The woman’s eyes lingered on Jim long enough to be worrying. Jim, smart one that he was, had gone still and quiet, looking down at his feet, knowing better than to meet any white woman’s gaze. Sample was all a-bristle, not liking the way the woman was eyeballing his little brother; ah, damnation, Emmaline never should’ve picked for Sample’s father a man who liked to fight. Boy was gonna get himself in trouble some day.
Em had a feeling, though, that this was a feint. Then Pauline came back onto the porch with a big sweating glass of iced tea... and sure enough, the White Lady’s gaze landed on the girl with much more than greed for a cool drink. Pauline stopped there, with her eyes narrowed, because like Emmaline, she knew what was beneath the surface. The woman laughed prettily at the look on the girl’s face.
“Trouble comin’ tell,” the White Lady sang, still grinning. “Trouble comin’ fine! Nought to pay the price but sweet blood like fine wine.” She had a beautiful voice—lilting and hymn-reverberant and high as birds flew. Hardly sounded human, in fact, which was fitting enough.
Em raised a hand in praise anyway, because beauty was meant to be acknowledged, and to deny it would just invite her further in. “Trouble always coming, ma’am,” she replied to the song. “Some’a us, this world made of trouble. Not that you folk help.”
“Aww, Miss Emmaline, don’t be like that. Come on here, girl, with that tea.
It’s powerful hot.”
Em glanced at Pauline; Pauline nodded once, tightly. Then she walked down the steps to the bottommost slat—no further—and held forth the glass. The White Lady sighed, throwing a look at Em. “Ought to raise your children to show some respect, Miss Emmaline.”
“Lots of ways to show respect, ma’am.”
The White Lady sniffed. Then she turned her head, and the little girl who’d been holding the parasol straightened and came around her. The parasol stayed where it was, holding itself up against the ground. As the child moved forward, Em’s skin came all over goosebumps. Wasn’t right, seeing a child who should’ve been lively so empty of life and magic. The little girl twitched a little while she walked, as if with a palsy, or as if jerked on strings. She stopped before Pauline and held her hands up, and Em didn’t blame Pauline at all for her grimace as she pushed the glass into the child’s hands.
“Whose was she?” Emmaline asked, as the little girl twitched and moved to bring the tea back to her mistress.
“Nobody who matters, Miss Em, don’t you mind.” The White Lady took the glass of tea, then smoothed a hand over the child’s soft cap of hair with an almost fond smile. “Such a lovely girl, though, isn’t she? Everybody says you folk can’t be beautiful, but that’s just not true. Where else would I be able to get this?” She preened, smoothing a hand over one unblemished, shining cheek.
“She had power,” Pauline said then. Em started; she was used to Pauline keeping her mouth shut around white folks, like a good sensible girl should.
But Pauline was still staring at the little girl in horror. Her expression hardened, though, from shock into disgust. “She had power, and you took it. Like a damn thief.”
The White Lady’s eyebrows looked to have climbed into her red hair for a moment. Emmaline was right there with her, shocked at Pauline’s cheek.
She snapped without thinking, “Pauline Elizabeth, shut your mouth before I shut it.”
Pauline shut up, though Emmaline could see the resentful flex of muscle along her jaw. But the White Lady let out a soft laugh, chilling them both into silence.
“Well! I can’t say I think much of how you’re raising your children, Miss Emmaline. Negro children never can sit still and be quiet, I suppose. Of course I took her power, girl; not like she could do anything with it. Now. I think I’m owed an apology, don’t you?”
Damnation. Stiffly, Emmaline said, “I’m sorry for my daughter’s foolishness, ma’am. I’ll see to her when we’re done talking.”
“Oh, but that isn’t enough, Miss Em.” The White Lady tilted her head, long red lashes catching the light. “Honestly, how’s she going to learn respect if you do all the apologizing for her?”
Pauline spoke tightly, with a darting glance at Emmaline for permission to speak. “I’m sorry too, ma’am.”
“Now, see? That wasn’t so hard.” The White Lady gestured with the tinkling glass of tea at Pauline, beaming. “But don’t you think you owe me a bit more, after smarting off like that? Why, I’m wounded. You called me a thief! And even if I am, it’s the principle of the thing.” She stepped forward.
“I think you should come with me for a while, and learn respect. Don’t you?”
“No, ma’am,” Emmaline snapped, before Pauline could dig herself further into trouble. “I don’t think she owes you a thing beyond what you’ve had.” “Oh, now, be reasonable.” The White Lady stepped forward once more, almost to the porch steps—but then she paused, her smile fading just a little. When she glanced off to the side, she spied the rosemary bush at last, growing scraggly in the summer heat. Growing, though, still, and by its growth weaving a bit of protection around the house. Beginning to frown, the woman glanced to the other side; there was plenty of sage, too, thriving in the heat unlike the rosemary.
Eyes widening, the woman finally turned about, spying at last the prize of Emmaline’s yard: the sycamore fig. It grew in an arc over on the far side of the yard, because many years ago some neighborhood children had played on it and nearly broken its trunk. It had survived, though—through the heat, through the breaking, and through isolation, for it was nearly the only one of its kind in America. By the stories Emmaline’s own mother had told of its planting, the seed-fig had been smuggled over from Africa herself, tucked into some poor soul’s wound to keep it safe and living through the Middle Passage.
“Supposed to be rowan, thorn, and ash,” said the White Lady. All at once she sounded sulky.
Emmaline lifted her chin. “That’d work too,” she said, “’cause Lord knows I got some Scots Irish in me from my poor slave foremothers’ travails. But this ain’t the soil of Eire; red Alabama dirt roots different protectors. And you ain’t the same as your’n back in the Old Country neither, not after all these years of drinking Negro blood, so rosemary, sage, and fig will do for you.”
The White Lady let out a huffy little sound... but then she took a dainty step back. She started to raise the glass of tea, then paused, focusing sharply on it; her lip curled. Then she glared at Pauline.
“Just a little bit of acorn flour, ma’am,” Pauline said, with such exaggerated innocence in her voice that Emmaline had to stifle a smile in spite of herself.
“For flavor?”
“Rosemary, sage, and fig to bind,” said the White Lady. It was clear now that she was furious, as she held the glass of tea out from herself and then dropped it. The tea spilled into the grass, and the glass split into three pieces.
She drew in a deep breath, visibly mastering temper. “And oak to strike the blow. Well, Miss Emmaline, I’ll grant you won this one, but it leaves us in a bit of a fix. You can’t keep yours safe everywhere, and I can’t be chasing after ’em all damn day and night.” She thought a moment. “How ’bout a deal?” “Ain’t enough water in the river Jordan,” Emmaline snapped. “Sure?” The White Lady’s grin crept back, like a dog badly banished.