The House on Prytania

ALSO BY KAREN WHITEThe Color of LightLearning to BreathePieces of the HeartThe Memory of WaterThe Lost HoursFalling HomeOn Folly BeachThe Beach TreesSea ChangeAfter the RainThe Time BetweenA Long Time GoneThe Sound of GlassFlight PatternsSpinning the MoonThe Night the Lights Went OutDreams of FallingThe Last Night in LondonCowritten with Beatriz Williams and Lauren WilligThe Forgotten RoomThe Glass OceanAll the Ways We Said GoodbyeThe Lost Summers of NewportThe Tradd Street SeriesThe House on Tradd StreetThe Girl on Legare StreetThe Strangers on Montagu StreetReturn to Tradd StreetThe Guests on South BatteryThe Christmas Spirits on Tradd StreetThe Attic on Queen StreetThe Royal Street SeriesThe Shop on Royal Street BERKLEYAn imprint of Penguin Random House LLCpenguinrandomhouse.comCopyright © 2023 by Harley House Books, LLCPenguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication DataNames: White, Karen (Karen S.), author.Title: The house on Prytania / Karen White.Description: New York : Berkley, [2023] | Series: [A Royal Street novel]Identifiers: LCCN 2022054568 (print) | LCCN 2022054569 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593334621 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593334652 (ebook)Subjects: LCGFT: Novels.Classification: LCC PS3623.H5776 H66 2023 (print) | LCC PS3623.H5776 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23/eng/20221109LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022054568LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022054569Cover art by Andrew HainesCover design by Sarah OberrenderThis is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.pid_prh_6.0_143390428_c0_r0 ContentsCoverAlso by Karen WhiteTitle PageCopyrightDedicationChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17Chapter 18Chapter 19Chapter 20Chapter 21Chapter 22Chapter 23Chapter 24Chapter 25Chapter 26Chapter 27Chapter 28Chapter 29Chapter 30Chapter 31Chapter 32Chapter 33Chapter 34Chapter 35Chapter 36Chapter 37Chapter 38About the Author_143390428_ To my family—without whom I would have finished this book much sooner. I love you. CHAPTER 1The Crescent City, with its long and tangled history, its glorious architecture and subtropical allure, along with its inarguably dark past and requisite restless spirits, is a forgiving place. A city with accepting arms for society’s lost and hungry souls, and a haven for people like me who’d stumbled and fallen yet managed to pull themselves back up. People who were brave enough to try again in a place known for its extremes, or simply too hardheaded to admit defeat.As the St. Charles streetcar I’d just exited waddled its way down the tracks toward the river bend, I listened to its clanging and jangling. It had become the soundtrack of my life in a new city, much as the church bells chiming their holy chorus in my hometown of Charleston once were.Slowly walking down Broadway, I enjoyed the afternoon air of an early-October Saturday. The oppressive humidity of summer had lifted, giving us a reprieve, and although the temperature was nowhere near what anybody up north would call cold, it was cool enough that I wore a sweater over my T-shirt. Even my fingers felt chilled as they gripped the straps of my backpack.I considered slipping on the gloves that my stepmother, Melanie, had sent me—along with typed instructions on how to care for them. I was due a visit from my family—my parents and my twelve-year-old half siblings, Sarah and JJ—the following week, and I didn’t want to register Melanie’s disappointment at seeing my dirty gloves. Exactly the reason why I wasn’t wearing them. Because absolutely nobody in real life had the patience to clean their gloves to Melanie’s specifications. Unless they were Melanie.I lived on Tulane University’s so-called fraternity row, my upstairs town-house apartment sandwiched between two fraternity houses, so I was prepared to dodge the street football being played as I made my way down the sidewalk. The days were shorter now, the rose-tinted dusk sky hovering over me as I walked, the growing dimness darkening the shadows between houses and behind unlit windows. Not for the first time, I was grateful that I had only five senses and couldn’t see anything within the shadows. But just because I couldn’t see anything didn’t mean that nothing was there.I climbed the steps to my apartment, enjoying the drifting scents of something spicy and pumpkin-y baking in the oven. Being greeted by fresh baked goods was just one of the perks of having the Southern version of Martha Stewart as my roommate. A version that sported flame red hair and had a skill set that included all things domestic as well as the ability to change a tire while wearing high heels, and had an accent as thick as the Delta mud from her home state of Mississippi.Jolene McKenna was a force of nature whose turns of phrase could be simultaneously head-scratching and profound, and whose sweet nature hid a backbone of steel mixed with concrete. Jolene had been my roommate during my abbreviated tenure at Tulane, and when we’d run into each other in New Orleans seven years later, I had needed a roommate, and she’d needed an apartment. It had seemed serendipitous.As soon as I opened the French door at the top of the stairwell and threw off my backpack, I was attacked by a small gray and white fur ball with two dark button eyes and a matching nose and a wildly waving plumed tail. He was wearing yet another fall-themed dog sweater courtesy of his favorite aunt, Jolene. Although Mardi was technically my rescue dog, Jolene had taken over all his accessorizing, something my stepmother, Melanie, could appreciate. I had drawn the line at monogramming, but little by little I’d noticed MLT (Mardi Lee Trenholm) appearing on bowls, bedding, and his dog-sized bathrobe.At the