I stare at the blue jay feather in the doctor’s hat as the pieces click together. Mr. Trask played woodwinds: clarinet and some flute. I dreamed of opening a school of music one day where Father and I would teach strings, but we needed someone to cover the woodwinds.
I sway and feel Andy’s arm bump me back into place.
“You okay, son?” Dr. Highwater asks.
I nod and dig the nails of one hand into the palm of my other to shock my face into holding still.
The doctor continues. “Do you know him? He set out before us by at least a week so my guess is he might be at the Parting of the Ways by now, unless he detoured. On horseback, you could probably catch him. He did have a few wagons on his train.”
After thanking the doctor profusely, I stumble after Andy to a table assembled from a length of wood and two stumps. She ladles lemonade into a cup and puts it in my hands. “What’s a conservatory?”
“A music school,” I tell her quietly as the tears well in my eyes. “I always wanted to open one. Father was bringing us to California for me.”
She clucks her tongue. Behind her, the crowd parts to let through Cay, Peety, and West. Cay pushes Peety, laughing, and Peety pushes him back.
“I’ll hold ’em off,” Andy says, shooing me away.
I scamper away, seeking out a quiet place to think. Behind a dark row of wagons, I collapse onto a saddle-shaped boulder. Independence Rock floats like a white whale on a dark sea.
What a pig-headed, ungrateful daughter you had, Father. My sorrow pours out in a deluge of tears and stuttered gasping. I clutch myself and rock back and forth. When the storm finally passes, I stick my face in my lap and blot my eyes with my knees.
Feverish now, I remove my top shirt, the faded blue flannel, and drape it across the grass.
Oh, Father. I will make it up to you. I will open that conservatory like you wanted for me, for strings and woodwinds. Did you hear me play tonight? I still have my fingers. But I may need to take a detour first. You understand, don’t you?
Yuanfen. Fate between people. Perhaps it works between people and objects, too, since objects carry a bit of their former owners, just like Lady Tin-Yin. Maybe one day, Mother’s jade bracelet will find me, and we can all be together again.
I unbutton my next shirt, and since I can’t take that one off, I fan myself like a seagull winding up to fly.
“Well, well. ‘The wicked flee when no man pursueth,’” says a voice from behind me.
32
I NEARLY JUMP OUT OF MY REMAINING WARDROBE.
Cay holds out the front of his shirt like a basket as he approaches.
“‘But the righteous are as bold as a lion.’” I finish the Biblical proverb for him, willing my heart to slow down.
The scent of tangerines lifts my spirits.
Cay plops down and hands me one from the pile in his shirt.
“Where did you get these?” I gasp. I haven’t seen a tangerine since we left New York. If it weren’t for Mr. Trask, we would never have been able to afford those fragrant orbs, which are considered lucky by the Chinese, since the word for tangerine sounds like luck.
“Angelina.”
Naturally, a girl. I skin my fruit and block out the prying moon. When it comes to tangerines, I do not care if the treasure was won through ignoble means. Little sacs of sweetness burst like liquid sunshine, and I chew very slowly to make mine last.
The moonlight plays with the blond tendrils at the nape of Cay’s neck. They beg for fingers to wrap around, the way certain vines need to be swung on.
“When’s your birthday?” I ask.
“January sixth, 1830.”
Just as I suspected. Tiger. “So what happened to the doe?”
“Angelina? I brought her back to her mama. You see, I’m learning.”
My eyes catch on a red mark on his neck right above the collarbone. A love bite—fresh, too. A flush travels over my face.
He catches me looking and winks. “Didn’t say I was perfect.” After swallowing his last wedge, he sucks the juice off his fingers, one by one. “You know, I think God does an okay job evening things out with his people. Sure, some folks draw a bad lot. But the average person has about the same amount of tricks and troubles.”
“Seems about right.”
“Take you, for example. God gave you arms of twine.”
“Thanks again,” I mumble.
“But then he gives you the power to move people.”
“People are born to dance.”
“No, I mean, move them. West’s been daunsy all week, dandered up, probably at me. When you picked up Jack-a-Dandy’s banjo and put him back on the shelf, suddenly West starts laughing. None of us knew you could play the banjo. But then he starts crying. Oddest thing.”
A rush of longing stirs my soul, crowding out my breath. The memory of our brothy kisses tears at my resolve. I put the peel to my nose to ward off the heartsick, and to stop my mind from wandering in a direction it should not go. “Banjos are deeper than people think. So what are Cay Pepper’s tricks?”
“The good Lord gave me the power to catch sparrows. I know you think my head’s too big, but I’m speaking plain. West has the same gift.”
“I noticed.”
He catches me in his green eyes, and I quickly don my mask of nonchalance, but I cannot seem to break away. It is like being caught in Narcissus’s mirrored pond.
“Trouble is, finding a girl is still a tricky situation, like choosing a hat.” He flips off his hat and sweeps a finger along the edge of the brim. “Like, maybe you’ve had your eye on a fine-looking French number, but when it finally falls onto your head, it loses its appeal.”
Poor French Mathilde never had a chance.
He rehats his head. “Or maybe you’ve been told all your life that bison felts are the only hats worth wearing. And when something different comes along, say alligator suede, even though it’s the most worthy thing you’ve seen in your life, you might leave it in the window”—he taps his chin—“until you realize no other hat will fit just right.”
As I try to figure out who could possibly want a hat made of scaly alligator hide, I don’t realize he’s staring at me. A grin lurks under the neutral line of his mouth. What exactly is he saying? “Er, so you’re through with the French girls?”
He laughs and rolls out his neck. “What I’d really like is a girl with fire. The kind you can warm your hands on without getting burned. Mischief must be her middle name, so things don’t get dull. That’s all.”
“A little fire and mischief. That can’t be too hard.”
“You would be surprised.” He rolls over and lifts his applebright eyes to the stars burning above.
? ? ?