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  "You didn't like it?" Beau asked.

  "No, it wasn't that. Someone. . . a stranger I

  trusted, attacked me in an alley on the way here," I

  confessed. "What? Are you all right?" he asked

  quickly.

  "Yes. I got away before anything terrible

  happened, but it was quite frightening."

  "I'll bet. The back streets in New Orleans can be quite dangerous during Mardi Gras. You shouldn't have wandered around by yourself." He turned to

  Edgar. "Where is Nina, Edgar?" he asked.

  "Just finishing up some things in the kitchen." "Good. Come on," Beau insisted. "I'll take you

  to the kitchen and Nina will give you something to

  drink at least. Edgar, would you be so kind as to

  inform Mademoiselle Gisselle that I've arrived with a

  surprise guest and we're in the kitchen?"

  "Very good, monsieur," Edgar said and headed

  for the beautiful curved stairway with soft carpeted

  steps and a shiny mahogany balustrade.

  "This way," Beau said. He directed me through

  the entryway, past one beautiful room after another,

  each filled with antiques and expensive French

  furniture and paintings. It looked more like a museum

  to me than a home.

  The kitchen was as large as I expected it would

  be with long counters and tables, big sinks, and walls

  of cabinets. Everything gleamed. It looked so

  immaculate, even the older appliances appeared

  brand-new. Wrapping leftovers in cellophane was a

  short, plump black woman in a brown cotton dress

  with a full white apron. She had her back to us. The strands of her ebony hair were pulled tightly into a thick bun behind her head, but she wore a white kerchief, too. As she worked, she hummed. Beau Andreas knocked on the doorjamb and she spun

  around quickly.

  "I didn't want to frighten you, Nina," he said. "That'll be the day when you can frighten Nina

  Jackson, Monsieur Andreas," she said, nodding. She

  had small dark eyes set close to her nose. Her mouth

  was small and almost lost in her plump cheeks and

  above her round jaw, but she had beautifully soft skin

  that glowed under the kitchen fixtures. Ivory earrings

  shaped like seashells clung to her small lobes. "Mademoiselle, you changed again?" she asked

  incredulously.

  Beau laughed. "This isn't Gisselle," he said. Nina tilted her head.

  "Go on with you, monsieur. That t'aint enough

  of a disguise to fool Nina Jackson."

  "No, I'm serious, Nina. This isn't Gisselle,"

  Beau insisted. "Her name is Ruby. Look closely," he

  told her. "If anyone could tell the difference, it would

  be you. You practically brought up Gisselle," he said. She smirked, wiped her hands on her apron, and

  crossed the kitchen to get closer. I saw she wore a

  small pouch around her neck on a black shoestring. For a moment she stared into my face. Her black eyes narrowed, burned into mine, and then widened. She stepped back and seized the small pouch between her right thumb and forefinger so she could hold it out

  between us.

  "Who you be, girl?" she demanded.

  "My name is Ruby," I said quickly, and shifted

  my eyes to Beau, who was still smiling impishly. "Nina is warding off any evil with the voodoo

  power in that little sack, aren't you, Nina?"

  She looked at him and at me and then dropped

  the sack to her chest again.

  "This here, five finger grass," she said. "It can

  ward off any evil that five fingers can bring, you

  hear?"

  I nodded.

  "Who this be?" she asked Beau.

  "It's Gisselle's secret sister," he said.

  "Obviously, twin sister," he added. Nina stared at me

  again.

  "How do you know that?" she asked, taking

  another step back. "My grandmere, she told me once

  about a zombie made to look like a woman. Everyone

  stuck pins in the zombie and the woman screamed in

  pain until she died in her bed."

  Beau roared.

  "I'm not a zombie doll," I said. Still suspicious,

  Nina stared.

  "I daresay if you stick pins in her, Nina, she'll

  be the one to scream, not Gisselle." His smile faded

  and he grew serious. "She's traveled here from

  Houma, Nina, but on the way to the house, she had a

  bad experience. Someone tried to attack her in an

  alley."

  Nina nodded as if she already knew.

  "She's actually quite frightened and upset,"

  Beau said.

  "Sit you down, girl," Nina said, pointing to a

  chair by the table. "I'll get you something to make

  your stomach sit still. You hungry, too?"

  I shook my head.

  "Did you know Gisselle had a sister?" Beau

  asked her as she went to prepare something for me to

  drink. She didn't respond for a moment. Then she

  turned.

  "I don't know anything I'm not supposed to

  know," she replied. Beau lifted his eyebrows. I saw

  Nina mix what looked like a tablespoon of blackstrap

  molasses into a glass of milk with a raw egg and some

  kind of powder. She mixed it vigorously and brought

  it back.

  "Drink this in one gulp, no air," she prescribed.

  I stared at the liquid.

  "Nina usually cures everyone of anything

  around here," Beau said. "Don't be afraid.

  "My grandmere could do this, too," I said. "She

  was a Traiteur."

  "Your grandmere, a Traiteur?" Nina asked. I

  nodded.

