The Mirror Shattered Midnight

Book 2: The Mirror

by Dhonielle Clayton

Genres: YA Fairy Tales & Folklore

Synopsis

The Mirror: Shattered Midnight is the second novel in the innovative four-book fairy-tale series written by Julie C. Dao, Dhonielle Clayton, J.C. Cervantes, and L. L. McKinney, following one family over several generations, and the curse that plagues it. Zora Broussard has arrived in New Orleans with not much more than a bag of clothes, a beautiful voice, and a pair of enchanted red shoes. Running from a tragic accident caused by her magic, Zora wants nothing more than to blend in, as well as to avoid her overbearing aunt and mean-spirited cousins. Music becomes Zora's only means of escape, yet she wonders if she should give it all up to remove the powers that make her a target, especially as a Black woman in the South. But when Zora gets the chance to perform in a prominent jazz club, she meets a sweet white pianist named Phillip with magic of his own, including a strange mirror that foretells their future together. Falling into a forbidden love, Zora and Phillip must keep their relationship a secret. And soon the two discover the complicated connection between their respective families, a connection that could lead to catastrophe for them both. In the era of segregation and speakeasies, Zora must change her destiny and fight for the one she loves . . . or risk losing everything.

Release date: January 18, 2022

Publisher: Disney Hyperion

Print pages: 240

Sample

New Orleans was a place people went to disappear. Maybe it was the sticky heat, a thick cloak wrapping you up and never letting go. Maybe it was all the peculiar people swelling the French Quarter day and night, easy to fold into and hide. Maybe it was the never-ending jazz music—trumpets and tubas and sharp pianos—luring many down cobblestone streets and into alleys, never to be seen again. Or maybe... just maybe... it was all the dead folks buried aboveground and the whispers about the Crescent City being a crossroads town, a place where unseen worlds kissed.

That was what Zora had figured out in the two months she’d been living here with her aunt Celine—who had agreed to hide her because she’d gotten into a pile of trouble back home in New York City. She thought maybe this was why her mama sent her down here in the first place. Zora wasn’t even her real name, and she still hadn’t gotten used to answering to it. But she’d wanted...needed... to vanish. Arms, legs, and feet fading like a pencil sketch erased from a notebook so no one would ever know what she did back in Harlem.

“Mama said you’re supposed to be trying on that dress so she can fix the seam before dinner,” her cousin Ana snapped. “Everything is about the fit, you know.” Willowy and small, Ana twirled before the family’s full-length mirror in the bedroom they all shared, leaning in to inspect the new freckles she’d gotten since the start of the summer.

“She’s too busy staring out that window again,” Ana’s sister, Evelyn, replied, sitting at the vanity and fussing with her tight curls. They were barely a year apart yet seemed like twins. A deep blush pushed through her rich brown cheeks. “Always gawking like you never seen nothing. You’re from New York City—you’ve seen everything!”

“There’s another parade,” Zora answered, eyes still glued to the train of bodies, the ginger cat in her lap also perking up to look out the window. She loved the bright parasols and how the blasts of trumpets sent ripples across her skin. The beat of a distant drum mingled with the clash of cymbals and the squeal of trumpets. She tapped the beat on the sill. The jazz here was different than at home: a little wilder, a little less tidy, a little more unpredictable. Each evening, she felt like she was part of it all, the melodies of the parades; rhythms and timbres and crescendos of sound she’d never heard before captured her full attention. She’d fall asleep to the sound of music and revelry somewhere outside the window.

This was the best thing about this city so far. The constant music. The constant dancing. The constant frivolity. The way even the cobblestones seemed to hold rhythms and rumbles. People said jazz was born in this peculiar city. And she could believe that. Her heart reached for the songs, shaking loose something deep in her bones, the thing she wanted to hide.

Evelyn craned over her to see outside. “That’s a second line. We do that when someone dies. Just wait until Mardi Gras. The parades will be happening for weeks. People on stilts, floats, and all the masks to look at.”

