he’s urging me to sit. Make nice. Avoid ruffling any more feathers, so

to speak. Then we can plan our escape.

“Okay,” I say. “But only for a bit.”

Agosto waves a hand across the air and a decadent banquet appears.

“Eat.”

23

Se fue, mi’jita, past the unseable door.

If I listen to the wind, I can still hear her laughter.

- Claribelle and the Kingdom of Adas: Tales Tall and True,

Gloriana Palacios

Dozens and dozens of plates appear across the table. The meadow

people raise their arms and cheer. A lonely cloud momentarily passes

over the sun, leaving us in shadow. My vision flickers for a moment;

then the cloud passes by, and we’re basked in white fairy light again.

Nova and Rishi take the empty seats between two winged adas. The

only seat left open is the one to the right of Agosto. He motions to

the empty toadstool with his ornately decorated hand.

“I’m sure your journey has been exhausting,” he tells me. “The

path to the mountain is not an easy one.”

I nod. Words. Where are my words? Looking at Agosto is unlike

anything I’ve ever experienced. He is perfect in his beauty and

strangeness. He’s a wild, horned forest king and an angel all at once.

“I hope you find rest here,” he says.

The Meadowkin don’t need to be told twice to eat. They dig in to

heaping piles of plump, purple fruits and down sweet mead. White,

fluffy cakes drizzled with honey and sprinkled with fat, sparkling

sugar crystals. Roasted meat sizzles, surrounded by tender root

vegetables the color of blood and bone.

“Are you serious?” Rishi shouts from the other end of the table. A

stack of fluffy roti appears in front of her. She rips it up and dips

it into a cast iron pot of dal. “It tastes just like my mom makes it.”

Agosto leans back in his twisted throne, an ornate wooden goblet

in his hand. His full lips curl up, showing he’s pleased. “We have

everything you could ever dream of having.”

“That right?” Nova leans over the table. I’m afraid he’s going to

say something offensive or rude. Instead he says, “Then I dream of a

fat ass steak.”

“I’m so glad you said ‘steak,’” Rishi says with her mouth full.

And sure enough, a sizzling hunk of prime rib appears in front of

him complete with disco fries.

A frail man with the head of a mouse leans over Nova’s plate. In

his thin voice, he says, “Ooh! Looks good. Is that what you eat where

you’re from?”

“Nah, I usually eat whatever’s on the dollar menu.”

The mouse man grins and stuffs his mouth with cake. His wrists are

too small for some of his bracelets, and when one of them slips, I

notice black-and-red wounds ring his wrists.

“Something the matter?” Agosto asks me.

I shake my head, trying to mask my worry when Rishi gets up from

her seat and comes over to my side. She curtsies to Agosto, then sits

with me. We barely fit on the same stool but that doesn’t stop her

from trying.

“I want you to try this,” she tells me, holding a slice of fruit

shaped like a perfect star. “These are my favorite in all the worlds.”

I take the sticky star in my hand. It’s perfectly green with a

single seed wedged in the center. When I take a bite, juice rolls down

my chin, and then we’re in a fit of giggles at our messiness. I wipe

my lips with the back of my hand.

This place is a dream , a voice whispers. This place isn’t real.

But I want it to be real. I want to feel this happy always. I want

to be in the light.

“I’m glad I’m here with you,” Rishi tells me.

This place brings out the warm brown in her skin, her shining

eyes. Rishi has impossibly long, black lashes and perfect eyebrows

I’ve not so secretly coveted.

“I wanted to tell you something else,” she says, “but it’s the

strangest thing…the thought fell out of my head.”

Rishi’s always distracted. She’s like a magpie, searching for

shiny, pretty things. She gives me a quick peck on the cheek and goes

back down the table, making new friends.

When Rishi leaves, Agosto returns his attention to me. He leans

his face toward me with total interest.

“Go on,” he tells me. “I know there’s something you want to ask

me.”

There are tons of things I want to ask him. Like, where does this

food come from? Why do they all wear the same bracelets? Why does

Rodriga the salamander girl seem to hate me? Even as she tilts her

bowl of soup to her lips, her eyes never leave my face. What does

Agosto know of the Devourer?

He waves his hand and a second wooden goblet appears. The liquid

is dark and smells bittersweet, like berries gone too ripe. My tongue

is so parched, and my belly makes hungry noises. The journey is

catching up with me, pressing down on my shoulders with a terrible

ache. Why can’t I be like Rishi and Nova, happily eating and telling

stories about where we come from? They make the streets of Brooklyn

sound magical and wondrous. Why does it take being far away from home

to finally miss it?

I drink from the wooden goblet. I’ve tried wine once, on a dare

from Lula. It was Lady’s Alta Bruja wine and they were blessing a

newly married couple. Just like that time, this wine causes me to

scrunch up my face at the tartness. I look down the table to see if

Rishi or Nova want some, but they seem to already have their own

goblets, complete with rose petals floating atop the liquid.

Agosto finds my reaction to the wine amusing and laughs. I decide

I rather like his laugh and the way tufts of pollen float around him.

One gets stuck on his long lashes. I reach for it and free it. He

watches me. Blinks. His smile is a riddle. His face is a dream. I

can’t seem to take my hand away from his face. My fingers trace one of

his horns.

I jerk my hand back.

“It’s okay,” he tells me. “You’re curious.”

I fear I’ve turned as red as my wine. “Why aren’t you in the

Kingdom of Adas?”

He thinks on the question. Even his serious face is beautiful. He

looks into his goblet like he’s searching for the right answer. I

realize maybe that wasn’t the right thing to ask. In a world wholly

new to me, that seems to hold so many secrets, what is the right thing

to ask?

“We are exiles,” he whispers.

“Oh.” I bite my lip, searching for something to say. Then, because

my brain seems to be on delay, I settle for, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He takes a small drink. The red liquid stains his

lips. “It was long ago. We refused to bow to a vicious king, and so we

left. These lands have changed over time, and our meadow grows

smaller. But it is the only home we have. We’ve been here so long that

I don’t consider myself as coming from the Kingdom of Adas but from

here. Don’t you think it important to have a land to call your own?”

“I think so. My mother’s family were run out of their lands in

Spain and fled to Mexico. My dad’s ancestors were African slaves in

Ecuador. They went to Panama and then Puerto Rico. Somehow, my blood

comes from all over the world and settled in Brooklyn. Brooklyn is my

home.”

“Brook- lin ,” Agosto says. “I rather like that word.”

I laugh wholeheartedly, right from my belly. It’s such a good

feeling that I can’t remember why I don’t let myself do it more often.

“It’s so beautiful here.” I tilt my face to the light. I start to

feel like I’ve forgotten something, but I’m not sure what. I realize

my goblet is empty and I’m a little disappointed. But when I blink,

it’s full again.

“You say you’re traveling to the mountains?” Agosto asks. “I