  "Then she was holy," she said, impressed.

  "Cajun Traiteur woman can blow the fire out of a burn

  and stop bleeding with the press of her palm," Nina

  explained to Beau.

  "I guess she's not a zombie girl then, huh?"

  Beau asked with a smile. Nina paused.

  "Maybe not," she said, still looking at me with

  some suspicion. "Drink," she commanded, and I did

  what she said even though it didn't taste great, I felt it

  bubble in my stomach for a moment and then I did

  feel a soothing sensation.

  "Thank you," I said. I turned with Beau to look

  at the doorway when we heard the footsteps coming

  down the hall. A moment later, Gisselle Dumas

  appeared, dressed in a beautiful red, bare shoulder

  satin gown with her long red hair brushed until it shone. It was about as long as mine. She wore dangling diamond earrings and a matching diamond

  necklace set in gold.

  "Beau," she began, "why are you late and

  what's this about a surprise guest?" she demanded.

  She whirled to confront me, putting her fists on her

  hips before she turned in my direction. Even though I

  knew what to expect, the reality of seeing my face on

  someone else took my breath away. Gisselle Dumas

  gasped and brought her hand to her throat.

  Fifteen years and some months after the day we

  were born, we met again.

  11

  Just Like Cinderella

  .

  Who is she?" Gisselle demanded, her eyes

  quickly moving from wide orbs of amazement to

  narrow slits of suspicion.

  "Anyone can see she's your twin sister," Beau

  replied. "Her name is Ruby."

  Gisselle grimaced a
nd shook her head. "What sort of a practical joke are you playing

  now, Beau Andreas?" she demanded. Then she

  approached me and we stared into each other's faces. I imagined she was doing what I was doing--

  searching for the differences; but they were hard to

  see at first glance. We were identical twins. Our hair

  was the same shade, our eyes emerald green, our

  eyebrows exactly the same. Neither of our faces had

  any tiny scars, nor dimples, nothing that would

  quickly distinguish one of us from the other. Her

  cheeks, her chin, her mouth, all were precisely the

  same shape as mine. Not only did all of our facial

  features correspond, but we were just about the same

  height as well. And our bodies had matured and

  developed as if we had been cast from one mold. But on second glance, a more scrutinizing second glance, a perceptive inspector would discern differences in our facial expressions and in our demeanor. Gisselle held herself more aloof, more arrogantly. There seemed to be no timidity in her. She had inherited Grandmere Catherine's steel spine, I thought. Her gaze was unflinching and she had a way of tucking in the right corner of her mouth disdain

  fully.

  "Who are you?" she queried sharply.

  "My name is Ruby, Ruby Landry, but it should

  be Ruby Dumas," I said.

  Gisselle, still incredulous, still waiting for some

  sensible explanation for the confusion her eyes were

  bringing to her brain, turned to Nina Jackson, who

  crossed herself quickly.

  "I am going to light a black candle," she said,

  and started away, muttering a voodoo prayer. "Beau!" Gisselle said, stamping her foot. He laughed and shrugged with his arms out. "I

  swear I've never seen her before tonight. I found her

  standing outside the gate when I drove up. She came

  from . . . where did you say it was?"

  "Houma," I said. "In the bayou."

  "She's a Cajun girl."

  "I can see that, Beau. I don't understand this," she said, now shaking her head at me, her eyes

  swimming in tears of frustration.

  "I'm sure there's a logical explanation," Beau

  said. "I think I'd better go fetch your parents." Gisselle continued to stare at me.

  "How can I have a twin sister?" she demanded.

  I wanted to tell her all of it, but I thought it might be

  better for our father to explain. "Where are you going,

  Beau?" she cried when he turned to leave.

  "To get your father and mother, like I said." "But. . ." She looked at me and then at him.

  "But what about the ball?"

  "The ball? How can you go running off to the

  ball now?" he asked, nodding in my direction. "But I bought this new dress especially for it

  and I have a wonderful mask and . . ." She embraced

  herself and glared at me. "How can this happen!" she

  cried, the tears now streaming down her cheeks. She

  clasped her hands into small fists and slapped her

  arms against her sides. "And tonight of all nights!" "I'm sorry," I said softly. "I didn't realize it was

  Mardi Gras when I started for New Orleans today,

  but--"

  "You didn't realize it was Mardi Gras!" she

  chortled. "Oh, Beau."

  "Take it easy, Gisselle," he said, returning to

  embrace her. She buried her face in his shoulder for a

  moment. As he stroked her hair, he gazed at me, still

  smiling. "Take it easy," he soothed.

  "I can't take it easy," Gisselle insisted, and

  stamped her foot again as she pulled back. She glared

  at me angrily now. "It's just some coincidence, some

  stupid coincidence someone discovered. She was sent

  here to. . . to embezzle money out of us. That's it, isn't

  it?" she accused.

  I shook my head.

  "This is too much to be a coincidence, Gisselle.

  I mean, just look at the two of you," Beau insisted. "There are differences. Her nose is longer and

  her lips look thinner and. . . and her ears stick out

  more than mine do."