“The krewes will try to outdo one another,” Ana added. “We won’t be able to sleep. It’ll be terrible. I’ll have bags under my eyes again. By the time February comes, I’ll have a permanent migraine.”

“You don’t have parades in New York City? You’re supposed to have it all,” Evelyn scoffed.

“Most folks are too busy working,” Zora replied. “If you danced in the street, you would get flattened like a hotcake by a taxi. But there’s some.” She continued. “Like on St. Paddy’s Day. Or a ticker-tape parade, if someone important visits. Mostly for white folks.”

“I can’t believe Mama gave her the nice one.” Evelyn held up Zora’s party dress, and the golden beads and silk chiffon caught the sunlight. Celine, a dressmaker, had made it just for Zora. Evelyn ran her plump fingers over its drop waist. “One of the best Broussard originals to date.”

“You can have it.” Zora turned back to the window. “I’d rather stay up here, anyway.”

Ana snatched the dress from Evelyn. “But she’s our guest for a little while,” she mimicked, putting on her mama’s thick French accent. “But she’s had it rough.... But she’s here to convalesce.... But she has a strange affliction.”

Zora had gotten used to them ganging up on her. The insults had frayed her nerves when she’d first arrived, scraping across her skin like sandpaper. Now she let the words drift out the window to be swallowed by the big brass melodies. She had to.

“What happened in New York? You never did tell us,” Ana pressed for the thousandth time, as if that would make Zora suddenly change her mind and spill the whole story.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You never want to talk about anything,” Evelyn spat back. “It’s been two months and you won’t even tell us about what it’s like to live in New York. We’re cousins. We’re supposed to know things about each other, and we don’t know squat.”

“I’d rather—”

“Be playing the trumpet,” the two said in unison.

“Or the bass guitar. I can play that, too. Even the trombone,” she barked back.

Their frowns deepened.

“That’s why your lips are so red and puffy. Mama says women have no business playing brass. You’ll look like a dried-up fish when you get old,” Evelyn said. “Mark my words.”

Ana chuckled at Evelyn’s barb. “You can’t mope around forever,” she said, and blew a kiss. She pointed at Zora’s house clothes—the simple blue cotton dress Zora loved. “You better get dressed. Mama set up this dinner for you to meet all the important people. Miss Annabelle has to like you. Did you know that the Original Carolina Krewe only accepts the best?” Ana did a twirl across the room to make the beads on her dress click-clack. “The boys fight over who courts you first.”

“I don’t want to be a debutante.” Zora sucked her teeth. Before the accident in New York City happened, she’d planned on becoming the most famous female jazz musician who ever lived. She was a quadruple threat. She could sing, act, dance, and play any instrument she touched. She’d show the men that women were just as good, if not better. “It’s fussy and silly, if you ask me.”

Evelyn gasped.

“Lucky nobody did,” Ana shouted back.

Zora sighed as her cousins listed out all the things that were wrong with her for not being excited. If they knew—really knew—what was truly wrong with her and what she’d done, they’d scream and cower in fear. They’d get her aunt to kick her out into the streets. They’d look at her like a monster.

And maybe they’d be right.

Even now, she could feel the hum of her gifts just beneath her skin, like the vibration of a song she used to love. One that felt like her own little secret. But now she hated it.

As the last of the second line eased past the house, a young white man paused. He wore a boater hat, had a face full of freckles, and stared through the window with a strange, clever grin. He looked too perfect and put together to be standing on their corner. He didn’t belong. Zora sat up straight, a jolt up her spine. They made eye contact. He lifted a tentative hand and waved.

The bedroom door snapped open. Aunt Celine pounded in, her heels making the floor tremble. Zora’s ginger cat cowered and tucked himself deeper into the nook beside her.

