“And if it shouldn’t?”
“Then another remedy must be procured, but I tell you, it is no simple matter, not even for a girl who has portents.”
Alba cupped the bird between her hands. Carefully she slid out a needle and held it up.
“My father spoke of evil witches. He said they eat the hearts of people because that is where they get their power. And to kill a witch you must cut off their head or carve out their heart.”
“Your father was right.”
The needle glinted. She pricked her finger quickly, staining the tip of the needle with her blood and then sliding it back into the bird’s body. The sting of it made her wince and Valentín gallantly handed her a handkerchief.
“Take the talisman. Keep it close. Make more of them, like this, hide them around your home,” Jovita told her.
Alba pressed the handkerchief against her finger. “You mean dead doves?”
“Hummingbirds are the best, but doves will do.”
“But make them how? Don’t you need an incantation, special powders?”
“You need belief, is what you need. You need to clutch the dead bird and stab it with six needles, and at the seventh you tell it,Keep me safe, keep any evil away,and offer your blood, like you did. That’s the crucial ingredient. You’ve cast spells before, have you not?”
She looked at Jovita and opened her mouth. She did not know what to say. There had been a few spells, the kind one learned in the countryside. The one with the cord and the yellow cloth to make someone visit you, for example. But those were nothing; those were games. She’d heard of other, more elaborate spells, like cutting dolls out of paper and offering them alcohol, copal, and the blood of a black hen to dispel illness, but she’d never dared try them.
“One or two,” Alba said, twisting the handkerchief around her hand. “For luck and such.”
“Then you understand. It’s not about powders or birds, girl. This is the physical shape magic takes.”
She remembered when her father had gone out into the fields and warned nahuales to leave their crops alone, sometimes dragging an old iron pot with him to frighten them away, for they detested certain metals. But he didn’t always employ the pot. She supposed it was the ritual behavior that mattered most.
“Very well,” Alba said. They stepped out, the yellow door closing behind them.
Alba placed the dead bird in the side saddlebag and Valentín helped her onto her horse. She put on her riding gloves. They rode side by side. As they were about to leave Los Pinos behind, she spotted a woman walking down the road and reined in her mount.
The woman was dressed in a white shirt and a red skirt. She wore a black shawl upon her head.
“What is it?” Valentín asked.
“I know her,” Alba said. “It’s that woman, from the market. Remember? The one who quarreled with my brother.”
The woman turned her face toward them. Her eyes fixed on Alba with the certainty of an arrow. The witch’s mouth was curled with displeasure.
“We must go,” Valentín said, urging her on.
“What if it’s her? What if she’s the witch who killed Tadeo?”
“We must go,” he repeated in a gruff, low tone.
The woman looked at the ground and shook her head.
Alba spurred the horse forward and they began moving again. The woman watched them as they passed by her. Her eyes were dark as obsidian, deep and sharp. Alba swallowed. A few times she looked over her shoulder, fearing the witch was following them, but the only person they met as they made their descent was an old man carrying a bundle of sticks on his back.
They rode in silence to her home. When they reached the edge of the field of barley, he spoke.
“Perpetua wouldn’t bewitch you,” he said. “She’s a widow who sells charms, but I’ve never known her to broker in other kinds ofspellwork. Her mother made charms before her, and before that her grandmother. People talk and you learn who does certainkinds of work and who doesn’t.”
“Then she’s a good and decent witch who happened to accost my brother before he disappeared?”
“I can’t explain that. But I don’t want you to rush to conclusions. Even if you were correct, you should never confront a witch openly.”
