The young woman floated in swirls of darkness.

She longed to stay where it was warm and painless, but somehow she knew she couldn’t. This realization sent her on a journey to the edge of that darkness, and the closer she came, the more pain she felt, until it stabbed at her unmercifully. Struggling against it, she heard words—haunting words that sounded faint, far off…words cruelly pushing their way into her subconscious.

Swing low, sweet chariot, comin’ fo’ to...

The tune grabbed her, thrusting her into a place where light assaulted her lids, stinging them. She scowled, lifting her small voice in an agonizing moan. To escape the throbbing pain, she moved her head from side to side. She had to get away, hide from the relentlessly pulsing pain.

“Wake up, suga,” the old woman whispered, rubbing her face with a wet cloth. “You jus’ got a li’l bump on the head, but you is okay.”

“No, let me go.” She struggled, trying to pull away to sink back down into the warm, comfortable darkness from where she had been rescued.

“Stay with me, baby,” the old black woman murmured urgently as she continued with the irritating stroke of the young woman’s face. “Jus’ stay with me a li’l while longa.”

She struggled, her flailing hands pushing at the cold grip of two skinny hands that insisted on pulling her out of the darkness and into the annoying light that brought with it such pain.

Suddenly, the woman grabbed her jaw. “No,” she said firmly. “You stay with me, you heah?”

At that very moment the storm burst, rattling the windows and doors, and wrenching the young woman cruelly from her sleep. When her eyes flew open she was looking into the old woman’s steely gaze.

“Hallelujah,” the black woman said. “I knowed it. You is gonna be awright.”

“What…what happened? Who are you?” she said as she continued to stare into the eyes that held her captive.

“It’s okay, darlin’, we ain’t met yet. My name is Jasmin, and I do the cookin’ here at this old mansion.”

The girl looked around. “Where…? Where am I?”

“This here is the old home place of the Duquesne family. It’s called Sangraal. It seems you had an accident. I come in and found you on the floor of the bathroom. It looks like you fell and hit your head as near as I can tell, but I don’t think it’s serious.” She reached for the phone. “Excuse me while I let the family know you is awright.” Turning slowly, the old woman reached for the phone, pressed a button, and spoke softly into the mouthpiece. “She’s awake.”

Later the old woman was straightening her covers when suddenly there came a faraway droning sound, and the young woman jerked her head around. “What’s that?” she asked with a tremble in her voice.

“Now, now, no reason to be scared. That ain’t nothin’ but Miz Duquesne’s electric chair comin’ up the stair—”

Their conversation ended abruptly as the door opened and two strangers entered. Jasmin leaned close to the young woman and spoke softly, “Miz Jennifer, you remember Miz Magda Duquesne and her son, Lance? They come to see how you are.”

“Who?”

“Miz Duquesne…Magda Duquesne. You remember her, don’t you? And her son, Lance?”

Lance glared at the black woman and mumbled, “Her son? What the hell is this? You’re introducing me to my own wife as if I’m a stranger? She knows who we are.”

Jennifer’s stare jumped from one to the other, finally focusing on the somber-faced woman who stood stiff and leaned on a twisted cane. Her eyes were sharp and green and glittered like twin pools of shattered glass. Her hair was black as night with a single white streak that reached from an evil looking widow’s peak down into a bun at her wrinkled neck. Her lips were no more than a twisting scarlet line that reminded Jennifer of a snake. By the look on her face, Jennifer was sure those thin lips must be hiding a pair of fangs that were capable of issuing enough venom to kill. Who were they? The names meant nothing to her. She didn’t know them or this place. She suddenly felt a touch and looked up to find the stranger, Lance, holding her hand.

Although he was handsome, she could see arrogance and stubbornness etched on a face of icy radiance. His dark shoulder-length hair was swept back in a rubber band, and he wore an earring in his left ear. He was a well-built man with strong shoulders and strong features. He had an abundance of confidence, and the shadow of a beard gave him even more of a manly aura. When she looked into his eyes she could see worry, but beyond that—beyond the worry and concern, beyond the cold glitter of his sapphire eyes—she discerned something else. A kind of horror, a feeling of dread that made her recoil from him.

“Jennifer, darling, how do you feel? I was beginning to worry about you. You took a pretty nasty fall.”

Jennifer’s fear grew. Her gaze darted from one person to the other. Strangers, they were all strangers. “Where am I?” she whispered.

“Honey, we’re at Sangraal. You know, the mansion? The old home place I told you about. We came here on the plane from New York. We landed in Savannah and drove down the coast to Halfmoon Landing, remember?” He paused, a tiny look of worry on his face.

Jennifer looked at the stranger and scowled, not understanding. “I’m sorry…I don’t…”

“Jennifer, it’s me, Lance. Your husband, sweetheart.”

A feeling of sheer terror took hold of her. “You’re my what?” She looked around, frightened, then back at Lance and shook her head. “No. No, it can’t be, I’m not—”

“Jennifer, darling, we’ve been married almost a month.”

With that same feeling of terror gripping her, she slowly withdrew her hand from his. “What’s my name? What did you call me?”