“I could not summon ghosts right this instant even if I tried,” he replied.
“But the illusions, you make those. And the trick with the languages,” she protested.
“I told you. I’m far from home and I am not growing stronger. A little more and even that power may be beyond me, who knows.”
He said this, but to her he looked no different than the day before. He stood tall and straight and strong, no weakness in his form. She, on the other hand, could feel a headache coming. Casiopea dragged a hand across her forehead. She’d slept on the train and still felt tired. She was an energetic girl, used to getting up with the dawn and working hard, and yet that day she was as frail as a lady who had never lifted a finger in her life.
“Do you have any ideas? Do you even know what the Uay Chivo looks like?”
“Like a sorcerer, like a goat,” he replied staidly.
Casiopea did not think there was a half man, half goat with burning eyes casually walking around the streets of El Paso; the creature of legend from the southern peninsula’s jungles waiting to catch a tram.
“What aren’t you saying?” she asked, eyeing Hun-Kamé carefully; between his smooth, concise words lay a thorn.
“There is a witch,” he said. “She will know about the Uay Chivo.”
“What is the catch?”
She’d learned by now there was one and there was no point in mincing words, pretending she didn’t expect it. Best to pluck the truth out.
“She’ll want to be paid. And she won’t take a coin,” he told her.
Casiopea pressed her lips together, looking down at the floor.
“It’s blood,” he said.
“Of course it is,” she said, her hands clutching the covers. “I can imagine it’s not your blood.”
“No.”
“Then there’s no choice, is there? I have to do it, as usual. You don’t do anything. Well, fine, here, have the blood,” she said, rising and offering him her wrists. “Have it,” she continued, lifting her wrists. “What? I feel like I should sleep for three days straight, but no matter. What’s a bit of blood at this point.”
He said nothing, and she slapped his chest, furious at his dour expression. At this he did react, by catching her wrists, although he did not seem upset. He held her hands.
“I know I ask many things of—”
“You ask everything!”
“You will be repaid,” he said, touching the silver bracelet, as if reminding her of his generosity, the possible avenues of wealth offered to her.
Casiopea rolled her eyes. “My heart’s desire. And what if I can’t—”
She clamped her mouth shut. What if she couldn’t have what she wanted. She wasn’t even sure what she’d ask him for if she could. Anyway, she needed him to remove the stupid bone shard. And when had there been a god who was not demanding? Tribute was to be expected, and she wouldn’t have him saying she’d been a coward.
Casiopea pulled her hands away.
“We should find the witch, then,” she said.
“If you want to, you could rest,” he offered, gracious.
“No. Might as well get going,” she said, wishing to get everything over with.
Hun-Kamé shrugged, which salted her wounds. Cross as she was, she failed to notice that he had not rebuked her for her anger, that he had not thought to remind her of his rank and importance and her comparative insignificance as he surely would have done a few days before.
The cool, protective bubble of the hotel broke as soon as they stepped out of the building. They took a trolley and stepped down after a few stops, reaching a flower shop with the name “Candida” written by its entrance in cursive letters. When they walked in a silver bell jingled, announcing their arrival. It was a narrow, dark little business perfumed with a wild mix of scents: lilies, peonies, and dewy fresh jasmine.
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.
