Sunday.
Mathias knocked while it was still dark.
“Miss Delphine will see you both now.”
Both. Lucia was already in the corridor, in a black-and-white dress with quarter sleeves, her hair pinned. She had not slept. They went down past the stopped clock that said ten to two, and past the woman in the church hat, and along the gallery and its trophies.
The doors of the music room were ancient polished cypress.
Lucia knocked, and pushed, and curtsied in the doorway before Eppie could see whom she was curtsying to.
The music room was enormous. There was a grand piano with its lid down and a frayed runner across it. There was recording equipment, also ancient, and a section with CD and DVD players, VHS and Beta machines. There was an analogue TV. The clock was broken, and around it, the fresco survived with French designs in faded gilt.
There was a woman in a high-backed chair, facing the shutters, looking like the witch of the place.
“Mathias, more light.”
Mathias struggled, so Eppie went and helped, adding her efforts to the old man’s while old paint cracked along the hinges, until the entire eastern wall was French windows.
“Come and stand by me,” Delphine Richards commanded. “Don’t talk.”
Eppie returned to her place beside Lucia.
They stood, Mathias on one side, then Lucia, then Eppie.
From the corner of her eye, Eppie finally took a gander at the woman of legend, the woman who had accused her of theft, and her faux-father of theft.
Delphine Richards was very old and very thin. She wore emerald silk with a high collar, cut for a body she no longer had, and one wide gold ring. Her hands were skeletal, bones wearing skin, and a frown had been etched onto her face like an opera mask.
A long time ago, there had been a Lucia there, with darker skin, a flatter nose, and darker eyes that sparkled with intelligence.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling French windows, the lawn ran down grey to the oaks, and mist sat in the low places.
Slowly, the light came.
The sky grew the colour of peach, turning from tea to pale orange, then grew in hue and intensity until the edge of the sun came up over Louisiana like a giant burning disk, illuminating the inhabitants, dispelling the dark in the room.
There is a house in New Orleans, Eppie thought. They call it the Rising Sun.
Oh.
Nobody spoke. Time passed, but the clock on the wall said nothing.
Delphine took hold of the chair and got herself upright, and permitted no one to help. She turned, past Lucia, then looked at Eppie with such intensity that Eppie’s [Facial Landscape] went haywire trying to read the lines of the woman’s face.
“Closer.”
Eppie came closer. With her body and her [Strength], there was nothing to fear.
A hand came up. It was hard and stick-like and much stronger than it had any right to be. The fingers took Eppie by the chin and turned her face into the new light, a little to the left, a little to the right, like an English lady turning fine china, looking for flaws.
“Exquisite,” said Delphine Richards.
Eppie did not take the praise as a compliment. It was an appraisal. Beside her, Eppie could see Lucia go rigid, and understood that she was also just a “work of art”.
Then her world flinched.
The last time had been Kel.
The box opened without her bidding, and it told her of her quest.
[-4,398 Karmic Causality]
Quest Triggered
[The Usurper of Atonement]
“…he shall restore that which he took violently away, or the thing which he hath deceitfully gotten…”
A [Usurper] took from a mother her rightful [Causality] and birthed another [Usurper] in the daughter. A daughter who has pursued what was taken, and for fifty years has permitted no debtor to go free. The redeemer is called to restore the truth, that the denied atonement may be made whole.
Eppie read it while an old woman held her jaw and marvelled.
A [Usurper] had taken the karma from Delphine’s mother.
[Script Analysis] fired, drawing a scene with William and Valorie, only the [Usurper] was never caught or punished, and simply drained his victim of every potential while empowering his own greed and ambition.
The original died, then another [Usurper] took his place, inheriting the karma.
A dozen puzzle pieces clicked into place.
She didn’t even mind the [Causality] loss, because the answer to the mystery was the solution itself, provided, ironically, by the [Quest] box.
Delphine let go of Eppie’s pointed chin.
“Well then,” she said. “My granddaughter tells me you sing.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then you know what to do.”
The request was so rude, so abrasive, that Lucia visibly squirmed, which looked to Eppie to be both humorous and adorable, and also a bit sad. She had every right to refuse, of course, and she would have—except the [Quest] box told hidden truths that only two women in this room knew.
Mueller had told her that her song was missing something. What was missing… was [El Duende]. It was missing context, emotion, and lament. It was missing… atonement.
She walked out to the middle of the floor, where the sun was.
She put her hands behind her back, the way Lucia did unconsciously, because it felt appropriate.
She took a deep, long breath. [Songstress] came up first, then [Vocality], then [The Mirror], because she was acting the character of someone who did not know.
She sang.
There is a house in New Orleans
They call it the Rising Sun,
And it’s been the ruin of many a poor girl,
And me, oh God, I’m one.
And under the warm flow of her [Songstress] came the vertigo of [El Duende], arriving where death was possible or had taken place, and the whole room vibrated.
Somebody go get my baby daughter;
Tell her not to do what I have done.
