The Weight of Feathers

“Luc,” he said. “My name’s Luc.” Not Lucien. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But the name was still his. His mother had given it to him. Those first three letters let him claim it.

He felt her folding his nickname up like one of her scarves, slipping it into her dress pocket. She kept it close. She didn’t let it fly out of the truck’s windows and drift on the highway’s current like a postcard.

Luc and Lace held between them this unspoken hope, that wherever those feathers landed, they’d find an old but not old woman who smelled like cinnamon, now unafraid to cross the woods. They’d find an old man blowing cigarette smoke into the last light, ready to think of Lace Paloma as more than made of her family’s stories.

They’d find the books Cluck would study from, later editions of the same ones Pépère had read. They’d find a house, and even though Cluck wouldn’t recognize it, he’d recognize the lemon tree pressing leaves against the kitchen window. They’d find Lace’s spring with all those turtles and manatees wasn’t in Florida, but just under the ground where those feathers settled.

But the feathers didn’t settle, not yet. They floated over the highway, tumbling on the updrafts, flying like each was a whole bird, red as tourmaline. So Cluck and Lace kept driving, chasing these things that had gotten lost.





Acknowledgments

Of the people I have to thank for bringing this story to life, there are many who have, unwaveringly, believed in me. There are others who have worked hard on this book without ever having met me. And others still have given generously of their time and expertise even though they barely knew me. To all of them, I am deeply and humbly grateful. A few, I’ll mention here:

Taylor Martindale, for your faith, your fearlessness, and your friendship; I am truly lucky to have you as my agent and my advocate.

Kat Brzozowski, for being a dream to work with, a pleasure to get to know, and a brilliant editor who helped this book find its heart and its grounding. Lisa Pompilio, for designing such a beautiful cover that captures so much of this story. The wonderful team at Thomas Dunne Books/St. Martin’s Press: Tom Dunne, Michelle Cashman, Stephanie Davis, Marie Estrada, Karen Masnica, Jeanne-Marie Hudson, Lauren Hougen, NaNá V. Stoelzle, and everyone else who touched this book; whether or not I got to work with you directly, I am so thankful for everything you’ve done.

My fellow authors who helped this book along the way: Caroline Richmond, for your invaluable notes on the earliest incarnation. Kelly Loy Gilbert, for your insight on some of the most important moments in this story. Mackenzi Lee, for being one of this book’s earliest and most enthusiastic fans. And the Fifteeners; I am lucky and proud to share a debut year with you.

The experts who helped make this story more accurate and authentic: Romani scholar Ethel Brooks, for answering questions about everything from pluralization in the Romani language to the history of Sara-la-Kali. Jen Cowitz, for giving me a look into your life as a professional mermaid and character actor. Catherine G. Anderson, for kindly and cheerfully enduring my e-mails about French phrases and proverbs. Stefanie von Borstel, for checking my Spanish, and for some perfect dichos.

My father, for every book you gave me, every question you welcomed, and for making me believe in the risks that are worth it. My mother, for showing me the strength that comes with being a woman, and for teaching me never to believe that I am less than anyone else. My family, without whom I would not know the kind of fierce loyalty at the root of this book.

My husband, for reading every page of every story. For being the boy I fell for so hard and so fast that I will never forget what it feels like to be seventeen.

And readers, for believing that stories count. For making them count.





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