With thick dark hair pulled into a perfect chignon, Aunt Celine was a passé-blanc, her skin the shade of steamed milk sprinkled with almond powder. Her aunt pursed her lips in disappointment, and she clapped. “Girls, didn’t y’all hear me calling you? I don’t holler for my own health.” Her honey-colored eyes narrowed, inspecting each of them. “Why aren’t any of you dressed? The Colliers and the Bechets will be arriving any moment. I need you downstairs to flash your pretty smiles and remind them that the Broussards throw the best parties in the back-a-town. Mabel is setting out the oysters already.”

“Our houseguest doesn’t want to come,” Ana reported with a smug grin.

Before Zora could get a word out, her aunt stomped over and grabbed her arm, yanking her from the small nook, the only spot she felt comfortable in this house.

The cat screeched.

“Get that creature off my furniture. Didn’t I tell you about cats? Bad luck. Count your blessings I don’t have it stuffed.” She tightened her grip. “In the Broussard household, we don’t turn down perfectly good invitations to parties thrown in our honor.”

Zora tried to wrench away. Her heart fluttered wildly, a hummingbird trapped in her chest, as her aunt’s manicured nails dug deeper into her flesh.

“Glad you felt it. Something to knock you out of this rut. You’ve been skulking around like you can’t do nothing.”

The warning signs flickered: the flash of heat through her, a thunder beneath her chest, a crackling across her skin as if lightning were about to strike. It hadn’t always been like this. She let her eyes close. She only had a few more hours, then she’d be outside and engulfed in music—just music, the kind that healed instead of hurt.

Stay calm, she whispered to herself. Stay calm.

Her aunt scowled. “What’s wrong with you, baby girl? I don’t know what my cousin let you get away with in New York City, but this ain’t the Big Apple, and you best start acting like it.”

Zora’s eyes snapped open. She gritted her teeth and blinked back tears.

Evelyn and Ana hid satisfied grins behind their hands. Zora felt bruised. The mention of home usually flooded her with memories: a summer Sunday in Harlem, taxis honking, newsboys running up and down West 125th with the latest, the Apollo’s lights spilling stardust on the sidewalks, the grocers sweeping and chasing children away from their storefronts, the folks sitting on stoops playing cards or trading gossip when it got too hot inside their apartments...

But that was long gone because of what she did. Now the memories were crowded out by the sounds of falling bricks and cracking wood, the snap of broken bones, and the roar of fire mingled with piercing screams. This woke her every night.

“Mabel said you sent her away earlier. It’s your turn for a bath. Don’t make me have to come back in here, because I’ll be bringing a switch. Eighteen is not too old for a good lashing.”

Zora flinched.

“You hear me?”

“Yes,” Zora mumbled.

“Yes, what?”

“Ma’am. Yes, ma’am, I heard you, and I understand.”

“You better.” Aunt Celine pulled an envelope from her apron pocket. “This came from your mama. Maybe it’ll help set you straight. I told her how you’ve lost the good sense the Lord gave you, that’s what. How lucky you got it, to have kin to take you in when things get rough. Should be more grateful—and gracious....”

Zora stammered out an apology. She didn’t want to disappoint her mama. She took the letter and traced her fingers over the looping cursive.

“None of that funny business, you hear?” Aunt Celine sucked her teeth and waited for Zora to nod before turning to her daughters and inspecting them. “Ana and Evelyn, wipe all that off your cheeks. This is not the Tenderloin. Come with me. You need to entertain our guests as they arrive.” She attacked their cheeks with her handkerchief, then strutted out, leaving behind the heat of her words and the scent of her cloying perfume.

While the housekeeper, Mabel, drew her bath, Zora retuned to the window nook. The young white man in the hat was gone.

She unfolded the letter.

August 15, 1928

My dearest,

I miss you so very much, my little love. Your aunt Celine as always full of complaints and commentary. But she’s just a honeybee—no real stinger. Give her a few flowers and make her feel like the queen of the hive, and she’ll leave you be. She’s not much different than the women I cook for.

I wish you were still home with me. And I’m sorry I couldn’t prepare you or protect you from this. I’m the one to blame. I should have told you more.

