Because It Is My Blood (Birthright #2)(80)

Mr. Kipling had hired me a tutor, and though I’d only been semiconsistent in my studies, the test was easy enough. I wouldn’t find out for another three to four weeks if I had passed, but effectually and if all went well, this marked the end of high school for me. A bit anticlimactic, no? Then again … I had had plenty of climax in the past year and certainly more than my share of conflict and rising action. I could stand for a bit of denouement. No one tended to get shot during the denouement. (The GED had a section on literary terms, if you were wondering.)

At home, an e-mail was waiting for me. When I saw the domain mark was Mexico, I felt ashamed. As I was at least partially responsible for Theo’s injuries, I’d been too embarrassed to call or write the Marquezes. Still, a good person would have found some way to send word.

Dear Anya,

Hello. I hope you have not forgotten your very best pal, Theo. I am writing to you because you have not written to me. Why do you stand on circumstance? Do you not know that your good friend Theo misses you? Do you not care at all about him?

You will like to know how I am faring, I think. But maybe you are too ashamed to ask. Well, you should feel very guilty, Anya, because I have been very sick. I did almost die. And I was not allowed to go back to the orchards until just last week. I am almost better now. My sister and my mother and the abuelas are being unbearable as you can imagine. We did here learn that Cousin Sophia was responsible for the attempt on your and my lives. She has always been a strange woman and never a favorite in our family for a variety of reasons that I would be glad to detail for you in person. (This is an invitation if you choose to take it as one.) But the reason I am writing you today is because the abuelas feel responsible for the attempts on your life. They think that they did not love Sophia enough. (But then they do think that all the problems in the world can be attributed to lack of love.) To make amends, they have asked me to pass on the recipe for Casa Marquez Hot Chocolate. I translated it for you, but it is not a literal translation. I embellished it where I thought it might amuse you (see attachment). Abuela wants me to remind you that it is a very powerful and ancient recipe with many, many health and spiritual benefits. “Please, Theo,” she begs, “make sure she knows not to let it fall into the wrong hands.”

Anya, when we were together, I know I spent much time complaining about my responsibilities to the farm and the factories. How I longed for my freedom. It is strange because in all the months I was sick, the only thing I wanted was to get back to the factories and the farm. So, maybe it is a good thing that I was nearly fatally shot. (This is me, joking. I am still the funniest person you know, I bet.)

I hope you will come back to Chiapas someday. You’re a natural at cacao production, but I still have much I can teach you.

Besos,

Theobroma Marquez

I read the recipe, then I went into the kitchen. We didn’t have rose petals or chili pepper but it was Saturday market, so I decided to take the bus down to Union Square to shop for the ingredients. It was Daisy’s morning off, and Natty was occupied with her studies, so I decided to go by myself.

The roses were easy enough to come by, but I had trouble finding the chili pepper and I had just about given up when I spotted a stand selling, according to its sign: MEDICINAL HERBS, SPICES, TINCTURES, & MISCELLANY. I pulled back a striped curtain and went inside. The air smelled of incense. Rolling wooden shelves were lined with rows of hand-labeled glass jars.

The proprietor quickly located a small glass jar of chili peppers. “Is that all you need, girl?” the proprietor asked. “Have a look around. I have many other enticing products, and if you buy two, the third is free.” The proprietor had a glass eye and a velvet cloak and a walking stick, and he looked rather like a wizard. The glass eye was a very good one. The only hint that it wasn’t a real eye was that it didn’t track me around the store like the other eye did.

On the lowest shelf sat a small jar with cacao nibs. As I took the jar in my hand, I felt a rush of nostalgia for Granja Mañana. I held it up to the stall-keeper. “How are you able to sell these? Without getting arrested, I mean?”

“It’s perfectly legal, I assure you.” He paused to give me the evil eye. (Literally, just the one.) “Do you work for the authorities?”

I shook my head. “The opposite.”

He looked at me questioningly but I didn’t feel like telling him my entire life story. Instead, I told him I was a chocolate enthusiast, and he seemed to take me at my word.

The stall-keeper used his walking stick to point to the word medicinal on his sign. “Even in this corrupt country of ours, you can sell all the cacao you want as long as it’s for medicinal purposes.” He snatched the little glass jar from me. “But I’m afraid I can’t sell that particular product to you unless you have a prescription.”

“Oh,” I said. “Of course.” Out of curiosity, I asked him what kind of condition would get me a prescription.

The stall-keeper shrugged. “Depression, I suppose. Cacao is a mood enhancer. Osteoporosis. Anemia. I’m not a doctor, miss. I do have an acquaintance who uses it to make skin creams.”

I stood up from the squatting position I’d been in, and handed him the glass jar of chili peppers. “I guess I’ll just take this then.”

The stall-keeper nodded. As I was paying him, he said, “You’re the Balanchine girl, aren’t you?”