The Ruby Notebook (38 page)

I’m confused. “So love’s a bloody war?”

He laughs. “Well, according to Vincent, love is a devoted homing pigeon. It solves misunderstandings. It saves you. It survives. It’s something you don’t give up on. If it’s missing a leg, you make it a wooden one.”

“Or you heal it with magical waters.” I meet his gaze. “Does this mean I get another chance?”

I’m waiting for his answer when three people emerge from the trees and walk down the path toward us. It’s Sirona, her son, Bormanus, and his girlfriend, Damona. “Ready for the handfasting?” Sirona asks.

“
Oui,
” Wendell says, and I go along with it.

“
Oui,
” I echo.

As we follow the three of them along a path, Wendell whispers, “What’s handfasting?”

“No idea,” I say, grinning.

We stop at the flower-covered stone table, where a crowd is gathered. Sirona places a garland of flowers around Damona’s neck, then puts one around my neck, scattering more flowers at our feet. She moves along to other young women, encircling their necks with garlands from the heap on the table.

Sirona says something in Gaelic, and four young couples step forward. They look just a few years older than me and Wendell. Sirona walks up to the first couple and rests her hands on their shoulders so that they face each other. She takes the young woman’s right wrist and with a silver cord, ties it to the young man’s right wrist. Then she does the same with their left wrists. In the end, the couple’s arms are crisscrossed, forming a figure eight, an infinity symbol. Looking elated, the young man and woman nod to Sirona in a gesture of thanks, and retreat to the trees at the edge of the clearing.

As Sirona does this with the remaining three couples,
Damona comes over to me and Wendell, and whispers, “The silver cord binding shows that they’re a couple. They’ll stay together for a year and a day to try it out. And then the next year, they come back and declare whether they want to stay together or separate.” She pauses and looks at us. “Would you two like to join them?”

I flush, glancing at Wendell. “It’s up to you.”

“Yes,” he says, smiling. He moves his lips close to my ear and whispers, “I saw this in a vision, the silver cord binding us. I didn’t understand it, but I knew I wanted it.”

“Me too,” I say, picturing a battered little pigeon rising bravely up and up and up.

Damona gives us a small shove forward into the middle of the clearing. Sirona has a pleased expression on her face as she positions Wendell and me in front of each other. I bite my lip, watching him press his lips together, both of us trying not to laugh. I hold out my right hand, and he holds out his right hand, crossing his wrist over mine so that we’re barely touching. Sirona binds our right wrists gently with the cord, then moves to our left wrists. The cord is cool and silky and light on my skin. It feels right. Not like a heavy chain but like something whispery thin, yet strong. Something like spider’s silk.

Wendell and I lock eyes, and then, following the lead of the other couples, we retreat into the trees. The silver cord makes walking tricky. He ends up walking backward, pulling me with his wrists, as I try to steer him between trees. We’re
laughing and tripping over each other, and eventually fall down in a soft, mossy spot. We lie beside each other, our wrists still bound together, pressed between our chests. Our faces are moving closer, and soon our laughter turns to kisses, and we dissolve into each other’s skin, each other’s lips.

A
while later, I let my eyes float closed and tuck my face into the crook of Wendell’s neck. We must be near the fountain, I realize, as its gurgling sounds lull me toward sleep. I’m nearly asleep when I hear something.

The coo of a bird. A splash. The flutter of wings.

I open my eyes and squint through the mist. A pigeon has landed at the edge of the fountain and started drinking the water. I stand up and walk toward the fountain. The pigeon looks at me in a kind of greeting. As I’m closer, I notice the vial around her left leg, and the distinct lack of a fourth toe.

“Maude!” I whisper. This fountain must be one of Maude’s secret little detours. “Maude,
viens ici
, Maude.”

She waddles to me and settles in my lap. I tap my finger on her vial, an idea forming.

Wendell raises his head and looks around, confused. When he sees me, and the bird nestled in the fabric of my dress, his face breaks into a smile. “Maude?” he says, standing up and walking over.

“Look, Wendell!” I whisper, pointing to the plastic vial. “Think it would hold water? Should we sneak some water out with Maude?”

Wendell tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. “But Sirona trusts us,” he says slowly. “Wouldn’t this be a betrayal?”

“We won’t break the promise, Wendell. We
will
leave empty-handed. And think about Vincent and Madame Chevalier. It’s just a little vial. And it might not even do anything. But it would make them so happy, give them so much hope.”

Wendell strokes Maude’s feathers for a moment, then says, “Okay. But let’s just uncap the vial and dip Maude’s leg into the pool.”

I take a furtive glance around. Only a few people are in the clearing, lying at its edges beneath trees, asleep on the moss. Even awake, it would be hard for them to see us with most of the torches burned out. And the steam over the water is so thick, it forms a protective veil around the fountain.

Maude doesn’t protest as I twist off the cap and gently dip her leg in the water. After the vial fills, I cork my finger over the top and settle Maude back into my lap. I screw the cap back on, and then, with a grateful kiss on her head, set Maude back on the fountain’s ledge.

“Think it’s too heavy?” Wendell asks.

“She can do it,” I say, confident in Maude. “Remember
Cher Ami? And Maude won’t have anyone shooting at her. Anyway, it can’t be more than a kilometer or so to Vincent’s.” I watch Maude, hoping she’ll fly away. But she stays there, drinking.

I’m about to pick her up and toss her in the air, the way Vincent does, when some branches rustle.

At the edge of the clearing, Sirona appears through the leaves.