But don’t worry—like I said at the train station, the veil is complete. No one will ever know what happened with Mrs. Abernathy, and no one will be able to find you. Not as long as I live. I promise.

I’ll take a peek in on you. But you cannot write to me. Try to forget about us for a while. Tell others who ask that we are gone. You are gone, in a sense. You’re Zora Broussard, and you’re not my little girl anymore.

This storm shall pass. I have faith. Cling tight to the music. It is both a blessing and a curse, but you must use it.

We will be all right. You will be all right. I hope one day we will be together again.

Love,

your mama

Zora held back tears. What would her white German grandmother think if she could see Zora, her Black granddaughter, now a fugitive in New Orleans? What would she think of the gifts that she’d taught Zora so little about, of what Zora had done with them? What disappointment might Zora see in her eyes?

She was a murderer.

She was a monster.

All because of magic.

When Zora was very little, in their Harlem brownstone, magic was as normal as the jars of spices on her mama’s kitchen countertop, folded in like butter in biscuit dough. She’d pick up her father’s horn and play a tune, and clusters of notes would flutter in the air as if they’d been lifted from the bars and lines of a music sheet. They also leaked out of her when she’d use her magic, her conduit. Anything she wanted to move with her mind would be swarmed with those ladybug-size notes and carried away.

One day, Oma sat in the small apothecary room, where she mixed tonics for neighbors. She took a lily and placed it in Zora’s little hand. “Try,” she’d challenged little Zora.

Zora had squeezed her eyes shut, clenched her teeth, and imagined the flower changing color with all her might.

Oma had chuckled. “Liebling, remember the music. Sing me the song your papa always plays on Sundays.”

Zora’s eyes lit up, and the happy lyrics burst out of her. And as they did, the soft petals of the lily turned crimson.

Oma smiled. “Each one of us has magic that comes most easily. The one that rises to the surface like cream on fresh milk. Mine is potions—potions that help others and that helped me live so long and give birth to your mother and aunts.

“Your mama’s is food—she can enchant a kernel of pepper, make dirt taste like the most divine chocolate. But yours...” Oma continued. “Yours is music.”

Zora remembered how much fun it had been using her magic as a little girl. Pointing tiny, fat fingers and moving her dolls. Floating spice jars over bubbling pots on the stove, adding a pinch of salt and a dash of cayenne to the simmering liquid under her mama’s watchful eye. Clouds of music notes transformed into trays lifting fine china and cast-iron skillets as Mama pulled her latest pie from the oven, blowing over it to cool and enchant it with love and luck. It felt like a stream of melodies flowing outward from her heart, helping her mother make her glorious creations.

And then, just after Zora’s seventh birthday, Oma died. Her mother forbade her to use the magic anymore. Said it made her feel too sad. Said the magic could be used against them if they were ever found out—they could be hunted for it.

So Zora had thrown herself into becoming a serious musician. Her soul demanded it. Her truest joy. She buried the magic deep inside the best she could, letting only the notes soar out of her. But the magic buzzed right behind them, waiting, wanting out.

And now she knew just what it could do if she wasn’t careful.

“Your bath is almost ready, sugah,” Mabel called out.

Zora bit her bottom lip. Watching Mabel’s round bottom bent over the tub, she hummed the tune she’d just heard outside. The notes leaked from her fingers like tiny drops of blood. The sensation felt like uncorking a shaken champagne bottle, the magic eager to rush out. The drops stretched into strings, then looped around her mama’s letter in a protective ribbon before carrying it to the bed.

She loved knowing that the magic was still buzzing in her veins, a reminder of Oma. But it also felt like a sharp memory of what she’d done back home, what she was capable of.

“I put a little lavender oil in the tub, baby. Gonna be a long night. Need a little calm ’round here.” Mabel stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, a smile lighting up her brown face. The warmth of her voice always felt like a quilt ready to swaddle Zora. It was like Mabel understood how badly she needed kindness.

