Writ on Water by Melanie Jackson Page B

impatiently. “Grab a bun and come along. The weather is just going to get hotter.”
    He had a point. Chloe stopped sniffing, grabbed a scone, and followed her host down the hall that led to the back of the house. They were both booted in hiking shoes, and it sounded like a regiment of soldiers clomping through the confined space of the uncarpeted hallway.
    They exited through a Victorian parlor draped in a plethora of red velvet swags that somehow managed to stay on the right side of tastefulness, and out onto a small stoop that had been painted white and stenciled with some sort of flowering vine pattern. Chloe would have enjoyed a lengthy ogle of both parlor and porch, but the roused MacGregor was in a hurry.
    Several paths crisscrossed under the Herculean oaks at the rear of the house, but MacGregor ignored them in favor of directness as he set adouble-time pace across the groundcover and marched toward the antler hedge that encircled the manse. Chloe hesitated a moment as she stared at the half-familiar sight, then shrugged off the sensation of déjà vu and started after her host.
    They were joined on the expedition by a large black and white cat who, though walking in the master’s shadow, wisely kept well away from MacGregor’s crashing footsteps.
    â€œThis is Roger,” MacGregor said by way of introduction. “Jolly Roger.”
    The intelligent feline looked back politely. Seeing the triangular patch of black over his left eye and the rolling gait that suggested a sailor pacing over the deck of ship during high seas, Chloe didn’t bother to ask how he’d gotten the name.
    â€œHi, kitty,” she said around a mouthful of pastry. The cat blinked once at her bad manners and then ignored her. It seemed that even Riverview’s pet was superior to her, and unlike his owner, not inclined to be indulgent.
    It soon became apparent that there actually was a small break in the antler fortification as MacGregor dodged right and was suddenly swallowed up by the hedge. Roger immediately followed him into the shrubbery and likewise disappeared.
    Chloe hurried after, grateful that she wasn’t burdened with her camera equipment. Whenever possible, she liked to reconnoiter before bringing her babies out into the hostile world, and this world was certainly hostile to humans, howeverfecund the pretty flora around them. This hedge was more than a polite request for privacy. It was prettier than barbed wire and broken glass, but many times more fearsome. A careless fall could leave someone maimed for life or even gored to death.
    The strange, claustrophobic path through the hedgerow was narrow and went on for some distance. It eventually exited into a shady grove where the oak ceiling grew thick enough to shut out the worst of the sun. It was eerily still and quiet until MacGregor spoke. His cheerful voice shattered the air of peaceful melancholia, and seemed to stir up the dust and leaf mold missed by their hiking boots.
    â€œSlave cemetery is that way . . .” He jerked a thumb to the right. Chloe couldn’t see anything beyond a six-foot-tall pile of wild brambleberries whose upper reaches were smothered in cobwebs furred with dust and studded with catkins from the lone maple growing overhead. “The family is over this way.” MacGregor headed in the opposite direction, fallen oak leaves crunching underfoot as he moved.
    â€œWell, what do you think?” he continued. “Nice and quiet, isn’t it? You don’t get this kind of peace in Metairie.
Tourists?
What locusts! And frankly, I’ve always thought New Orleans overrated. Their grave goods aren’t
that
nice. And ours are every bit as old.”
    Chloe didn’t comment on his disparaging referenceto one of New Orleans’s famous cemeteries. An old man had to be allowed some partiality for his family’s burial ground.
    â€œI think I may have a light problem,” she answered absently,