Gods of Jade and Shadow(59)

A woman sat behind a counter, her gray hair pulled back in a bun. She was a small, wrinkled lady, wearing a pink apron with her name—Candida Cordero—in the same script as the store’s front. Her glasses were thick. She was working on a piece of embroidery.

The fairy tale books of Casiopea’s childhood, replete with European fancies, contained old women with magic powers, but in those books they were hunched and wore capes. The folktales of her town, on the other hand, provided a different picture of warlocks and witches. There was a town in the north of Yucatán where they said all the inhabitants were witches, creatures who shed their skin to become animals, prancing around the cemetery or the roads at night. These people were young and old, men and women. Huay Pek, the dog witch, Huay Mis, the cat witch. But neither version of the witch looked like the woman in front of her. She was far too mundane, too sweet in her pink apron, stitching flowers.

“Seeking roses for your sweetheart?” the woman asked, without looking at them. “Red for passion and yellow for friendship, but lavender is for love at first sight. The hue you pick makes all the difference.”

“We don’t need flowers,” Hun-Kamé said.

“Nonsense. Everyone can use the charm of a flower. Besides, why else would you be here? It’s a flower shop.”

“A friend recommended your shop.”

“But is he a good friend?”

“It was the Marquess of Arrows.”

The woman nodded, reaching for her scissors and cutting a thread. She stopped to admire her handiwork for a moment, then turned the embroidery hoop in their direction so that they might see the roses she had been working on.

“Well. That’s a name you don’t hear around these parts very often,” the woman said, setting down her embroidery. “What’s that crazy Frenchman up to these days, hmm?”

“He sends his regards, from the south.”

“Decked in green, with a pack of cards nearby.”

“Likely.”

“Ha. You would not believe the trouble he can get himself into when he has the chance. Marquess. Demon.”

Candida adjusted her glasses, pushing them back by the corner of their frame, and looked at them for a good, long minute.

“I can’t quite tell your hue, young man. But…not that young, are you? You, dear boy, are decked in black. Boy and not-boy. What strange darkness do you carry?”

“The hint of the grave, of Xibalba.”

“Ah, sympathy flowers,” the woman said, smiling a gap-toothed smile and clasping her hands together. “But then my shop is too modest to accommodate you, for I think you are a great lord.”

Ordinarily, Hun-Kamé looked like a very polished man, but when she said “lord,” he stood even straighter, more rigid, and Casiopea could not only picture his royal diadem—onyx and jade, no doubt—she thought she might touch it. She wondered if she would ever see him in his throne room, if he would stand there the way she pictured it, if his image would be reflected on the walls of the chamber, which would also be of onyx. Of course she couldn’t, she wouldn’t; Xibalba was his realm, and as soon as he returned to it she’d never hear of him again. And what would she do? Left in a border town like this, staring at the sky.

“I am Hun-Kamé,” the god said.

“And what would the lord want of me?” Candida asked.

“You would know the other witches and warlocks nearby.”

“Yes, but which one do you seek?”

“The Uay Chivo.”

The old woman made a face and smacked her lips, as if she’d tasted an unpleasant dish.

“Him. You should buy a bouquet instead. Much prettier than that old goat and also smells nicer.”

“I must insist. I’m afraid I don’t need flowers.”

“Does your friend not like them? Girl, are you allergic to them? Say that isn’t so.”

Casiopea shook her head. Hun-Kamé did not bother speaking. Realizing that her jests were not amusing them, the woman let out a loud hmpf.

“Well, then, if that is your wish…Seven drops of blood is the price. Will you pay?”

“I…I will,” Casiopea said.

Casiopea had been standing behind Hun-Kamé, his second shadow. Now Candida beckoned Casiopea closer. She hesitated, took a few steps, brushing by vases stuffed with flowers.

“Let me see. A daisy by the side of the road. Closer, closer. And who are you?”

“It hardly matters who I am,” Casiopea replied, irritated by the woman’s grandmotherly tone. Besides, it was true. She was the token he used to pay for his passage.

“Modest too. Sit, sit right next to me.”

The woman patted a chair behind the counter. Casiopea did not sit there, instead leaning against the counter, raising her head, a small act of defiance.

“You’re too thin, girl. Why, you’re almost all bones,” Candida said. “Oh, look at those dark circles under your eyes. Are you not sleeping well?”

“Don’t play with me. Have your blood,” Casiopea replied, extending her hand, wrist up, like she’d done with Hun-Kamé.

“You’ll lose your sweetness if you keep like this,” the woman said, clicking her tongue, disapproving. “Come here, lamb.”

Realizing there was no point in refusing, Casiopea went behind the counter and carefully sat down on the empty chair. The old woman caught her chin with one hand and squeezed it a little, like she imagined a fussing aunt might do, though Casiopea would not know—her aunts had paid scant attention to her.