blooms that carpeted the abandoned campground.
El gitano . The gypsy boy brought her the wildflowers.
He didn’t know the girl he’d taken out of the woods was a sirena he’d set a trap for. He didn’t know when he was freeing her from the brush that she’d just escaped his net. All he knew was that he’d saved her life, and she’d called him names. He’d brought her flowers, and she’d chased him out of the room.
Now he was angry with her. This was no different than Justin and Alexia and her brother stealing the Camargue and being cursed with the skittishness of young horses.
She had to get the Corbeau boy’s forgiveness, like returning that stolen colt.
A soft knock clicked against the door. Lace left her clothes on the bed and answered it.
Tía Lora stood in the hall, hands full of fabric pink as a grapefruit, the cloth she’d brought with her to the hospital. It glinted, sagging with the weight of glass beads.
A new cola de sirena, a mermaid tail made to replace the one that had been lost.
Lace wondered if shreds of her old one still clung to that colander, the current pulling them like streamers.
This one was finer than the lost one, the beading more intricate, the embroidery on the fin tighter, more delicate. A sign of Tía Lora’s faith that she would swim again.
“You will come back,” Tía Lora said.
Lace had to find the gitano boy.
Tía Lora set the tail’s weight in her palms, the thread still warm from her hands.
Lace took it. “Yes,” she said. “I will.”
Un tiens vaut mieux que deux tu l’auras.
One that you hold is better than two you will have.
Cluck braced his hands on the worktable. Half the wings still needed fixing. Alula feathers had gotten knocked out of place. Primary remiges had come loose, secondaries had fallen out. Wires had gotten bent or snapped; they’d snagged on branches when his cousins came down from the trees. Some the chemical rain had ruined.
Cluck watched from the trailer window as a woman in a skirt suit met his mother at the back door.
He knew why the woman was there. He could tell by the chamber of commerce pin on her lapel. The Almendro Blackberry Festival would go on. Calling off those days of farm stands and crafters’ booths would be the same as a white flag, a sign that the town had curled up in its corner of the Central Valley to die.
Now she’d come to find out if Nicole Corbeau felt the same way.
His mother kissed the air next to the woman’s cheek.
Cluck rolled his eyes. His mother did that with anyone they needed to issue them permits. It always charmed them, made them walk away a little lighter, feeling sophisticated, unbearably French.
Great. Not only were they staying in this town, now the Palomas would too.
They should’ve just moved on to Madera County a couple of weeks early. Or scheduled a stop on the Monterey Peninsula, where slices of the ocean showed between the trees.
But his mother wasn’t willing to burn bridges. No more than she was willing to let the Palomas win.
Cluck couldn’t wait to save up enough money for community college, for an apartment that didn’t move. He’d study like his grandfather had. He’d get a job anywhere but Almendro. He’d get a house he and Pépère could live in, and Pépère wouldn’t have to go around with the show anymore. They’d be les célibataires, two bachelors in a house with a lemon tree.
Eugenie came in without knocking. Cluck let her get at the old mirror against the wall so she could check her feathers. Some Corbeaus, like Dax, pulled all theirs out. Most, like Eugenie, just checked for loose ones before each show. They never wanted the audience to sees feathers fall from their heads.
“You didn’t go see that girl again, did you?” Eugenie asked.
“Right. Because she was so thrilled to see me last time.”
Eugenie ran her fingers through her hair. “What was she so upset about?”
“I don’t know.” Probably him. A lot of people got upset about
El gitano . The gypsy boy brought her the wildflowers.
He didn’t know the girl he’d taken out of the woods was a sirena he’d set a trap for. He didn’t know when he was freeing her from the brush that she’d just escaped his net. All he knew was that he’d saved her life, and she’d called him names. He’d brought her flowers, and she’d chased him out of the room.
Now he was angry with her. This was no different than Justin and Alexia and her brother stealing the Camargue and being cursed with the skittishness of young horses.
She had to get the Corbeau boy’s forgiveness, like returning that stolen colt.
A soft knock clicked against the door. Lace left her clothes on the bed and answered it.
Tía Lora stood in the hall, hands full of fabric pink as a grapefruit, the cloth she’d brought with her to the hospital. It glinted, sagging with the weight of glass beads.
A new cola de sirena, a mermaid tail made to replace the one that had been lost.
Lace wondered if shreds of her old one still clung to that colander, the current pulling them like streamers.
This one was finer than the lost one, the beading more intricate, the embroidery on the fin tighter, more delicate. A sign of Tía Lora’s faith that she would swim again.
“You will come back,” Tía Lora said.
Lace had to find the gitano boy.
Tía Lora set the tail’s weight in her palms, the thread still warm from her hands.
Lace took it. “Yes,” she said. “I will.”
Un tiens vaut mieux que deux tu l’auras.
One that you hold is better than two you will have.
Cluck braced his hands on the worktable. Half the wings still needed fixing. Alula feathers had gotten knocked out of place. Primary remiges had come loose, secondaries had fallen out. Wires had gotten bent or snapped; they’d snagged on branches when his cousins came down from the trees. Some the chemical rain had ruined.
Cluck watched from the trailer window as a woman in a skirt suit met his mother at the back door.
He knew why the woman was there. He could tell by the chamber of commerce pin on her lapel. The Almendro Blackberry Festival would go on. Calling off those days of farm stands and crafters’ booths would be the same as a white flag, a sign that the town had curled up in its corner of the Central Valley to die.
Now she’d come to find out if Nicole Corbeau felt the same way.
His mother kissed the air next to the woman’s cheek.
Cluck rolled his eyes. His mother did that with anyone they needed to issue them permits. It always charmed them, made them walk away a little lighter, feeling sophisticated, unbearably French.
Great. Not only were they staying in this town, now the Palomas would too.
They should’ve just moved on to Madera County a couple of weeks early. Or scheduled a stop on the Monterey Peninsula, where slices of the ocean showed between the trees.
But his mother wasn’t willing to burn bridges. No more than she was willing to let the Palomas win.
Cluck couldn’t wait to save up enough money for community college, for an apartment that didn’t move. He’d study like his grandfather had. He’d get a job anywhere but Almendro. He’d get a house he and Pépère could live in, and Pépère wouldn’t have to go around with the show anymore. They’d be les célibataires, two bachelors in a house with a lemon tree.
Eugenie came in without knocking. Cluck let her get at the old mirror against the wall so she could check her feathers. Some Corbeaus, like Dax, pulled all theirs out. Most, like Eugenie, just checked for loose ones before each show. They never wanted the audience to sees feathers fall from their heads.
“You didn’t go see that girl again, did you?” Eugenie asked.
“Right. Because she was so thrilled to see me last time.”
Eugenie ran her fingers through her hair. “What was she so upset about?”
“I don’t know.” Probably him. A lot of people got upset about
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