Zora kissed Mabel’s cheek and went into the bathroom. After a long soak, Mabel helped her squeeze into her dress and sprayed her with enough rose water that even if she sweated in the heat, no one would ever know. She eased down to the dining room and lurked beside its double French doors, clutching Oma’s cat to her chest like a shield she hoped would protect her from whatever would happen in that room. She’d successfully avoided all her aunt Celine’s parties and attempts to fold her into the colored high society of the city so that maybe by the beginning of next year she’d be ready for debutante season. But everyone had headaches from the Louisiana heat. Everyone had upset stomachs from the rich food. Everyone was a little homesick at first before getting adjusted. Her excuses had run out.

Laughter escaped from behind the doors and Zora could feel the thick electricity of conversation even from her hiding spot.

She stole a glance into the room. The chandelier twinkled over a long table set for ten. The best china had been washed and laid out beside the silver she’d seen Mabel polish during breakfast. The piano sat in front of a large window, its stark white and black keys begging to be played. Everything shone under the chandelier, and even she thought it would make her look cleaner and prettier than she ever had. Aunt Celine only liked beautiful things in her house.

Zora took a deep breath and stepped into the room. Evelyn cleared her throat, and Ana snickered. The table was full of well-dressed people who reminded her of perfect little brown dolls in matching sets—husbands and wives and their pretty children.

Aunt Celine stood. “Let me introduce my niece, Zora Broussard. She might be rude and late to every party, but she’s very pretty.”

Zora flashed her best smile. A trail of sweat skated down her back. Another group of people to meet and charm. She would need to make the best impression so that when debutante season started, she’d be accepted.

She still hadn’t gotten used to these sorts of folks—fussy and nosy, with a comment for everything. She missed how no one paid her much mind in New York City. Here, she lived under a microscope, her every move up for scrutiny, always woefully failing.

Dr. and Mrs. Bechet sat closest to her aunt, looking like plump figurines atop a wedding cake. Their two sons gawked. Mr. and Mrs. Collier and their son wore ridiculous matching pinstriped outfits and sat sandwiched between Ana and Evelyn. Zora felt like she’d entered a circus masquerading as a dinner party.

“Zora, have you lost your tongue?” her aunt chided. “Say hello. And did you bring that animal down for dinner? Nobody wants cat étouffée, honey.” Her aunt grinned at everyone, and chuckles rippled through the room. She walked over to Zora, grabbed her arm, dug her nails into her skin, and whispered hard in her ear: “I thought we discussed no cat outside of your bedroom. Now send it back upstairs and put a smile on.”

Zora put the cat on the floor and sent him back upstairs to her room before turning to face the group. “Hello... I mean, hi.... Um, good afternoon,” she stuttered, and a flush of embarrassment warmed her cheeks.

“She’s come all the way from New York to spend some time down south and away from that noisy place. Though I suppose New Orleans also has quite a bit of ruckus,” her aunt added.

The men at the table rose from their seats and waited for Zora to take hers. She eased into a chair beside Evelyn. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”

“I told them all how despite being from New York City, you move slow as cane syrup,” Aunt Celine said, earning raucous laughter.

Zora grimaced, biting down on her lip to stop a rude remark from slipping out. Mabel wheeled out a spread—fire-red crawfish étouffée, jambalaya bursting with shrimp and sausages, red beans and rice, a steaming cauldron of gumbo, and a pyramid of biscuits.

“It’s magnificent, Celine. Truly. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” Mrs. Bechet remarked, her pretty eyes large and wide as she inspected the food.

“Trouble is my middle name on Sundays. And I aim to spoil.”

“Must’ve been holed up in the kitchen,” Mrs. Collier added.

Aunt Celine showed her three old oven burns on the inside of her forearm. “Kitchen battle scars.”

The look of the thick brown stripes sent a chill up Zora’s spine. When she closed her eyes, she saw the ones on Mama’s arm, and the buried anger shook itself loose. She swallowed with a gulp.

