"Don't be foolish! Soon the lightning and thunder will be closer. We'll be safer if we don't go anywhere. We'll do what we can to make the house tight, and ride out the storm here."

"But the wind!"

Lucien stared at Raphael. He saw that the boy's black curls weren't the innocent, silky curls of childhood; his skin wasn't brown from hours in the coastal sun. And his nose-how could Lucien not have seen how much stronger and broader it was than Marcelite's?

By all that was holy, the child had been like a son to him. How could he not have seen that Raphael was a quadroon? The signs of his mixed blood had been there all along, but Lucien had been too blinded by his infatuation with Marcelite.

He knew the penalties for such an error of judgment. Society sternly forbade any racial mixing. The color lines could not be breached, yet Marcelite had breached them in the most heinous of ways. And Lucien had lain with her repeatedly, indulged himself in her soft flesh whenever he could, without suspecting that another man to do so had been born a slave.

Now outrage filled him. "Am I to be ordered about by a child?"

Marcelite turned to her son and spoke so rapidly that Lucien missed much of what she said. But the essence of her message was clear when Raphael nodded reluctantly. The boy did not take his eyes off Lucien, however. Not for one second.

Marcelite turned back to Lucien. "He only tries to be of help."

"Make us coffee and something to eat. I'll see what needs to be done outside."

"Raphael can a.s.sist."

Lucien considered. The image of the boy wet and cold in the rain pleased him. "Yes, that would be good."

She spoke to Raphael again, but he refused to move.

"Raphael, if you want to help keep your mother and sister safe, then you'll come with me," Lucien said. He walked toward the doorway, then glanced behind him. "If you don't care..."

The child slumped at Lucien's words. Then Raphael followed Lucien out the door.

Raphael watched his mother pour Lucien another cup of coffee. He was chilled and hungry, but he knew that as long as M'sieu Lucien remained with them, his mother would tend to his needs first. Only yesterday he had wished that Lucien was his father, too. Now he was no longer certain. Was his own father watching from heaven, saddened?

Raphael pondered this as his mother bent and whispered something in Lucien's ear. Outside, the wind whistled louder, as if to keep Raphael from hearing what his mother said.

Angelle put her doll on his lap. It gazed blindly up at him, like old Leopold Perrin, who as a child had lost his sight during a fever. The doll's blue dress was tattered, but the silk was still finer than anything Raphael had seen. Once his mother had told him that in New Orleans some ladies wore nothing but silk, and some men, like M'sieu Lucien, rode everywhere in carriages pulled by shining, prancing horses.

Raphael didn't think that Lucien really wanted to be here. Usually he teased Raphael's mother and laughed with her. Today he sat quietly, as if he could think of nothing to laugh about. He had not lifted Angelle to his lap. He had not ruffled Raphael's curls or asked if he had dug for any pirate treasure.

Raphael didn't think he would have told him about Juan's mysterious instructions, even if he had been asked. Although Raphael didn't understand exactly why Juan had taken him into the swamp, he did know their trip was to remain a secret.

His mother ladled out two more bowls of crab gumbo and called the children to the table. Lucien stood and crossed the room as they sat down. He didn't open the door, but he peered through a crack next to the frame.

"The rain's coming down harder."

"Then come away from there," Marcelite said.

Raphael took his first spoonful of the gumbo. Usually it was thick with crab and okra and spicy enough to warm the coldest belly. Today his mother's thoughts had been elsewhere.

"Storms seem bigger here, don't they?" Lucien asked. "Like G.o.d's judgment. I think I would be frightened of them if I lived this close to the water."

"Then be happy you do not." Raphael's mother sliced hunks of bread for both children and set it in front of them.

"And helpless. I think I would feel helpless, too."

"There is only so much a person can do anywhere."

"Still, it's tempting fate, isn't it, to live where the wind can blow you away?"

Raphael stopped eating and watched his mother, but she didn't answer. She brushed the bread crumbs into her hand to store them in a can. Her hand did not seem steady to Raphael, and her lips were drawn in a straight line.

"We should go to the church," Raphael said.

Lucien turned away from the door. "What would you know about it?"

Raphael caught his mother's eye. She shook her head. He clamped his lips shut.

"You are nothing but a child," Lucien continued. "A child who's been too seldom disciplined."

"Raphael is a good boy," his mother said.

