Fated

beloved daughter violated and used in that way. Little did he know, but Leandro was waiting nearby, and he used that moment of weakness to penetrate and alter Jolon’s perception—something he was never able to accomplish before. Some claim Leandro terrorized Jolon with images of the future, the havoc his grandson would wreak. All I know for sure is that Jolon didn’t survive. He dropped dead of a heart attack, leaving poor Chepi an orphan. When Leandro learned he’d produced twins, there was no doubt which one he favored. He immediately took custody of Cade, warning Chepi that if she tried to fight him, tried to get the boy back, he’d take Dace as well. And so Chepi turned her attentions to Dace, while turning her back on the healing, and magick, and all that Jolon had taught her. Claiming she’d lost her gift along with her faith—that she was good to no one, but she’d try to be good to her son. To support herself, she began making beautiful turquoise jewelry she sells in the square. Hers is a very sad story, nieta. She refuses to forgive herself for something that was never her fault.”
    “So, how is it the boys never met?” I ask, my head spinning with the story she weaves.
    “Dace didn’t leave the reservation until his teens when he decided he wanted to attend Milagro, and Chepi, tired of fighting him, knowing she couldn’t shelter him forever, finally consented. The day before he left, she confided the truth, told him about the brother he never knew. Though I doubt she told him the full truth. She can barely admit it to herself. And I can’t see how it would do Dace any good to know his true origins.”
    I grow silent, not quite knowing what to make of it. Remembering the day at the gas station, the older woman with the beautiful turquoise jewelry, cloaked in deep sadness, and I’ve no doubt it was Dace’s mom, Chepi.
    “Now that I’ve revealed this to you, you must never repeat it. Not to anyone, and certainly never to Dace. Someday he may learn on his own, but it’s not our place to intervene. The boy is truly a pure and beautiful soul. He is no threat to you. I wish nothing but the best for him.”
    Beautiful—no argument there.
    “And you must never confuse the two. You must never allow Cade to trick you into thinking he’s his brother, or vice versa. You must find a way to set them apart—you mentioned the eyes?”
    I nod, picturing them in my head. “They’re almost exactly the same, except Cade’s absorb light, while Dace’s reflect it.”
    Paloma clasps her hands to her chest, her face glowing with excitement. “You’re the only one who’s ever been able to see that, nieta. And now that you know it, you must never forget it. When in doubt, seek the eyes—no matter what guise they wear, their true nature remains. They will never lead you astray.”
    I exhale slowly and deeply, my head spinning with everything I just learned, when Paloma places her hand on my knee and says, “And now, sweet nieta, seeing as how you’ve managed to teach yourself telekinesis without my instruction, I suspect it is time for you to learn something far more exciting, and I see no further need to delay. So tell me, are you ready to fly?”

twenty-nine
    Paloma leads me to the yard tucked away in the back, which, no matter how much time I’ve spent here, I’ve visited only once, and even then it was brief. But now, as we make our way down the stone path, I can’t help but gawk at its sheer size and scope—not to mention how fragrant and lush the plants are, considering we’re well into fall.
    The yard seems to sprawl forever, consisting of carefully designated areas for the healing herbs she uses in her clients’ therapies and the organic vegetables we eat for dinner. There’s even a space brimming with beautiful, fat, blooming flowers sitting adjacent to another area reserved especially for her hybrid experiments, where all sorts of odd, misshapen plants sprout from the earth.
    She murmurs in Spanish, her voice soft and lilting, her fingertips grazing over everything she passes. It’s a song I’ve heard her sing on other occasions, only now I recognize it as her garden song—the one that encourages the plants to stay strong and thrive, to reach toward the light, even when there appears to be none.
    But the lyrics belong only to her. They’ve yet to reveal themselves to me. Probably because my thumb has always been more brown than green. And though Paloma promises to remedy that,