“Something wrong?” one of the Bechet boys asked Zora. He had the light mustache of a man, but a young boy’s squeak still lingered in his voice. His mother called him Jean-Claude.

“No,” Zora said, clipped.

Ana and Evelyn guzzled the fizzy champagne their mother let them have on special occasions. Even with prohibition, New Orleans seemed to always be fully stocked with wine and liquor if you knew the right people.

Mrs. Collier spoke the world’s longest prayer, and Zora thought the food might turn cold before she was done with all her amens and hallelujahs and thank you, Lords.

Aunt Celine lifted her glass and toasted. “To a new season of gloves and gowns and good fortune.”

Zora was in desperate need of that. A new fortune. A new start. Everyone took bites of the delicious food, oohing and ahhing and giving Aunt Celine praise even though Mabel had made it all.

“It’s never too early to prepare for our debutante season. Before you know it, November will be here, then Christmas, and then New Year’s and Mardi Gras. So much to do. It’s only August, and the stress is showing up in my shoulders,” Mrs. Bechet said.

Mrs. Collier nodded as Aunt Celine hummed in agreement.

“Zora, tell me, does New York City have as many rats as the papers say?” Dr. Bechet asked, his raspy voice booming.

A series of chuckles followed. His wife playfully slapped his arm.

“As many as I’ve seen here in the French Quarter. Also, you have more cockroaches than any city should. They even fly here. It’s very odd and unfortunate.” Zora felt her aunt’s hot gaze as she 
spoke.

“Touché, touché. Those pesky water bugs cling to these streets. I swear they’d survive the End Times.” He rubbed his salt-and-pepper beard, and his nose crinkled, making Zora brace for another rude question. She gripped her water goblet, taking a nervous sip.

His delicate wife, Mrs. Bechet, flashed Zora a pitying smile, a crease of worry appearing on her forehead. “What do your folks do, Zora?”

“My mama’s a chef.”

“A cook?” she replied.

“No, a chef. She took classes at the only culinary school in all of America. Up in Boston,” Zora responded without thinking, puffing out her chest. “And she’s worked with many famous chefs.”

Aunt Celine flapped her fan aggressively. “She’s very, very, very talented,” Zora continued. “Always in the papers for this or that. She’ll probably be famous one day for whipping up a biscuit that can melt in your mouth and not leave anything on your hips.”

Laughter rippled out all around the table.

“Everyone loves her pies and cakes. They can make you forget your own name,” Zora boasted, but then swallowed, remembering her mother’s warning in her letter about distancing herself from them... and what happened.

“Wonder what she’d think of our Louisiana cuisine. It’s a mix, like the people who live here and made this fine city. I’ve done my fair share of traveling, and I swear, there’s nothing like a good pot of gumbo and a king cake,” Dr. Bechet said.

“What’s a king cake?” Zora asked.

A chorus of gasps exploded across the table, followed by more laughter.

“Junior”—Dr. Bechet turned to his son and winked—“you’ll have to show Zora around and make sure she gets the best slice from Mama Sugar’s Bakery.”

The young man nodded, dabbing sweat off his glistening forehead. “Yes, sir,” Christophe Jr. said.

Dr. Bechet licked his spoon. “Celine, teach this girl about our ways down here and how to make a good étouffée. You put your foot in it, I must say.”

“Mabel made that,” Zora grumbled under her breath. “All of it.”

“What was that?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she replied. “Nothing at all.”

Her aunt shot her a burning look, the threat of severe punishment in her gaze. Maybe if Zora showed her aunt that she was a terrible dinner guest, she’d let her stay in her room next time. Maybe she’d give up this fool’s errand of turning her into a stuffy, boring girl to present like a gift box to eligible men. Maybe she would write her off as hopeless and leave her be.

Stay calm, she told herself. If she made it through dinner, she would have her reward. It wouldn’t be much longer.

“If she wants to get married down here, she’ll have to learn, too. To be a good wife, one needs to know one’s way around the kitchen,” Mrs. Collier added.