"You've said little about his father." Lucien started toward the table. "Was his father stubborn, too?"

Marcelite's eyes flicked to her son. "His father was many things."

"Would you say he was stubborn?"

"I would not have called him that."

"And what would you have called him?"

"Proud," she said, meeting his eyes. "Proud and brave, just as his son will be."

"Does your son have reason to be proud?"

"We'll speak of this no more."

"There are many things of which we haven't spoken." Lucien looked down at Raphael. "The boy's father is only one."

Whimpering, Angelle got down from her chair, clearly upset by the tone of their voices. The whimpering stopped when her bare feet touched the floor. She looked up at Raphael, her expression one of surprise. Then she sat on the planks of driftwood covered by woven palmetto mats and began to slide her hands back and forth.

Raphael looked down and saw nothing. He jumped from his chair and stood beside her. "The floor is wet," he said.

"It should be, with all the holes in this miserable place." Lucien stooped and felt the floor.

Marcelite stooped, too. "It's never been this wet. This is more than rain from the roof."

"It's blowing in the sides, too."

"It's coming in under the door." Raphael pointed. "Look."

"Raphael's right," his mother said. She straightened, then started for the door. "It's washing in underneath. What can this mean, Lucien?"

He muttered a curse in English. Raphael stepped far to one side, so as not to get in Lucien's way as he pa.s.sed. At the door, Lucien stood behind Marcelite and peered outside. They were both silent for a moment. Unconcerned, Angelle began to dance her doll along the wet palmetto mat.

"The ground's covered with water," Marcelite said. "Covered, Lucien. I've never seen it like this."

"The rain's falling fast. The ground can't take it all in. When the rain slackens, the water will run off."

"It's never collected this way before."

"Every storm is different."

"Mais oui, and some are very big." Marcelite moved away from him and felt along the floor. Then she lifted a wet finger to her mouth and touched the tip with her tongue. "It tastes of salt!" and some are very big." Marcelite moved away from him and felt along the floor. Then she lifted a wet finger to her mouth and touched the tip with her tongue. "It tastes of salt!"

Lucien stared at her for a moment, then bent to perform the same act. When he straightened, his expression frightened Raphael. "Fetch my overcoat."

Marcelite hurried to the wooden peg and took it down. He s.n.a.t.c.hed it away. "Stand away from the door," he said. "Raphael, help your mother close this when I'm gone."

Water poured into the room when he opened the door. He disappeared into the rain, and Marcelite and Raphael struggled to shut it behind him. Marcelite fastened it with a rope and peg.

"Light the candles on the shrine," Marcelite told Raphael. "Hurry. We must say a last prayer."

"Maman, the church-"

"It's already too late to travel that far. We'll have to find another refuge. But we must say our prayers first. Then we'll gather what we can." She spoke quietly, and he knew she was trying not to frighten Angelle. "You must be brave."

"Like my father?"

She brushed the back of her hand against his cheek. "There are many things I've never told you."

"Juan said my father was a good man."

"He was."

Raphael wanted to ask more, but his mother was already moving past him. "Light the candles," she repeated. "There will be time to talk when we're safe and the storm is over."

They were finished with their prayers and their packing by the time Lucien returned. The children were dressed in their wet outerwear, and Marcelite had already tied Raphael's small bundle to his back. When she heard Lucien's summons at the door, she unfastened the peg. He brought the storm in with him.

"The tide's turned. I've brought my skiff. We're not safe here. There are waves crashing over a good part of the peninsula. I lost my footing on the beach and almost got dragged under. I saw a dog swept out. Some boat sheds are gone."

"Where shall we go?"

"I pa.s.sed a house set back from the sh.o.r.e. No one answered when I knocked." He described the location of the house.

Marcelite nodded. "It belongs to Julien LeBlanc and his son. They're probably at the oyster grounds."

"I don't want to try to go farther with the children. We'll go there. I'm certain they'd give us shelter if they were home."

"I'm not so certain."

"Enough! That doesn't matter now."

"Non. You're right." Marcelite went to the bed and lifted her bundle to her back, slipping her arms through two knots tied for that purpose. She reached for her cloak and fastened it, then stooped and held her arms open for Angelle. You're right." Marcelite went to the bed and lifted her bundle to her back, slipping her arms through two knots tied for that purpose. She reached for her cloak and fastened it, then stooped and held her arms open for Angelle.

