“We don’t need flowers,” Hun-Kamé said.
“Nonsense. Everyone can use the charm of a flower. Besides, why else would you be here? It’s a flower shop.”
“A friend recommended your shop.”
“But is he a good friend?”
“It was the Marquess of Arrows.”
The woman nodded, reaching for her scissors and cutting a thread. She stopped to admire her handiwork for a moment, then turned the embroidery hoop in their direction so that they might see the roses she had been working on.
“Well. That’s a name you don’t hear around these parts very often,” the woman said, setting down her embroidery. “What’s that crazy Frenchman up to these days, hmm?”
“He sends his regards, from the south.”
“Decked in green, with a pack of cards nearby.”
“Likely.”
“Ha. You would not believe the trouble he can get himself into when he has the chance. Marquess. Demon.”
Candida adjusted her glasses, pushing them back by the corner of their frame, and looked at them for a good, long minute.
“I can’t quite tell your hue, young man. But…not that young, are you? You, dear boy, are decked in black. Boy and not-boy. What strange darkness do you carry?”
“The hint of the grave, of Xibalba.”
“Ah, sympathy flowers,” the woman said, smiling a gap-toothed smile and clasping her hands together. “But then my shop is too modest to accommodate you, for I think you are a great lord.”
Ordinarily, Hun-Kamé looked like a very polished man, but when she said “lord,” he stood even straighter, more rigid, and Casiopea could not only picture his royal diadem—onyx and jade, no doubt—she thought she might touch it. She wondered if she would ever see him in his throne room, if he would stand there the way she pictured it, if his image would be reflected on the walls of the chamber, which would also be of onyx. Of course she couldn’t, she wouldn’t; Xibalba was his realm, and as soon as he returned to it she’d never hear of him again. And what would she do? Left in a border town like this, staring at the sky.
“I am Hun-Kamé,” the god said.
“And what would the lord want of me?” Candida asked.
“You would know the other witches and warlocks nearby.”
“Yes, but which one do you seek?”
“The Uay Chivo.”
The old woman made a face and smacked her lips, as if she’d tasted an unpleasant dish.
“Him. You should buy a bouquet instead. Much prettier than that old goat and also smells nicer.”
“I must insist. I’m afraid I don’t need flowers.”
“Does your friend not like them? Girl, are you allergic to them? Say that isn’t so.”
Casiopea shook her head. Hun-Kamé did not bother speaking. Realizing that her jests were not amusing them, the woman let out a loud hmpf.
“Well, then, if that is your wish…Seven drops of blood is the price. Will you pay?”
“I…I will,” Casiopea said.
Casiopea had been standing behind Hun-Kamé, his second shadow. Now Candida beckoned Casiopea closer. She hesitated, took a few steps, brushing by vases stuffed with flowers.
“Let me see. A daisy by the side of the road. Closer, closer. And who are you?”
“It hardly matters who I am,” Casiopea replied, irritated by the woman’s grandmotherly tone. Besides, it was true. She was the token he used to pay for his passage.
“Modest too. Sit, sit right next to me.”
The woman patted a chair behind the counter. Casiopea did not sit there, instead leaning against the counter, raising her head, a small act of defiance.
“You’re too thin, girl. Why, you’re almost all bones,” Candida said. “Oh, look at those dark circles under your eyes. Are you not sleeping well?”
“Don’t play with me. Have your blood,” Casiopea replied, extending her hand, wrist up, like she’d done with Hun-Kamé.
“You’ll lose your sweetness if you keep like this,” the woman said, clicking her tongue, disapproving. “Come here, lamb.”
Realizing there was no point in refusing, Casiopea went behind the counter and carefully sat down on the empty chair. The old woman caught her chin with one hand and squeezed it a little, like she imagined a fussing aunt might do, though Casiopea would not know—her aunts had paid scant attention to her.
The old woman released her and leaned back.
“Seven drops is no small thing. Seven hours and the dreams youth dream, then. I can tell there are lots of dreams in that head of yours. Will you give me the seven drops?”
“I…suppose.”
“You must be certain. We can’t have halves here,” the witch said, sounding serious.
“I’m sure,” Casiopea said.
The woman smiled. She grabbed her pincushion and procured a white porcelain dish from somewhere under the counter, setting them side by side. She gestured to Casiopea.
“You want me to prick myself with that?”
“Well, darling, some people prefer thorns and it can be arranged, but isn’t this much more efficient? Mmm?”
Casiopea frowned, but she grabbed the pincushion and pulled out a long silver pin. She held it carefully and pressed it against her little finger. Blood welled. She let a drop fall on the dish. Another fell. The rest she had to squeeze. When she was done she handed the witch the dish with the blood.
“Here,” Casiopea said. “It’s yours.”
“Thank you, dear,” the witch said, setting the dish aside. “You are a tiny, darling thing. Come, I’ll give you something too, for your troubles. How about a lavender rose?”
The woman reached toward a shelf where bunches of flowers were kept and grabbed a single rose, handing it to Casiopea.
“For your sweetheart, eh?” Candida said, smiling. “And now, you rest, and I hope those dreams are sweet too.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Casiopea said, grabbing the rose. She had no sweetheart and no use for flowers.
The old woman kept smiling at her. Casiopea felt exhausted. She sat back, and as she did she closed her eyes and fell asleep.
The road to Xibalba was a ribbon of black ink, staining the land. The land itself was a gray desert, and when Casiopea turned her head to look at the heavens she realized there were no stars, no moon. Yet the land was bathed in a soft, hazy light and here and there, by the road, she saw plants that looked more like glowing anemones than any ordinary vegetation, shining and shifting as she passed them.