But shun that house in New Orleans
They call it the Rising Sun.
She sang the mother’s advice that the girl had not taken. She sang the gambler. She changed a word. [El Duende] passed through Lucia like a breeze. Within the old woman on the threshold of the long sleep, however, it reaped a whole hurricane.
[+ Karmic Causality]
Delphine Richards did not weep as Eppie had hoped.
The old woman was far too set in her ways for such weakness.
The last note went up, and Eppie’s voice faded with the rising sun.
The sunrise was over. The sun was no longer visible from the window.
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Then the house began to warm, and it creaked and groaned as the old wood shifted into new life.
“Miss Fontaine,” said Delphine, her voice rising from the ambience of an ancient plantation house. “July. The newspapers, and the computer people, and the slander on you and Mr Curon. That was my money. I have people, and I paid well. They are very good usually at urging confessions, or self-incriminating defences.”
“I know,” Eppie said. She had seen the strategy work in her old world.
The old eyes sharpened. “Mr Davis cared enough to use his hounds?”
“The internet isn’t that complicated…” Eppie shook her head. At least… not yet. Just wait till we outsource talking points to India and Bangladesh.
Delphine snorted self-deprecatingly. “You won’t forgive it, of course. I would not. So I won’t ask for forgiveness.”
“Why not?” Eppie gave the old woman a smile worthy of a sunrise.
Delphine looked taken aback. It was like watching a cat smile—pleasant—yet filled with threats.
“…Why not?”
“Why wouldn’t I forgive?” Eppie turned her head adorably. “You thought I stole a song. A family song. I’d have come after me too.”
Not to mention you’re absolutely right! Eppie confessed in silence. I am the thief of [Causality], here to return what was taken. The only difference was that Richards, now dead, was the [Usurper] who got away.
Delphine laughed, and Lucia looked terrified.
It was a croaking laugh, truly like the witch of a plantation house where the clocks didn’t move. If they made a movie about it, the viewers would say it was too on the nose.
“I shouldn’t have doubted your wit, or your talent,” the old black woman chuckled. “But do tell, child. Where does a girl from Los Angeles get a song of the Old South?”
“It came to me in a dream,” Eppie said seriously.
Lucia looked like she wanted to leap up and cover Eppie’s mouth.
Delphine looked at her critically.
Lucia stepped a little between them.
Eppie felt a little happy that the pop star was trying to prevent a homicide.
“A dream,” Delphine repeated.
“Yes, ma’am.”
And then something happened to the frown: “I guess that makes the most sense.”
And Lucia’s eyes grew large as hen’s eggs.
“Grandma?” Lucia looked like she was losing her mind.
Eppie held the girl steady while the train of thought inside Delphine arrived at long-forgotten stations.
“My mother’s name was Miriam,” said Delphine Richards. “My mama. From the minute she went to heaven, Daddy forbade us to speak of her, or of her music. This song, she sang it to me in his parlour. It is about a thief, and the thief sat there nodding along. Out of everything she sang, it was the only one he never carried down to New Orleans.”
On Eppie’s left, there was a very small sound.
Lucia was covering her mouth.
Eppie discerned that the great-granddaughter was finally internalising the truth as well.
“Bailey Richards was a liar and a thief,” Eppie said Lucia’s thoughts out loud.
“He was a gambler and a drunk, too,” Delphine continued. “I never knew what Mama’s last name was. We weren’t allowed.”
The house moaned.
“Then… take it,” Eppie said, smiling, her voice firm and gentle. “And release it in her name.”
Delphine looked up.
Her exterior was cracking.
[+ Karmic Causality]
“Nobody gives away a song like that.”
“Come on.” Eppie extended a hand, so that her dainty white digits touched the old, knotted fingers swollen with rheumatism. “You did your homework on me, right? When have I not given away songs?”
“I heard Better… it’s a cute song.” Delphine named the song Eppie had given to the world, drew back her hand, and turned the gold ring on her finger.
“So I hear. I also hear they have put everything you write into a trust. But I wasn’t born yesterday, child. What does a white child like you, with no people, live on? Why do you sing? Who keeps you? What are you for?”
Given any other person, they might say fame, or fortune, or lie.
Eppie told her the truth.
The Ark. She kept it short. There was going to be a fund. There was going to be a theatre. A real one, in New York, with a company inside it. The banks were falling down. Every small stage in the city was about to lose its money, but every artist they could help would get paid for their work and keep the roof over their heads.
“Are you… afraid of money?” Delphine asked. “Money was all Daddy cared about.”
“I’ve tried keeping it, but the devil’s on my heels,” Eppie said seriously. “I’ll die.”
Which was also true.
[Prophet of Profits] gave her an affirmative pat on the back.
Delphine was silent.
So was Lucia, who was now assessing the surreality of the situation.
“Just like Mama,” the old woman said slowly, “every Sunday, my mama stood up in church and gave joy away for nothing.”
