Iron Lace by Emilie Richards Page A

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 passed. 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 wetfinger 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 snatched 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