  Beau laughed and shook his head.

  "Someone sent you here to steal from us, didn't

  they? Didn't they?" Gisselle demanded, her fists on

  her hips again and her legs spread apart.

  "No. I came myself. It was a promise I made to

  Grandmere Catherine."

  "Who's Grandmere Catherine?" Gisselle asked,

  grimacing as if she had swallowed sour milk.

  "Someone from Storyville?"

  "No, someone from Houma," I said.

  "And a Traiteur," Beau added. I could see he

  was enjoying Gisselle's discomfort. He enjoyed

  teasing her. "Oh, this is just so ridiculous. I do not

  intend to miss the best Mardi Gras all because some . .

  . Cajun girl who looks a little like me has arrived and

  claims to be my twin sister," she snapped.

  "Looks a little. ." Beau shook his head. "When I

  first saw her, I thought it was you."

  "Me? How could you think that. . that," she

  said, gesturing at me, "this . . . this person was me?

  Look at how she's dressed. Look at her shoes!" "I thought it was your costume," he explained. I

  wasn't happy hearing my clothes described as

  someone's costume. "Beau, do you think I'd ever put

  on something as plain as that, even as a costume?" "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" I

  asked, assuming an indignant tone myself.

  "It looks homemade," Gisselle said after she

  condescended to gaze at my skirt and blouse once

  more.

  "It is homemade. Grandmere Catherine made

  both the skirt and blouse."

  "See," she said, turning back to Beau. He

  nodded and saw how I was fuming.

  "I'd better go fetch your parents."

  "Beau Andreas, if you leave this house without

  taking me to the Mardi Gras Ball . . ."

  "I promise we'll go after this is straightened

  out," he said.

  "It will never be straightened out. It's a horrible,

  horrible joke. Why don't you get out of here!" she

  screamed at me. "How can you send her away?" Beau

  demanded.

  "Oh, you're a monster, Beau Andreas. A

  monster to do this to me," she cried, and ran back to

  the stairway.

  "Gisselle!"

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I told you I shouldn't have

  come in. I didn't mean to ruin your evening." He looked at me a moment and then shook his

  head.

  "How can she blame me? Look," he said, "just

  go into the living room and make yourself

  comfortable. I know where Pierre and Daphne are. It

  won't take but a few minutes and they'll come here to

  see you. Don't worry about Gisselle," he said, backing

  up. "Just wait in the living room." He turned and

  hurried out, leaving me alone, never feeling more like

  a stranger. Could I ever call this house my home? I

  wondered as I started toward the living room. I was afraid to touch anything, afraid even to

  walk on the expensive looking big Persian oval rug

  that extended from the living room doorway, under

  the two large sofas and beyond. The high windows

  were draped in scarlet velvet with gold ties and the

  walls were papered in a delicate floral design, the

  hues matching the colors in the soft cushion high back<
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  chairs and the sofas. On the thick mahogany center

  table were two thick crystal vases. The lamps on the

  side tables looked very old and valuable. There were

  paintings on all the walls, some landscapes of

  plantations and some street scenes from the French

  Quarter. Above the marble fireplace was the portrait

  of a distinguished looking old gentleman, his hair and

  full beard a soft gray. His dark eyes seemed to swing

  my way and hold.

  I lowered myself gently in the corner of the

  sofa on my right and sat rigidly, clinging to my little

  bag and gaping about the room, looking at the statues,

  the figurines in the curio case, and the other pictures

  on the walls. I was afraid to look at the portrait of the

  man above the fireplace again. He seemed so

  accusatory.

  A hickory wood grandfather's clock that looked as old as time itself ticked in the corner, its numbers all Roman. Otherwise, the great house was silent. Occasionally, I thought I heard a thumping above me and wondered if that was Gisselle storming back and

  forth in her room.

  My heart, which had been racing and drumming

  ever since I let Beau Andreas lead me into the house,

  calmed. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Had

  I done a dreadful thing coming here? Was I about to

  destroy some-one else's life? Why was Grandmere

  Catherine so sure this was the right thing for me to

  do? My twin sister obviously resented my very

  existence? What was to keep my father from doing the

  same? My heart teetered on the edge of a precipice,

  ready to plunge and die if he came into this house and

  rejected me.

  Shortly after, I heard the sound of Edgar

  Farrar's footsteps as he raced down the corridor to

  open the front door. I heard other voices and people

  hurrying in.

  "In the living room, monsieur," Beau Andreas

  called, and a moment later my eyes took in my real

  father's face. How many times had I sat before my

  mirror and imagined him by transposing my own

  facial features onto the blank visage I conjured before me? Yes, he had the same soft green eyes and we had the same shaped nose and chin. His face was leaner, firmer, his forehead rolled back gently under the shock of thick chestnut hair brushed back at the sides

  with just a small pompadour at the front.

  He was tall, at least six feet two, and had a slim

  but firm looking torso with shoulders that sloped

  gracefully into his arms, the physique of a tennis

  player, easily discernable in his Mardi Gras costume: