Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
“I asked her once if she had planted them with composition in mind, and she said, ‘You don’t compose nature. Nature composes, and it’s up to you to find the right perspective.’”
“Do you think that’s true?” Greta asked.
Muriel nodded. “Perspective is everything.”
Chapter 5
Greta
They had talked for hours, about plants, mothers, and a host of other topics, and Greta left Muriel’s with an invitation to take tea in her garden the following week. She wandered for a while longer before walking back through the French Quarter toward home. As she crossed Burgundy Street, she couldn’t believe her eyes. The miniature pony she’d seen earlier was tied to a hitching post outside a bar in the middle of the block. At least she assumed it was the same one. How many miniature ponies could there be around here? She was delighted to realize she had no idea. For all she knew, there could be dozens.
As she approached, a woman came out of the bar, holding a drink in a plastic cup and still talking to someone inside. She laughed at whatever they said, and as she turned, her halo of glossy hair floated back as if in slow motion to reveal one of the most gorgeous women Greta had ever seen. She was white and very curvy, her brown hair a chin-length riot of buoyant curls. She had a large, angular nose, a pointy chin, and huge brown eyes exaggerated with smoky gray eyeshadow. Her mouth was a red moue.
She wore yellow lace tights under gray wool newsboy shorts, black boots, a black T-shirt worn to holes, and a burnt velvet jacket-robe thing in yellow, umber, and black florals.
She slid on large, heart-shaped red sunglasses and spoke softly to the miniature pony.
Before Greta knew what had propelled her, she was standing next to the woman.
“That’s a horse.” She cringed as the words left her mouth.
“Good eye,” the woman said. She was obviously making fun of Greta, but it felt friendly and welcoming rather than repelling.
“God, sorry,” Greta said. “It’s just, I think I saw it early this morning.” She pointed in the direction she thought Truman’s house lay in, then corrected herself and pointed the other way. “I just got here. To town. This town.”
The woman just let her talk.
“What I mean is I don’t really know if this is the kind of place where miniature horses are, like, a common pet, or if this is definitely the same horse I saw earlier.”
When the woman just smiled, Greta’s traitorous mouth supplied more and more words.
“It’s funny cuz this guy is named Horse.” She patted Horse’s head. “He’s not mine. I mean, I didn’t steal him. I just. I’m house-sitting. House swapping, really. It’s his. Dog. The person I swapped with.”
Why don’t you give her your ATM PIN and greatest insecurity while you’re at it, Greta?
Greta clamped her mouth shut and shook her head when more nervous chatter attempted to escape.
“This is Teacup. I’m Carys.” The woman held out her hand. “And you are?”
Greta shook her hand. “Greta. I’m Greta. Horse,” she said again, pointing at the dog.
“Greta and Horse. Got it. And you just got to town because you’re doing a house swap with a guy who lives in the Marigny. It’s your first time in New Orleans, and you don’t quite know your way around yet.”
“Yeah, that’s… Yup. Accurate.”
Realizing that she was still holding onto Carys’ hand, she forced herself to release it. Carys looked like a silent film star, with her dramatic nose, huge eyes, and lush pout of a mouth.
“You wanna see some more of it?”
“Huh? Oh. What?”
“Come on.” Carys untied Teacup from the hitching post and started to walk down the street, Teacup’s hoofs clacking against the cobblestones. After a few steps, she turned, curls flying. “You coming?”
Greta hurried after her.
Carys finished whatever was in the plastic cup and tossed it into the next trash can they passed. “This is the Old Ursuline Convent,” she said, pointing. “You know the story of the filles à la cassette?”
Greta shook her head.
“Are you interested in the macabre and supernatural?” Carys asked, her voice that of a natural storyteller.
“Uh. Yes.”
Wasn’t everyone?
“In the 1720s, the population of New Orleans skewed quite male, making marriage impossible. They required an influx of women, and France was only too happy to scour the streets, prisons, orphanages, and brothels, snatching whoever they deemed undesirable or a strain on the system, loading them onto ships, and sending them to the French colonies in need of marriageable women.”
“Jesus. They took them away from their families?”
“A lot of them didn’t have families. When they arrived in port, the filles à la cassette trooped off the ship carrying their belongings in casket-shaped chests, their mouths bloody, their skin as pale as death, burning instantly in the Louisiana sun. Or so the stories go.”