Wendell grabs my hand, pulls me away from the fountain. I try to paste a casual, innocent look on my face, to act as though we’re simply strolling. What if Sirona sees the vial of water on Maude’s leg? What if she figures out we did it? What will her people do to us then?

“Dawn’s coming,” Sirona says, glancing at the lightening sky. “Did you two have a nice time?”

“Yes,” I say quickly, praying Maude will fly away. She has to leave before it grows much lighter, before anyone notices the vial of water.
Go, Maude, go!

A few other people appear on the path through the trees—Bormanus; Damona; Sirona’s husband, Grannos; the bearded man; and a few others. They gather around us.

Maude, meanwhile, is taking her time flapping around in the water, raising a ruckus. Of all times to take a noisy bath, she chooses now.

Sirona glances at her. I squeeze Wendell’s hand. But then Sirona looks back at me, showing no sign of having spotted the vial. I keep my hand tight around Wendell’s, silently pleading with Maude to fly away.

“Now, Zeeta and Wendell,” Sirona says, holding out two silk scarves. “Close your eyes.”

Damona wraps one scarf around Wendell’s eyes while Sirona wraps the other around mine. I feel her tie it securely in back, then adjust it to completely cover the area from my forehead to my nose. No light comes through. I’m blind. With the scarf on, I’m extra aware of every sound: the voices in Gaelic, the water gurgling, a few birds singing, Maude splashing. I notice the feel of things—the light breeze on my skin, the rustling of leaves, Wendell’s hand, warm in mine.

Suddenly, from the direction of the fountain, I hear a flutter of wings, close at first, then fading. I hold my breath, waiting and listening for some sign we’ve been caught. But the voices continue talking in Gaelic as before, no alarming change in their tones. I breathe out in relief.

A man’s voice says, “Wendell, I’m just going to check your pockets.” It sounds like Bormanus.

Damona asks, “You don’t have any pockets on that dress, do you, Zeeta?”

“No.”

“Are you two ready, then?” Sirona asks.

Wendell’s voice is strangely solemn in the darkness. “Yes.”

“Yes,” I say.

“Remember,” warns a gruff male voice. It must be the bearded man. “You may never return. And you will keep our secret safe.”

Here comes Sirona’s voice again, brighter in contrast, with a smile in her words. “And remember to choose your meeting
place to complete the handfasting. In a year and a day, you’ll decide whether to seal the bond.”

Wendell squeezes my hand. I squeeze back, and move my other hand to my neck, where I’ve tied the silver cord.

Damona puts her hand on my shoulder, ushering me out. “This way, Zeeta,” she says. “Watch your step.”

I walk tentatively along a stone path. Soon I hear the creak of a door. “Step up here,” Damona says. She leads us through an indoor area, where the air is more still and smells slightly musty. Under my bare feet, the tiles feel cold and smooth. I hear other people’s footsteps, soft in their leather sandals. There must be a small group with us, judging by the number of footsteps.

We turn a corner, step over what must be another threshold, and go down two stairs. There’s the sound of a key in a lock and another door creaking open, and once again we’re outside in the cool, light breeze of dawn.

Now there’s pavement beneath my feet, occasionally something sticky. I trust Damona to lead me around any piles of dog
merde
. I pay careful attention to everything, trying to construct a map in my head. But at each turn, she spins me around and around until I have no idea which way we’re going. After a few minutes, we pass a fountain that must be big, judging by the deep sounds of water falling from multiple spouts.

Damona unties my blindfold.

I blink, shocked.

We’re in the Place de la Mairie. At the fountain where
Vincent feeds pigeons. The air is the blue-silver of dawn, bright compared to the darkness of my blindfold. Damona and Bormanus kiss our cheeks goodbye, and Sirona cups my face in her hands, then does the same to Wendell, a kind, motherly gesture. “I’m glad our paths have crossed, Zeeta and Wendell, if only briefly. I wish you both well.”

“Thank you, Sirona,” we say at the same time.

And then she murmurs to the others in Gaelic. They split into four pairs, each pair heading down one of the four streets that leave the square.

O
n the way to my apartment, Wendell and I pass the street cleaners with their hoses, the
boulangerie
cashier going to work, a sleepy-eyed man walking his tiny dog. Each one tosses us a curious glance. We’re probably a strange sight—Wendell without a shirt, me in a bedraggled red dress and bare feet. We stop at a public pay phone and Wendell leaves a voice mail for his host family.

Then we head to my apartment and collapse together on the sofa, too tired to pull out the bed. We’re lying down, squished together on the cushions. His eyes fall closed, and his fingers brush idly over the skin of my shoulder, landing on the silver cord around my neck. He laces it in his fingers and says, “I’m so happy, Z.”

“Me too,” I say sleepily. “Happy and complete. Nothing’s missing.”

He strokes my hair. “Even though we haven’t found your dad?”

I nod, yawning. “I still haven’t given up hope. In the meantime, I have you and Layla and all the friends who come and go in my life. They’re all still part of me. And there’s Vincent and Madame Chevalier and Tortue and Sirona and …” I’m falling asleep. My eyelids feel impossibly heavy, even though part of me is still humming with excitement.

Wendell kisses my earlobe. “Think Maude’s back at Vincent’s with the water?”

“Probably. Let’s go there after we sleep a little.”

There are so many more things to turn over in our minds, to tell each other, ask each other, so many things. I brush my lips over his neck, his cheeks, his lips, and soon our murmurs melt into the sighs and breaths of sleep.