As the sun hit the Louvre from a million different angles, I wiped a tear. Now was no time to let disappointment engulf me.
I can do this. I can go inside. Mamma flew all this way.
I plastered on a smile and took one agonizing step after another.
“Natalie!” Mamma’s Italian accent was familiar and warm.
Judy Suarez velcroed her orthopedic sneakers and gripped her SIG Sauer. “Of all the days.”
A shotgun blast thundered. Dust cascaded from the bingo hall’s ceiling as the report rattled through my bones. I scrambled beneath the table, hands over my head, mouth dry, heart pummeling my ribcage like a boxer punching a slab of meat.
Camden’s armor sinks into the soaked ground, but he doesn’t dare break his stance. The Lady of the Lake stands before him on the water’s surface, shrouded in moonlight, hair flowing in expansive waves. She alone holds the authority to name the next heir who will rule Killeg; should he not be named, House Visroy will fall, and the province will descend into war.
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Silvee tugged at her brother’s sleeve. “That’s not the one, Lukah.”
A scowl flitted across the store manager’s face before he plastered on a smarmy smile and leered over them.
“If you don’t like the Next Gen 4x Madre, then how about the Mamen 4000? It’s still got the 360-surveillance visual range, cleaning and multitasking functions, and excellent culinary features.
“Remember when we took that egg?” Granpapa leaned his head against the back of the chair, eyes closed in a grimace. “I’ve never been so scared in my life.”
Jani swallowed the ache in her throat. “That was some adventure.
Every spring, just as the raspberries began to redden, Grandpapa’s mind would slip into these fanciful waking dreams.
Women in colorful, gay dresses. Men in Panama hats and suits. The sweet aroma of cigars. The heady odor of dirt and fresh white paint. The sights and sounds and scents of the Kentucky Derby assault my nostrils. Make my head spin. I tremble.
Jason pats my side, stroking his fingers through my mane.
“April showers bring May flowers.” That’s what my grandma always said when I ran to hide under the table as thunder cracked the sky.
She claimed our family were the shepherds of this process, that the lightning couldn’t reach the plants without our help. Lightning Petal Farmers, everyone else called us.
On a warm April afternoon, a loud knock sounded at the front door. I set down an overflowing laundry basket and pulled the door open.
The short woman with cropped gray hair looked familiar. “I’m Rhonda,” she said. “I live across the street.” Right. In the three years since we had moved in, she had never introduced herself.
Wails.
They pierce through the walls of our cabin. Echo in the hall outside. Like the ship is haunted and full of ghosts. I shiver, bury myself in the blankets. My body slides against the wall of my berth. I scoot back to my warm spot. Slide down again.
Pounding and banging. Slams and thuds.
“Mom, do you know how to make a burrito?”
“Old Earth foods are under heading six on the Nutritionator,” I muttered as I held up my hand massager to the light. Yep. Little tooth marks lined the pinky finger. I shook my head in confusion. While I’d noticed scrapes on my hair-styler that morning, I’d thought they were scuff marks
I was only seven when Aunt Toni tried to find her own fountain of youth, so some of the technical details are a little fuzzy. For instance, I can’t remember the name of the anti-aging cream Helena Rubenstein made, but I know that this once-great cosmetics company sold it for big bucks since it was reputed to restore your skin to that of a newborn babe.
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Rich pulled his chair out from the breakfast table and glanced across it at his grandson. Tommy had his hand over his mouth, struggling to stifle a laugh. Rich bit back a smile. Tommy really hadn’t hidden the whoopee cushion well enough. Oh well, what could you expect from an eight-year-old? He sat down. Blaaaat.
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