Most teenagers probably would have rolled their eyes, but Eva just beamed. This was one instance where family pride—or more specifically, coven pride—was gratifying rather than humiliating. Eva would be glowing for days over this achievement—as well she should. I wish my studies were going half as well.
Speaking of…
Xiomara appeared in the doorway to her back room, hands on herhips, looking put out about something. Her expression summoned an apology to the tip of my tongue, but I could see from the clock over the stove that I wasn’t late, so I swallowed it down. Whatever Xiomara was frustrated about, I didn’t think it had anything to do with me—at least, not yet.
“Hi, Xiomara,” I ventured.
She merely grunted, then pointed to the table, which looked like it might collapse under the amount of food laid out on it. “Have you eaten?”
I understood by now that this was a trick question. Even if I had eaten, she would still tell me to make a plate, but in this particular instance, I was ravenous. In all the excitement of the grimoire’s arrival, I hadn’t eaten dinner. I descended on the table, and started loading my plate with beans, fried plantains, empanadas, and arroz con pollo. Xiomara grunted her approval.
“I’ll call you in,” she said, jerking her head back toward her room. “I need more time at my boveda.” Then she shuffled back through the wooden beaded curtain.
Maricela watched her go, frowning, as she joined me at the table. She traded a look with Eva that I didn’t miss.
“What’s up?” I asked, glancing between them.
“My mother is… troubled,” Maricela said, looking not at me, but at the still gently swinging strings of beads in the doorway. “She hasn’t shared what it is, but something is troubling her.”
“She’s spending more and more time back there, and I don’t mean with clients. By herself, at the boveda,” Eva added, picking up an empanada and biting into it.
“She’s searching for something,” Maricela said softly. “Something that is eluding her.”
Well, that sounded ominous. I swallowed a huge mouthful of food and cleared my throat. “I… do you think I should stay?” I asked. “If she’s really upset about something?—”
“If she didn’t want you here, she would have told you so, honey,” Maricela said. “You just go ahead and eat, and she’ll be ready for you soon.”
I shrugged and started shoveling food into my mouth, examining the spread on the table as I did so. It was excessive, even for Xiomara. “Did you have company?” I asked.
Eva nodded. “Extended family was over all afternoon.”
“Celebrating,” Maricela added, smiling at Eva again.
At that moment, Bea trotted into the room. “Mama, are there any of those empanadas left that Tia Laura—oh! Hi, Wren!”
I couldn’t answer because I’d just crammed half of said empanada into my mouth, so I just waved as I chewed.
“Hurry up before Wren inhales them all,” Eva said.
Eva told me more about her waterworker tests while Bea and I ate. I couldn’t help but notice how often Bea’s gaze drifted over to the door of Xiomara’s back room. Her expression, like her mother’s, seemed troubled. Finally, as I pushed a second helping of flan away, conceding defeat, Xiomara appeared again.
“We begin,” she snapped, and vanished once more.
“Come up to my room when you’re done,” Eva whispered, as I got up from the table. My stomach gave an anxious lurch, and I suddenly regretted eating so much. I waved goodbye to Bea and Maricela, and followed Xiomara.
Lessons with Xiomara had already turned into a source of anxiety, but now I was buzzing with nervous energy as I traced her steps through the curtain and into her backroom studio. Xiomara had already seated herself at the table in her usual chair, the back of which was upholstered in faded green fabric that rose up behind her like a throne. I took my usual seat in the chair opposite her, a slightly rickety wooden rocker with a little braided rug tied onto it in place of a cushion.
“Hi,” I said lamely as I settled into my seat.
Xiomara gave a strange sound in reply, something between a snort and a disgruntled grumble, as she tidied the tabletop between us. She paused in the stacking of her tarot cards, glaring at a few individual cards as she placed them back in the deck.
“How are you, Xiomara?” I asked. I felt like I was placing the wordscarefully, stacking them precariously one on top of the other into a teetering tower destined to topple over.
“I’ve been better,mija. I’ve been better,” she replied, so quietly that I couldn’t tell if I was meant to hear her reply or not.
“Are you… not feeling well? Because I don’t need to stay—” I was already tensing the muscles in my legs to rise from my seat again, but Xiomara held out a hand.
“Stay where you are, child. I am well in body. It’s my spirit that has me troubled,” Xiomara replied. She looked up from her cards, caught my eye for just a moment—the usual laser focus of her gaze was clouded with confusion and frustration. As much as Xiomara intimidated me sometimes, this was the first moment I remembered feeling actually afraid in her presence.
