His right eye twitched.“You,”he snarled.
The badge swung between them like the pendulum of the grandfather clock his father kept inside his manor.
She barked a bitter laugh.
“Of course you took after him. Looks like dear old daddy bumped you right up to officer, then. You should be so proud.”
She glared at the boy she once cherished most in the entire world. The boy who was not a boy anymore. He was a man. He’d grown up in the year since they’d seen each other. Muscleshad filled in around his once gangly limbs. His jawbone seemed more defined, even though that shouldn’t be possible. A few scars marred his brown skin. Skin she had once kissed and pressed against under the stars.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
Nowshe could hear the familiar richness of his voice. She hadn’t known it was him at first because the tone had deepened since their parting. He’d truly grown up without her. Just like he wanted. And yet, he had the gall to ask her questions.
Fiery rage burned through her body. He was working for his father. He was here to arrest her for running away from the comandante before her indenture was up. Or throw her back into a cell and leave her to rot like his father had done before. Or worse, ship her off to war.
Like hell he was.
She reached for the golden egg in the dirt. The second her fingers clasped around the heavy mass, she chucked it as hard as she could.
The egg bopped him right in his thick skull.
He stumbled back but regained his footing. He glared down at her, gaze unfocused. “You little—” His eyes flashed with fury before they rolled back. The boy she once loved collapsed in a limp heap next to her feet.
And, of course, he’d fallen right onto her cloak.
She breathed hard through her nostrils. “Ignacio Olivera, you are the very worst.”
17th of May, 1914. D+P: Age 11
Dovie. What do you want to be when you grow up?
Rich. Filthy, stinking, rotting rich. I want to lie on a lounger all day and have people feed me cherries.
I think you mean grapes.
Nope. Grapes are boring. Rich people eat cherries.
I hate cherries.
I’ve never had them, but they look divine.
Remember the dove I told you about a year or so ago? The one that scowled at me, and I said it looked just like you? Anyway, guess what? She’s back. And she isn’t alone. I believe she has a husband.
Can doves marry?
I just returned from the library. Turns out the answer is yes. Well, sort of. Mourning doves often mate for life.
So do pigeons.
But still, that’s rather sweet.
Do you think you’ll ever marry someday?
Of course. You?
I’m not so sure anyone would want to be stuck with me for that long.
I would.