"You and Angelle can ride in the skiff. Raphael and I will tow, unless it grows too deep for him."

"That deep?"

"It grows deeper as we talk!"

Marcelite clasped Angelle to her and motioned for Raphael to join them. He pa.s.sed the shrine and paused to blow out the candles, but the wind blowing through the cracks had done it already. He made the sign of the cross before he went to his mother's side.

The world outside was one he'd never seen. The sky was dark, but flashes of lightning appeared one after the other, like sparks trailing from a divine lantern. The wind threw him forward, and only his mother's arm stopped him from landing in water up to his knees. Objects sailed by, dried branches of palmetto, a torn patch of sail. Over the thunder and the moaning of the wind he heard the sickly lowing of the island's cattle.

He took tiny steps toward the skiff that Lucien had guided almost to their door. His hand closed around the rope tied to the bow, and he no longer felt his mother's grip on his shoulder. He turned and watched as Lucien helped her into the boat. She grasped Angelle and wrapped her cloak around them both. Immediately the wind ripped it open.

Raphael held tightly to the rope and waited for Lucien. He heard a roar from the direction of the beach, and he imagined waves as tall as trees. They would be fierce, those waves, fierce enough to slam against his house and turn it back into driftwood. What had the people of the cheniere cheniere done to anger the waves? done to anger the waves?

He felt a tug on the rope and saw that M'sieu Lucien had joined him. He wished they were already at Julien LeBlanc's.

They began to move. At first he stumbled frequently, but after a while he grew accustomed to the shoving wind and sucking water. He held tight to the rope until his hand cramped in place. As they made their way inland, the water was as deep as it had been at his house. He looked back once, but the rain was a solid curtain. He couldn't even see his mother's face.

There were others out in the storm. Men pa.s.sed, towing boats larger than the skiff. At one house, two men were handing children into the arms of their mothers, who were already on board a large lugger. Raphael tried to imagine riding out the storm in the bowels of the fishing boat. He envied the children.

Someone shouted that Picciola's store would be a good place to wait out the storm, but Lucien didn't change course. They moved on, beyond the lugger, beyond houses, beyond trees bending low in the wind's path. A new sound rang out over the peninsula. The church bell was tolling erratically, as if it were being tossed slowly back and forth by the storm. "La cloche! La cloche!" "La cloche! La cloche!" he cried. But if M'sieu Lucien heard, he didn't answer. he cried. But if M'sieu Lucien heard, he didn't answer.

Shivering with every step, he began to wish he could ride in the skiff. He had lost his bearings, and when they finally stopped in front of another house, he was surprised to realize that this was their destination. Water lapped at the pillars, but the rest appeared untouched. This house would ride the winds and laugh at the rain. Raphael said a quick prayer of thanksgiving.

Lucien dragged the skiff to the steps. The water wasn't as high here, and he waited until Marcelite and Angelle had climbed out before he pulled the boat to the railing and tied it there.

Marcelite helped both children up to the gallery, but the roof was little protection. The rain seemed to be falling from all sides. Angelle was crying. Raphael wanted to tell her that they were safe now, but he wasn't sure she would hear him over the storm. When Lucien joined them, he pounded on the front door. No one answered.

"We'll have to go in anyway!" he shouted.

Marcelite clasped Angelle tighter. "They aren't here. Their canot canot's not in its place."

"Then we'll keep the house safe for them and pray they're out of the storm somewhere else."

In seconds, they were inside. For Raphael, the house was as much a surprise as the sudden end to the battering of rain and wind. The walls were as white inside as out, with ceilings that stretched high above even Lucien's head. There were mats on the floor made of cloth, and chairs covered with cloth, too. He wanted to run through the house and explore, but his mother took his arm. "I'll find something to dry us with. You take care of Angelle."

He slipped off his coat and the bundle tied to his back. Angelle wrapped her arms around him, and he patted her wet curls and whispered that she was safe now.

M'sieu Lucien lit a lantern that hung by the door; then he disappeared into the next room as Raphael's mother returned. She handed him a square of rough linen and used another to dry Angelle.

"We've chosen a good place," Lucien called from the back of the house. "This is well constructed, and there aren't many windows."

Angelle clung to her mother and sobbed. Marcelite lifted her and swayed gently back and forth until Lucien returned. "There's a bed in the back where the children can sleep," he said. "I left the lantern burning there."