The air grew wavy with the heat, then a box appeared at the corner of Eppie’s eye.
Quest Advanced
[The Usurper of Atonement]
“…he shall restore that which he took violently away, or the thing which he hath deceitfully gotten…”
You have progressively resolved the grudge of inherited guilt, derived from the successful crimes of a [Usurper].
You have gained immense [Causality].
Six-digit [Causality]! Holy mama!
And yet… progress, it said. Not complete.
“If those men who stole Mama’s songs were like you…” Delphine shook her head, then she looked at Lucia and told the girl to come closer.
Like a terrified pup, Lucia slowly approached.
Delphine took the girl in her arms and gave her a hug, eliciting such disbelief on Lucia’s face that Eppie was surprised the girl didn’t burst into tears.
“Of course, there are more thieves out there.” Delphine allowed the girl to go. “But I am… I am very grateful, Miss Fontaine, to have this one back.”
Eppie nodded.
The white men who stole from the black men.
The black man who stole from the black woman.
All is karma.
“I’ll take it,” Delphine said. “Not for money. But for Mama.”
“I’ll let Mr Davis know.” Eppie bowed from the waist. Thank you, Ma’am, for the [Causality]. I am going to need as much as I can get for our first theatre productions.
“Tell Trent he may keep his recording. I’ll tell him how to credit the song. He will find a singer for it, someone with Mama’s voice.” A short breath came out of Delphine, which in anybody else would have been a laugh. “No, you can’t sing it like Mama, Euphemia.”
Lucia’s face was scarlet again. She couldn’t sing it either.
“Yet, you’ve given me an idea,” Delphine continued, sounding no longer so old. “I know which songs belong to Mama. I was witness to it all. Before I die, I am going to note down everything. Then… I think I am going to give it all back to Mama.”
Delphine laughed. “The old folks would throw a fit if they knew a woman wrote their stolen tunes, ahaha…”
Eppie felt thrilled. If the songs were Miriam’s, then a cabinet of annotated musical notebooks was a confession.
Restore the truth, the box had said.
Eppie looked at Delphine. But how?
“Now,” said Delphine. “An unasked-for gift deserves another in turn…”
“Oh, I didn’t—” Eppie raised both hands.
“Hush, child. You gave. I took. I am not my daddy. We balance our debts now, and I am in your debt. Therefore, the Richards Estate is in your debt.”
Eppie waited.
“Would you like to know what I can do for you?”
“Ma’am?” Eppie answered, still holding the unsteady Lucia.
“One is the record companies. Both at home and in the Queen’s country. They owe us in ways you cannot begin to imagine. The other is Daddy’s old friends, their apprentices, and the producers who came up after them. We were benefactors to the young ones, and the young ones now have studios and schools of their own. They will take Mathias’ call when he rings.”
Delphine’s onyx eyes softened. “And I know you’ll need some help getting your theatre up. Help that money can’t resolve.”
“That…” Eppie bowed her head. “Would be amazing.”
Delphine looked satisfied.
“Mm. One thing more. This is not the Estate asking, but me.” Delphine reached out, but not to Eppie. She pulled Lucia over to her and held her by the shoulder.
Lucia trembled, her shoulders glistening. She was feverish to the collar. Her eyes were too bright and too green; she looked like an arts major trying to do algebra.
“I taught this child everything I know,” Delphine said, as if Lucia were a cat she raised. “As with her mother before her. I put it all in, every note and every breath. The Lord made her a gift, and I made sure the world saw it.”
“But she didn’t bring back no Mama’s song,” Delphine said it without softness.
Eppie’s [Script Analysis] supplied the rest. The bitter old woman with a grudge that could not be resolved. The beautiful young creature she carved out of marble to take revenge upon the world. Neither saw satisfaction. Neither lived in joy.
Poor Lucia…
“Help her find herself,” Delphine said. “I release her.”
Then the old woman let go, and Lucia, as if in a dream, drifted from Delphine to Eppie.
If Eppie was a guy and six-foot-four, maybe, she might have held Lucia like a cat. Instead, Lucia was a head taller, and came to rest with Eppie against her collarbones.
“Of course,” Eppie said.
“Lucia.” Delphine’s voice was warmer now.
“Yes, Grandmother.” It came out steady. That was the girl’s training.
“You will go with Euphemia when she asks for you. Help her build this ark. And you will find what you’re looking for. Do you hear me?”
It was an absurd situation.
A nineteen-year-old who had graduated at fourteen from the most prestigious arts conservatory in the world, and a sixteen-year-old dropout she had just been apprenticed to.
“Yes, Grandmother,” said Lucia Lancet, and bowed toward Eppie.
Now it was Eppie’s turn to glow pink.
She held out a hand, and Lucia took it.
This time, there was no slapping her hand away.
The warming house shifted encouragingly.
The old woman looked tired still.
There was sun on the old piano.
And out in the gallery, a hook and a brass plate lay empty, sans prize, sans souci.