Because It Is My Blood (Birthright #2)(7)

“Trust me, I know,” I said as I slipped the pamphlet into my bag. “Where’d you guys get the paper for the pamphlets?”

“The paper shortage is a lie, friend,” a man with a beard replied. “They’re just trying to control us. Always plenty of paper for good old American dollar bills, ain’t there?”

These were the kind of people who thought everything was a lie. Best to be on my way before one of these pro-chocolate folks noticed who I was.

I lucked out and was able to get everything but the fruit and the pasta at the first chemicals stand I visited. I found a pasta vendor a couple of rows down, and he gave me a good deal on penne after I threw in a meat ration coupon and a bar of chocolate. I traded a woman selling flowers two chocolate bars for a bouquet of roses—it was extravagant but I longed for something sweet-smelling and colorful after the summer I had had. The only thing left was the fruit. I’d just about given up on getting anything except the canned stuff when I spotted a sign that read:

Jane’s Citrus

Oranges Grown Right Here in Manhattan

I walked up to the stand. Oranges were my absolute favorite, and they weren’t the kind of thing they served at Liberty.

Win’s mother noticed me before I noticed her. “Anya Balanchine,” she said breathlessly. “Yes, I thought it was you. It’s Jane Delacroix.”

I took a step back. “I should go,” I said. If her husband was around, there could be a scene.

“Anya, wait! Charlie isn’t here. He’s campaigning in one of the boroughs. I didn’t want all my summer oranges to go to waste, so I’m here. My husband would rather I wasn’t, but I argued that it was fine. I’m a farmer not a politician’s wife. Besides, real people do market. We’re trying to look like real people, don’t you know?” Jane Delacroix’s pretty face was more lined than the last time I had seen her.

“Oh,” I said.

“Please take one. Win once told me you liked them. He’ll be back any moment, by the way. He’s gone to trade for more sacks. People have their own bags, of course, but the oranges need to breathe. You can’t toss them in anything. Stay,” she ordered.

Win was here? I scanned the crowd: countless faces, but none of them was his.

She held out the fruit, and as I went to take it, she clasped my hand in hers. “How are you?”

I considered the question. “Happy to be free, I guess.”

Jane Delacroix nodded. “Yes, freedom is a very good thing.” Win’s mother had tears in her eyes. “Take two oranges, please. Take a whole sack,” she said. She let go of my hand and started filling her last red mesh bag with oranges.

I told her I was blocking her line. Which I was. There was no time for emotional exchanges at the market, and Jane Delacroix had a valuable commodity.

She thrust the bag of oranges at me. “I will never forget that you saved my son’s life.” She grabbed my face and kissed me on both my cheeks. “I’m sorry for everything. I know you are a good girl.”

Over her shoulder, I saw Win enter through the back of the fruit stand. He was carrying mesh sacks in a variety of colors.

I took a deep breath, reminding myself that Win had a girlfriend and that I was not she.

“I should go,” I said. “I have to meet my sister!” I pushed my way through the crowd, away from Win.

I found Natty at the paper books stand, which was called 451 Books. Unlike the chemicals, pasta, or citrus stands, it was empty, except for Natty. She held up two books to me. “What do you think, Annie? Which would Imogen prefer? Bleak House, by Charles Dickens, or Anna Karenina, by Leo Tolstoy? One’s about, like, a lawsuit, I think, and the other’s a love story maybe? I’m not sure.”

“The one about the lawsuit,” I said. My heart was beating like mad. I put my hand on my chest as if that could stop it.

“Bleak House it is,” Natty said, moving away to pay for the book.

“Wait, let’s get both. One from each of us. You’ll give her the love story. I’ll do the lawsuit.”

Natty nodded. “Yes, she is good to us, isn’t she?”

I took a deep breath, making sure that I had all my parcels. Detergent, check. Conditioner, check. Pasta, check. Flowers, check. Thermos, check. Oranges … Blast! I’d somehow left the oranges in Win’s mother’s booth. No way I was going back for them either.

We left the books booth, and despite the fact that she was way too old for it, I took Natty’s hand. “Were you able to get any fresh fruit?” she asked.

I told her that I hadn’t been. I must have looked truly wretched when I said this because Natty felt the need to comfort me. “It’s fine. We still have canned pineapple,” Natty said. “Maybe even some frozen raspberries.”

We were almost out of Union Square when I felt a hand on my shoulder. “You left these,” he said. I turned, but I already knew who it was. Of course it was Win. “My mother insisted I find you…”

What was wrong with Win’s mother?

“Hello, Natty,” Win continued.

“Hello, Win,” she said coolly. “You don’t wear hats anymore. I liked you better with hats.”

I took the sack of oranges and said nothing.

“I almost didn’t catch up with you two. I’m not as fast as I used to be, I guess,” Win said.