Auguste Thibodeaux, that was what Magdalena had said. I wanted to say his name aloud, try it out on my tongue. Instead, I ran it through my head as I filled my plate with strawberries, and the women around me passed sweet rolls and pancakes and syrups down to me.
“So, who else have you got?” I asked Cassie.
She beamed with closed lips, humming as she chewed. “Oh I’ve got a fellow with great black wings, like an angel but he isn’t of course,” she said and then giggled into her teacup. “And a fire spirit. We’ve got to go to a special room together where he can’t burn anything up. But he feels wonderful on the skin,” she whispered.
“I’ve got one who needs sex to live,” the woman on my other side said. She had skin almost as dark as the table, and it shone with a wonderful blush. “Just him because…well, I have to rest for days afterward.”
“Her room is next to mine,” Cassie confirmed with wide eyes. “Sounds a bit wild.”
I burst into laughter, and the other women around us joined in, boasting of their men, conversation filling with giggles.