace by Emilie Richards

children.”
    “And Aurore? You would ruin her name along with mine?”
    “I don’t think Aurore will live long enough to be a consideration.”
    “Dear God…”
    “A curious plea, under the circumstances.” Antoine pulledhis watch from his pocket and tipped it toward the flames. “Dinner is at seven. You should change.”
    “I need time to consider how best—”
    “You have tomorrow. There will be no more time after that. We leave Monday morning for New Orleans, and when we do, you will leave behind all memories, all thoughts, of the chénière and your pleasures there. And if you don’t?” He slid the watch back in his pocket. “Then you will know what it means to be sorry, and I will know what it means to be heartless. Perhaps you can spare us both those fates?”

CHAPTER SIX
    T he church of Notre-Dame de Lourdes was Chénière Caminada’s proudest possession, and the church’s crowning glory was the massive silver bell that tolled the Angelus three times each day and called them to mass. On Sunday, Raphael counted its melodious notes. To his ears, there was no sweeter music.
    His mother had told him the story of the bell. Years before, the people of the chénière had stopped their fishing, stopped their hunting and net-making, to build a church for God. And such a church it was. Le bon Dieu had looked down with favor, but he had been saddened that no bell rang out to the heavens, praising his name. So the priest had given a silver plate with his family coat of arms on it to be melted down, and the good people of the village had responded by donating all their gold and silver. In the dark of night, neighbor had watched neighbor steal outside on mysterious errands, and in the morning, shining doubloons and pirate treasure had been added to the collection.
    When enough had been gathered, all the precious metalhad been taken far away to be cast, and at last the bell had been lifted to the belfry to send its song over the peninsula.
    Now the bell told Raphael that mass would begin soon. As always, his family would slip inside after the processional and leave before the benediction. Raphael did not understand why they didn’t stay longer; he only knew that, although his mother did not make or mend nets on Sunday, it was a day much like others for her. They had no family to visit; they did not seek out friends. Sometimes they took walks along the beach, but they were invariably alone, unless M’sieu Lucien was visiting.
    As always, the mass had begun when they took seats on the last bench. Raphael only half listened to the familiar words. Father Grimaud was a kind man who had once given him a piece of sugarcane. His voice was deep and resonant, and Raphael was sure that God himself spoke with less power. He watched as the few others who had ventured out moved forward to take communion, but neither he nor his mother followed their path.
    When they left, the wind was blowing harder, and rain splashed at their feet. Raphael had not spoken to his mother of Juan’s warning. Now he was torn between what Juan and M’sieu Lucien had told him. Despite his mother’s cloak and the thin overcoat she had made him wear, they were quickly soaked. The wind plucked his mother’s hair from the pins that bound it, sending it streaming wildly behind her.
    At home, she sliced corn bread to dunk in thick cane syrup. They sat at the table and ate in silence, listening to the wind. Finally Raphael could be silent no more.
    “Juan says a big win’ comes, bigger than this. He says we can’t stay here when it does.”
    His mother poured herself some of the strong black coffee she had brewed as the children ate. “Does he say when?”
    “ Non. But he says we must go to Picciola’s store. Then M’sieu Lucien said I wasn’t to worry you with Juan’s stories.”
    “And did M’sieu Lucien think the wind would not worry me?” Marcelite wrapped her fingers around her cup for warmth.
    Angelle stretched out her arms to Raphael,