“I don’t want to be a wife—good or bad.” The words slipped from Zora’s mouth before she could catch them.

Her aunt’s gaze turned into a scowl. Her cousins hid their giggles behind fans.

“She has peculiar ideas,” her aunt said. “Don’t mind them. This good Louisiana air will fix her right up... and some good old-fashioned Southern home training.”

“I just mean—I mean—I’m not so sure,” Zora said.

Mrs. Bechet pressed a hand to her chest, elegant nails tapping her pearls. “Marriage is a sacrament, petite. It is our divine lot—the thing women must do to ensure God’s children are brought into this world.” She turned to Aunt Celine. “I see you need more of the Lord’s word in this house.”

“Trust me, Adele, we have plenty. That sinful city she came from teaches young women that they can gallivant around and neglect their duties. But not down here. We still have Jesus. She will walk the righteous path one way or another.”

The table exploded with chatter about how Zora might not have been raised right with the church at the heart of her household and how her marriage prospects would no doubt suffer from this neglect. They blamed New York City. They blamed the 1920s jazz and too-short skirts and the fast fancy women in old Storyville and loose morals. They blamed alcohol even while sipping their bootlegged champagne.

Then they blamed her mama and daddy.

She could no longer keep it all in. The calm left her, and the little bit of magic she’d let out earlier rushed forward to her fingertips, releasing a high, ringing pitch. The glass in her hand turned midnight black before it shattered.

The women at the table screamed. The young men gawked, mouths ready to lure flies.

“Jesus Christ Almighty!” one said.

“How’d that break?” another replied.

Aunt Celine leapt to her feet; horror and distress marred her beautiful face. “Zora has a mighty grip is all,” she said. “She will be excused. Her constitution is still adjusting to our rich food.” She swept Zora from the room, and as soon as they were out of earshot of the party guests, her voice dropped an octave. “I told you about funny business. I’ll have none of that in my house. You hear me? Not one bit.” She lifted her rosary and kissed it, then dug her vial of holy water out of her pocket and sprinkled it over Zora. “I warned you. This is the last time. The little money your mama and daddy are sending me is not enough to take on this burden. Now—out of my sight.”

Zora dragged herself back up the stairs, hearing her aunt’s excuses trailing her up the steps.

“Her grip is extraordinary.... It’s from my cousin—her father—who taught her to play the trumpet. Though we all know that girls should not be using those kinds of instruments. Makes hands and mouth indelicate. Strong like a man’s. Unladylike. Very, very much so.”

Zora’s cat greeted her, rubbing his long ginger tail along her leg.

“Another mistake,” Zora told him. “Made a pile of trouble again.”

Her heart felt sore with disappointment. When she’d first arrived, she’d tuned and played her aunt’s piano, hoping music would make her feel a little closer to home. But her cousins made remarks about the types of women who played jazz music, and thick notes poured out of her like torrential rain, choking the room, knocking the portraits off the walls and toppling the lamps. Aunt Celine had a fit. She swatted the notes out the windows like flies, and Mabel ran around in hysterics trying to sweep up broken glass and set objects upright. Her aunt forbade her from singing or using any instrument in the house.

She didn’t understand. It wasn’t the music that was to blame.

The cat stared back with huge sea-glass–green eyes and led her to the window nook. She had so many questions and so much anger about the fact that she didn’t have the answers. Why had Mama refused to let her use magic all these years? Was it because she knew deep down it was bad? Why hadn’t she told her anything about it?

Everything was just so unpredictable and off-kilter after what happened with Mrs. Abernathy in New York City. Now it all rushed out violent and sharp as Mama’s chef knives, and she had to focus on staying calm so she could control it.

The moon rose outside the window. Zora stuffed pillows beneath her blankets and arranged a silk headscarf in the shape of her head. Her cat sat on the mound to keep watch as she arranged everything into a familiar form.

