Veils of Mystery: Marie Leveau, Aleister Crowley, and the Hermetic Order

Previously

…Dried rose petals. A small bone, possibly from a bird. A lock of black hair, coarse and thick. A piece of paper, yellowed and brittle, folded into a tiny square. I unfolded the paper with care. The handwriting was elegant, looping, written in French. I read it once, then again, my French rusty but sufficient. To the one who carries my blood in their soul: The veils are thin where the river bends. Come to the spot where the water meets the old cypress, on the night of the full moon, and I will show you what was hidden. —M.L. I sat back, the paper trembling in my hands. The full moon was three nights away. Marie Leveau was calling me again. And this time, I was ready to answer.