“What does that have to do with anything?” Claire broke off a piece of the muffin and put it in her mouth.
Sasha thought about it before answering. “It’s like this: Xander loves you, and he knows you love him, right?”
“I guess . . .”
“Well, that’s big picture stuff. For Xander, nothing else matters. He figures if you have that—the big stuff—the rest will work itself out. But all you see are the details. How will you date if you’re going to college far away? What if you stay together after college? How would you have a life together if he wants it to include the craft and you don’t? Things like that.”
“Yeah, but that stuff matters,” Claire insisted. And then, the smallest shred of doubt. “Doesn’t it?”
Sasha shrugged. “Depends on whether you think love or details are more important.” Claire started to protest, and Sasha stopped her. “I’m not judging. I’m just saying. You can either work it out now or figure it out as you go. That part’s up to you.”
Claire watched people pass by on the other side of the window. She thought about Xander, about the tangled web that was their relationship, and the Guild and her lack of conviction next to his steadfast belief.
Whatever Sasha said, it wasn’t as simple as she made it sound.
True love didn’t always conquer all.
SIX
“We need to leave by twelve thirty today, Claire. Don’t be late. I don’t want to be rushed,” her mother said at breakfast the next morning. She poured coffee into one of the delicate floral cups without spilling a drop.
Claire finished chewing her toast before she answered. “Twelve thirty?”
Her mother’s expression turned to disbelief. “Hair and makeup? For the ball?”
“Oh, right.”
The Priestesses’ Ball was the highlight of the year for the Guild, a throwback to the past, when many members of New Orleans’s high society were also secret practitioners of voodoo. Everyone in the Guild spent weeks running all over town in preparation, and her mother was no exception.
“Don’t tell me you forgot!” her mother said. “After all that gown shopping?”
“Don’t remind me,” Claire groaned.
It had taken three weekends and eight different boutiques for Claire and her mother to agree on a dress. If she’d forgotten, it was only because of the order for panther blood and the receipt Claire had shoved into the top drawer of her desk after getting home from yoga yesterday. She was distracted, and who could blame her?
Her mother surveyed Claire with a mixture of sympathy and disappointment. “I thought shopping was fun. And besides, it was worth it. The gown is beautiful.”
Claire fought a twinge of guilt. Her mom couldn’t help who she was or how she’d been raised. And she was right; the dress was beautiful, just the right shade to bring out the green in Claire’s hazel eyes.
Claire smiled. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Did you give more thought to the headpiece?” her mother asked. “I can still pull some strings to come up with something simple.”
“I don’t need to give it more thought,” Claire said. “I’m not wearing one.”
The women of the Guild spent months planning elaborate headpieces to go with their gowns, often designing them to complement their family voodoo history. Claire hadn’t worn a headpiece since she was too young to object to the ones her mother had forced on her.
Her mother was silent, trying to decide whether or not to press the issue.
Claire was relieved when she didn’t say any more about it.
A few hours later, they made their way across town to Myrtle’s, the scent of jasmine wafting around them as they stepped through the doors. Pilar wouldn’t go anywhere else, even in an emergency, preferring instead to wrap her hair in a fashionable scarf and wait for an appointment. Claire would have liked to have tried one of the salons in the Quarter, but her mother wouldn’t hear of it. And Claire had to admit that her own hair catastrophes—including the time she’d tried to dye part of it blue only to have it turn a sickly and persistent shade of green—were always the result of experiments gone awry.
“Claire! And Pilar!” Myrtle was around the front desk even before they were all the way through the door. She put a hand on either side of Claire’s face, the wrinkles deepening around her blue eyes as she smiled. “My! Look how you’ve grown. You’ve become a lovely young woman. Although” —she leaned back, her gaze becoming more critical— “I do think your hair is overdue some attention.”
Claire just nodded and smiled. It was always easier that way.
Myrtle led them through the salon, chatting with Claire’s mother about people they knew in common. They stopped at a station near the back.
“I booked you with Toni,” Myrtle said. “As you know, she’s the best when it comes to updos.”
“I don’t want an updo,” Claire protested.
“Of course, you do.” Her mother’s voice was firm. “It’s a formal event.”
“So? Just because everyone else will have their hair piled on top of their head and plastered with two cans of hairspray doesn’t mean I have to.”
Her mother snapped her handbag closed with a tired sigh. “I wish you would be agreeable, Claire, just this once.”
Claire was prevented from issuing a sarcastic retort when Toni emerged from the velvet curtains at the back of the salon.
“Hey, you two! You ready to knock ’em dead?”
Toni Moran was the only stylist at Myrtle’s who was under thirty. She was gorgeous, with porcelain skin and short red hair. Nearly five foot ten inches tall, with small, pixie-like features, she looked like she belonged on a catwalk in New York, not an old-school salon in the Garden District.
After a little discussion, they decided Claire would go first. Toni listened patiently while Pilar described the elaborate topknot she had in mind for Claire.
When her mother finished, Toni turned to Claire. “Is that what you want?”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Not exactly.”
Toni cocked one hip, her mouth turning up at the corners. “Not exactly?”
“Okay,” Claire said. “Not at all.”
“Oh, Claire!” Her mother turned away in exasperation.
“How old are you now?” Toni asked.
“Seventeen.”
“You’re going to college next year, aren’t you?”
Claire nodded.
“Then it’s probably a good idea to start making these decisions yourself, wouldn’t you say, Mrs. Kincaid?” Toni gestured to her chair without waiting for Claire’s mom to answer. “Sit.”
Claire did, and they discussed the options for her hair. At first, her mother said nothing, but after a while, she couldn’t help herself. Finally, after a full-fledged negotiation, they agreed to meet in the middle and Toni went to work.
For the next forty-five minutes, Claire watched as Toni twisted pieces from the front, piling them onto her head bit by bit and pinning them in place. When she was done, Claire’s hair still hung down her back, but the pieces from the front added volume to her crown. The effect was only slightly formal with a loose, effortless feel that allowed Claire to look at least a little like herself.
Claire looked at her mother in the mirror. Just because she’d agreed didn’t mean she was going to be nice about it.
For a minute, no one said anything. Even Toni seemed to hold her breath until Pilar nodded, her lips curving into a smile. “You look beautiful, Claire. It suits you.”
She returned her mother’s smile in the mirror. “Thanks, Mom.”
Easing herself out of the chair, she stepped aside as Toni wiped it down for Claire’s mother.
“Let me just have Myrtle get someone for makeup . . .” Her mother turned toward the front desk.