FourteenHenry Broussard
He loved the feel of the silk, not shiny and ostentatious but the demure matte black silk that a nun might wear had she the sanction of the church in an affluent parish. His mother wore such silk. She could have been a nun, her devotion was such to the doctrines and restraints of her religion. Even at age seven, Henry wondered what was beneath that long black, unrevealing dress his mother wore. More black?
It was the only color Marguerite wore, save for the white lace collar and the peach cameo brooch that had been her mother's and her mother's before her, as though she were in perpetual mourning. But nobody had died that Henry could think of. The black matched her hair, her eyes, and on the worst days, her mood.
She slapped him hard today, harder than ever befor