“Good job.” She kissed his wet nose and pulled the sheer bed curtains closed. They would not only protect that lump from mosquitoes, but from the prying eyes of her cousins and aunt. This stomachache would last all night.

Turning to her wardrobe, she slid on a pair of crimson T-strap heels and buckled them around her ankles. She took a few steps through the room, admiring herself in front of the mirror. Her step was light, and her feet made no sound on the floorboards. Not that anyone would be able to hear her through the laughter drifting upstairs.

Zora remembered the night her mother gave them to her.

Then, the street noises had pushed through the window of her small bedroom in their Harlem brownstone: the blaring of taxi horns, the fussing of men rolling dice and wishing for better fortunes, the trickle of jazz refrains from nearby speakeasies, the sounds of working men and women dragging their tired bodies up staircases.

Her mama’s light brown hands, wrinkled and dry from scouring pans and washing vegetables, had lifted a fragile satin covering in the deepest of reds to reveal a pair of the most beautiful slippers Zora had ever seen. Even better than those that sat in the windows of shops she was never allowed into.

“I got these from Oma.” Heirlooms passed down to the women in her family.

Tears had lingered in her mother’s voice, her words gravelly and muffled. The mention of her mother always sent her into a deep well of sadness. “They may change.”

“Change how?” Zora had asked.

“Watch and see.” Her mother untied Zora’s shoes and pulled them off, along with her socks. She slid the delicate slippers onto her bare feet. “They should adjust. They did for me, but I haven’t worn them since she died. They’ll let you come and go places without so much as a footprint left behind.”

As Zora watched, the soles warmed as if she’d been curled up in front of their living room fireplace with her feet near the hearth. The backs lifted from the floor, exposing tiny new heels. Zora gasped. The ribbons transformed into a T-strap that curled around her ankle and sprouted a small golden clasp.

“No footprints?” Zora had sat forward on the bed.

“Not a single trace of you. It’ll be as if you aren’t even there. When you secure them tight”—her mother fastened the hook—“you will remain unheard.”

“They’re beautiful,” Zora said as she fastened the straps. “But why are you giving them to me now?”

“You need to remain unseen until this whole thing goes away. I don’t know how long that will take—weeks, months, maybe even a year or two. I will hide you for as long as it takes for folks to forget and make up stories about why that woman died. Enough time for the stories to spin on themselves.” Her thick eyebrows furrowed, and sadness left lines across her forehead. “I feel like this is my fault.” A single tear skated down her cheek; a deep blush set beneath the milky brown. “The magic in our blood is complicated....”

Zora caught the tear with her thumb. “No, Mama, it’s my fault. My anger got the best of me. I am so very sorry. I just couldn’t—”

Her mother shushed her. A knock had rattled the door. “Baby girl, it’s time.” Her papa’s warm voice eased in.

Mama had kissed Zora’s forehead, slipped the heels off, and repacked them. “Keep these close. Use them when you need to. Everything will settle again soon. The whole world is a bone knocked out of place. God’ll make it right.”

They were the last things her mother had packed in her suitcase.

Now Zora eased into the hallway and down the back staircase, the one that led to the kitchen, knowing her steps would be silent. Mabel leaned over a hot stove, dropping dollops of dough into oil to make fluffy beignets. With two quick leaps, Zora opened the back door.

“Who’s there?” Mabel spun around, fear consuming her deep brown face.

Zora blew a kiss at her from the window, and Mabel waved. She’d always kept Zora’s secrets. So far. Sometimes Zora wore the heels and sneaked up behind Mabel to have a look at what she was cooking for dinner. Mabel would get all flustered and chase her out of the kitchen with a broom. Or Zora would sneak into her shared bedroom and tug one of Ana’s long corkscrew curls while she was primping and complaining about having to lend things to Zora. She loved hearing her cousin scream, then run around like a startled chicken after realizing Zora was right there.

Her T-straps left a melody only she could hear. As Zora darted out into the sticky night, Mabel threw salt over her shoulder and slammed the door.