The dressing room tasted of stale tobacco and the heavy, sweet rot of jasmine drifting in from the alley. Celestine pressed a damp towel to her throat, watching her reflection in the silver-framed mirror where the glass was fractured across her own brow. Behind her, the muffled thrum of the bass still vibrated through the floorboards, a ghost of the set she had just finished.
'You sang like you were trying to wake the dead tonight, sugar,' Odile murmured from the corner, her fingers restless against the clasp of her handbag. She didn't look at her daughter; she looked at the door, her spine as rigid as the wrought iron lining the balconies outside. The radiator hissed, a sharp, metallic sound that cut through the sultry New Orleans heat, and Celestine felt a sudden, inexplicable shiver.
A soft, authoritative rap sounded against the wood. The door creaked open just enough to let in a sliver of hallway light and the scent of expensive stationery. From the shadows of the doorway, a pale hand extends a thick, wax-sealed envelope bearing the crest of a Garden District law firm.
