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I was determined to look stylish and put together. I pinned the last stubborn black lock of hair in place with a cute barrette, then stood back, and surveyed the results. The hairstyle was somewhere between “timeless Parisian waif” and “that girl who gets turned into a bat in the second act of a Tim Burton movie.” Not bad, honestly. I paired it with my favorite sundress—black lace over violet satin, punky but still breezy enough for the bayou heat.

In the mirror, my skin looked marginally less green than yesterday. Maybe pregnancy agreed with me after all. Or maybe it was the rose gold sparkle in my cheeks, a side effect of using magical setting spray made by my little sister, Iris. “Stay bright all night,” the bottle promised. Apparently, it worked in the daytime too.

The house was quiet, which was rare enough to be unnerving. Etienne, Hugo, and Lisette had left at the crack of dawn to pick up the bakery order for today’s event. The only sound now was the distant, plaintive croak of a frog and, faintly, the click-whir of the ancient air conditioning unit struggling against the Louisiana summer.

I padded barefoot to the kitchen, guided by the unyielding, primal urge to eat every fifteen minutes or else die. My mother’s text, sent at 7:01 a.m., blinked on my phone: “Remember to eat something light before the party. No seafood, no MSG, and for the love of God, no pickles.”

I rolled my eyes but opened the fridge. The family would want a proper “New Orleans Sunday brunch,” which meant our kitchen would soon be filled with enough food to host a minor United Nations summit. We’d ordered two shrimp and andouille frittata, three types of quiche—one with mushrooms for Violet, one with only cheese for the kids, and two with a combination of meats for the wolf-y family members—trays of pastries, several bags of Beignets, and lots of lots of chicory coffee.

But that wasn’t what I wanted—a least at the moment. I wanted white bread and peanut butter and maybe a banana on top if I could stomach the smell. This was the only thing that consistently took the edge off the constant queasiness. I turned on the kettle for some tea, then slathered a piece of bread with peanut butter. I perched on a kitchen stool and ate it while scrolling through texts from my sisters.

The sun slanted in through the kitchen windows. I watched the dust motes float and thought about how, by this afternoon, the house would be filled with a stampede of relatives—half of them Dubois, half of them Jourdain, with a smattering of guests from Etienne’s pack and the witchy set of New Orleans. I was determined to be the picture of composure, or at least to avoid vomiting on the shoes of any of my guests.

I was so deep in my planning fugue I didn’t notice anything wrong at first. It started with little things: the spoon I’d set on the counter was gone. The tea kettle, which I distinctly remembered turning on, was on the wrong burner and the stove top was still cold. My favorite mug, one I used every morning, was nowhere to be found.

I rolled my eyes at my own lack of focus. I’d heard people say that pregnancy brain was real, and apparently, I was discovering this firsthand. I opened the fridge to get out the milk, only to discover my mug in one of the crisper drawers, nestled among the salad fixings.

I pulled out the mug and started at it. “This is going to be a long pregnancy if I’m doing absentminded stuff like this in the first trimester.”

I’d spoken to myself, since I was alone in the kitchen, but I could have sworn I head a whispered response behind me.

I whipped around, expecting Jocko to be out of his fishbowl or perched on the kitchen faucet with a cigar and a rude joke, but he was nowhere to be seen. The kitchen was empty. The hallway beyond was bathed in lazy morning light, but the air suddenly felt loaded, the way it does right before a thunderstorm.

I shook it off and went to the window above the sink. There, on the narrow sill, should have been the little dish I use to hold my wedding rings while I’m cleaning. I’d taken them off last night after scrubbing down the kitchen in anticipation of today’s onslaught. But the dish was empty. The rings were gone.

I checked the counter. I checked the dish again. I checked my own hands, even though I knew they weren’t there. I made a circuit of the kitchen, then doubled back and checked the sink and the little ledge under the window where weird things always collect, like flower petals and dead bugs. Nothing. The rings were missing, and with them, the tiny, delicate silver thumb ring that Etienne’s daughter Lisette gave me for Mother’s Day.

I again told myself it was just the baby brain. But something about the empty dish made my skin crawl. I tried to retrace my steps: I’d definitely put them there last night, after dinner, right before going to bed. I could even picture the way they caught the light, how the rose gold of my engagement ring sparkled.

I bent over to check under the windowsill, but my knee crashed into something solid and hard. I yelped and looked down. On the floor, right next to my foot, sat a garden gnome.

A garden gnome.

He wore a pointy red hat and had a beard painted the color of driftwood. His expression was weirdly vacant, and he clutched a tiny, glittery fishing rod with the hook aimed directly at my toes. There was no reason for a garden gnome to be in my kitchen. Not on the floor. Not at all.

I picked it up, feeling the weight of it. It was solid resin, painted carefully by hand. There was no price tag or shop sticker, but the bottom of the base was slick with dust. I examined it, turning it over in my hands. The hat had a tiny chip near the brim, exposing off-white underneath. The beard was perfectly detailed.

Had the kids brought this in as a prank? I doubted it. Hugo would have stuck it on my pillow or left it somewhere more “hilarious,” like in the toilet. And Lisette would have asked permission first, then written a poem about it. Etienne? Funny fact, he hated gnomes. Something about them being “tricksters of the garden realm.”

I set the gnome on the counter and opened the nearest cupboard, wondering if my rings had rolled or bounced into a cup or bowl. I moved aside three mismatched mugs, a jar of honey, and my secret stash of Halloween candy. No rings. No clues. Just the silent, mocking presence of the gnome, staring up at me with its glazed blue eyes.

I took a step back, trying to get perspective. Maybe I’d grabbed the rings last night and brought them upstairs.

I was about to check when a soft, measured knock came at the back door. I jumped, knocking over a box of baking soda, which detonated all over the black-and-white tile. I brushed the powder off my knees, then peeked around the corner.

Thea Dubois, my mother-in-law, stood on the porch, her smile practiced, but her eyes warm. She had a knack for looking both regal and approachable all at once. She wore a crisp linen dress in pale gray, and her hair was pinned into an elegant knot that looked professionally executed. She carried a cake box in one hand and a mysterious brown paper parcel in the other.

I opened the door, very glad to see her. “Good morning. You’re early.”

Thea’s smile was subtle but sincere. “I prefer to arrive before the chaos.” She swept into the kitchen, immediately clocking the mess of baking soda, the absence of children, and the garden gnome on the counter. “Is that new?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before in my life.”

She set down her boxes and tilted her head at the gnome. “It’s very… quaint.” She brushed a speck of baking soda from her sleeve and looked around. “Where is everyone?”

“Etienne took the kids to pick up the rest of the food. They’ll be back soon.” I hesitated, then decided to just ask: “Have you ever seen a gnome like this before? In the family? I mean, is it…some kind of Dubois tradition?”

Thea smiled, eyeing the figurine again. “Not that I recall. I never cared for them.”