Voices erupted from behind the closed door, and Eugene startled. He had no business being in the back of the church, and if the priest caught him, he would be reprimanded. Still, he pressed himself to the door, easing it open a hair's breadth to peer inside.

Father Latimer stood with his back to the door. The edge of Mary Beth's skirt flared out, just visible to the side of his robe; nothing else of her could be seen from Eugene's vantage point. But he could recognize her from the tremor in the priest's voice. Ignoring his trepidation, he sidled in just far enough to see her. The room had no window and was lit by a single dull yellow light at the back, so if Eugene was quiet and kept to the shadows, and if the priest didn't turn, he might go unnoticed.

But Mary Beth spotted him immediately. Her face was a mask of cold fury that didn't belong on a child, her posture rigid as she stood facing Father Latimer, his right hand on her shoulder, the left holding a heavy cross between them.

"Repent," he hissed. Eugene couldn't see his face, but he could see Mary Beth's disgust when drops of spittle hit her skin. "Withdraw this temptation, this wickedness—"

Mary Beth's gaze slid over him to meet Eugene's. He stood, terrified, clutching the doorframe as Father Latimer raised his hand from her shoulder to place his palm over her forehead, rocking her back.

"You have a demon in you!" he insisted, brandishing the cross in his shaking hand. "You're to blame for all of this! I would never—"

"I haven't done anything wrong," Mary Beth said loudly. "You get your hands off me right now, or my friend's going to get you."

Sick to his stomach, Eugene minutely shook his head. The man wasn't in the church or the garden, and hadn't been all day. Mary Beth's expression froze. She blinked, and when she looked at him again, that cold fury shattered, revealing helpless fear underneath.

Father Latimer shook her roughly like a doll, the edges of his cross digging into the neck of her pretty Sunday dress as she bared her teeth, wrestling away from him. "Let the Lord lead me not into temptation," he whispered, holding her tight, "let Him deliver me from evil . . ."

Eugene fled.

He ran to the courtyard, his heartbeat deafening, shoes pounding through the garden as he shouted for the man to come.

"Help her!" he screamed. The roses trembled and the sky pressed down from above. "Whoever you are, you need to help her!"

His cries fell flat, immediately muffled by the humidity. Tearing from the courtyard, he ran down the slope to the bayou, skidding to a stop only when the fog-ridden trees loomed within arm's reach. His voice died in his throat as he stared into the shadows. Sheets of Spanish moss whispered like ghosts in the still air. Insects whined and droned from the canopy, the cicadas' screams so loud they hurt his ears. Everything smelled green.