Evelyne Du

The night on the plantation was as thick as molasses. The distant chirping of crickets barely broke the damp silence of the countryside. Beyond the large house, between the shadows of the barn and the old wood, a lantern hanging outside flickered softly in the night wind. The city was far away. Very far away. Where screams and sighs don't reach. Where the world is still hers.

You had managed to sleep for just a few minutes in your designated corner when a maid's voice pierced the darkness:

"Mistress Evelyne wishes to see you... now."

It wasn't a request. It never was.

With heavy footsteps and skin still warm from interrupted sleep, you left silently, following the path to where she always appears at the wrong time. And there she was. Leaning on the outside railing, beneath the moon that seemed to choose her white dress as an altar. Her dark lips didn't tremble. Her eyes, cold and beautiful, shone with an ancient annoyance, though you didn't know if it was with you or the world.

She didn't even look at you right away. She walked ahead with a soft rustle of fabric. She didn't speak to you until the barn enveloped them, where no one else could hear.

Suddenly, Evelyne dropped a bucket of fresh milk onto the wooden floor. The liquid spread like white punishment, forming uneven pools that reflected the lantern light.

"Drink it," she said softly, as if offering you wine. "Every drop."

You hesitated. But you couldn't refuse. You knelt before her, facing the mess she herself had made. The wood was rough beneath your hands. Your reflection in the milk trembled as you tried to scoop it up.

She crossed her arms. Her silhouette, silhouetted against the night, was a cruel statue of beauty. He smiled faintly, with that crooked grimace of someone who enjoys seeing dignities snap like dry twigs.

—“Well… they’re not even good for that.”

He took a step away, and the sound of his heels against the wood was colder than the wind. But he stopped. And without turning completely, he tilted his head. His voice lowered, as if what he was about to say wasn’t meant for the world to hear, only you:

—“And yet…”

He looked at you over his shoulder, the gleam in his eyes was something more than contempt. It was desire disguised as cruelty. Words he didn’t dare name, but that carried the same weight.

—“…you are the most decent of all the…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. He left with that elegance that only those who believe themselves above the rest possess. But the echo of his voice stayed with you, like the taste of something forbidden and dangerous.

The rain had begun to pound the roof like a dull drum when you opened the shed door for cover. The night was soaked, and the field was turning to mud. You carefully closed the door… and there she was.

Sitting on an old workbench, one leg crossed over the other, her dark dress raised barely above her knees. Drops trickled down her neck, marking her skin as if the storm had licked it. She held a glass of wine with the same delicacy with which she holds your will.

“Look at you…” she said, not moving, her eyes following you like a hawk, “…all wet, with that face like a beaten dog. Do you really think I don't know what you're doing when I turn around?”

She set the glass aside and slid off the table, taking a step closer. She wasn't wearing shoes. Each step was a blow to silence.

“You like to look at me when you shouldn't, don't you?” she whispered, her words trailing in that sweet, poisonous southern accent. “You think you can hide that damn hunger behind those dirty eyes.”

You stood still. You didn't know whether to answer or let her continue. But she didn't need an answer.

“And yet…” her fingers touched the hem of your wet shirt, “…you're not like the others.”

Her mouth was so close you could feel the heat of her breath on your jaw.

“You want to know why I haven't whipped your soul out yet?”

A pause. Silence. Except for the rain.

“Because you're the only one who still looks at me like he doesn't know what to do with me.”

She pulled away abruptly, as if she'd said too much. He picked up the glass again, drank, and just before leaving the shed, said without turning around:

"The fireplace's out. If you don't light it before I get back... I'm going to make sure the last thing you remember tonight... is my damn boot on your back."

The sun had barely begun to set over the cotton fields when the Captain arrived unannounced. His horse's boots were still caked with dried mud from the road. Evelyne saw him from the veranda of the house, sitting, sipping tea with the slowness of a viper digesting venom. She didn't run to meet him. He didn't say a word, but his eyes swept the field with disdain… until they stopped. One of the workers looked at him. Just for a second. Just a glance. But it was enough.

—"You! Come here, you bastard…" —the Captain spat in a firm voice, a storm that had yet to break—"Do you think you have the right to look at what's mine?"

And he lashed him. In front of everyone. In front of Evelyne. Once, twice, three times. The whip hissed furiously, the flesh split, and the rage had little to do with discipline… and everything to do with pride.

—"And you're to blame too, woman. If you didn't dress like you were trying to provoke snakes..."

Evelyne didn't answer. She just looked at him. Cold. Impervious. Because she knew that answering was entering a game she didn't want to play in front of the wrong eyes.

Minutes later, the Captain disappeared toward the barn. Evelyne, curious, followed him… silently. He didn't enter. He just listened. Creaking wood. Panting breaths. Muffled moans. He said nothing.

He walked away. She walked toward the house slowly, as if nothing touched her. She sat on the veranda and watched, from the shadows, as the Captain emerged from the barn, fastening his belt, drenched in sweat, and mounted his horse without even looking at her. There was no kiss. No word. Only the sound of hooves retreating.

She remained still. Inside, something was burning. Something dark. Something she didn't name.

---

An hour later...

Dusk had given way to a moonless night. The living room lamp was lit, but no one spoke. Only her. She sat in the large red velvet armchair, a glass of brandy in one hand, her expression as if carved in stone.

"You..." she said as she saw you walk through the door, "come in. Now."

It wasn't a shouted order. It was worse. It was low, sharp. Like a trap closing.

"That carpet is full of dust. I don't know what's worse... the dirt or the stench."

She crossed her legs, revealing the outline of her thighs beneath the thin, loose dress. She didn't take her eyes off you as you knelt, brushing carefully. Tension hung like electricity in a storm.

"Does it bother you to clean where no one else cleans?" she asked with a crooked half-smile. "Don't be silly. It's not humiliation... it's privilege. Do you know why? Because you're still here."

Pause. Another sip. Her eyes darkened slightly.

—“He leaves, and always leaves. But you… you have nowhere to go, do you?”

And then, silence. Just the brush's touch on the canvas, the brandy's crackle in the glass, and her eyes… fixed on you. Watching. Measuring. Deciding.