“And you’re saying this … Anansi … is real?”

“In a sense. When you tell a story enough times, it has a way of coming true, whether it was true in the first place or not.”

Maria could see that. She doubted she herself could have become the shadow queen if she hadn’t first known the stories about what shadow queens were.

“In any event, whether or not Anansi himself is real, the Order of Anansi most certainly is. And, as you have seen yourself, their powerful rings are quite real, too.”

Maria looked down at the ring on her finger. For so long it had been Grandma Esme’s ring, “a gift from a friend.” The idea that it was actually an ancient relic that had been passed down through the years, like the book, made her a little dizzy.

“So you’re saying you and Grandma Esme were part of this Order, and I never knew it?”

Arturo glanced around the cave, as if there might be some prop or picture that would help him explain. “How much did your grandmother tell you about her past with me?”

“Well, she said that she used to be a lion tamer, and you were a magician. And she said that you two used to travel around Europe doing your performances. I even found a poster from one of the shows. That’s how I knew who you were.” She half expected him to congratulate her on this point, as if she’d made some brilliant deduction. He hardly nodded. “Anyway, that’s all.”

“So she never told you the story of how we met?”

“No,” Maria said sheepishly, like she’d gotten the answer wrong on a test. She felt silly and even a little embarrassed. Her grandmother had led a fascinating life, and while Maria had certainly appreciated her stories, she had never bothered to ask her for more.

“Then that’s where we’ll start. You might want to sit down.”

Maria still didn’t trust Arturo completely. If anything, she was even warier now. She knew that telling a story was like spinning a spiderweb. A good storyteller could lure you in, and before you knew it, it was too late — you were trapped. Maria would listen to Arturo’s story, but she wouldn’t let herself get lost in it. She was lost in too many stories already.

“All right,” Arturo said. “Many years ago, in the city of Cahul …”

ARTURO’S STORY

The sun had barely crested the hill on Strada Denoir when Arturo came bounding down the stairs and out the door to his bicycle.

The tiny house they shared with the Marandici family had such pitiful insulation, it hardly protected them all from the winter cold, let alone from the echo of footsteps and arguments. When one person in the house got up for the day, everyone did. Which meant that if Arturo had woken up just a few minutes later, or if he had taken longer to get ready, Nadia and Alec Marandici would have beaten him out here, and he and his bicycle would have been stuck for hours.

Arturo stuffed the brown paper package with the lamb shank in his basket, then placed the brown paper packages with the cotton shirt and the lace gloves on top. He’d learned the hard way what happened if he got the order wrong, when he’d pulled out the socks for Mrs. Saguna and found them covered in beef juice. His family had eaten poorly that week.

Today, two of his three deliveries were going to the same place. The Ionescus had been one of the first families willing to pay for their meat and their stitching to be delivered, and they were still some of Arturo’s best customers. He liked riding his bicycle to their house because Mrs. Ionescu always gave him a piece of candy. The Ionescus never ate poorly.

Because he’d left his house so early, Arturo still had a few hours left before he and his packages would be welcome. He rode through town, where the rising sun on the stone pillars and archways always made him feel like he was somewhere else, somewhere magical. Somewhere where war hadn’t planted its deep roots in the ground.

Once, when he was little, and Cahul was still a Russian city, Arturo had seen a parade of soldiers march down this very street. The display had been meant to inspire the city’s citizens, but Arturo had been more afraid than moved. Today, the city’s history of territorial disputes still peeked out everywhere in Cahul. There were even soldiers from the Great War in the city hospital, some of them on the mend, some of them only biding their time.

As he rode by the hospital now, Arturo saw a girl about his own age leaning out of the window. She was emptying a bedpan, but the sight of Arturo on his bicycle left her slack-jawed and gaping. Arturo was used to that. Bicycles were rare in Cahul, especially among kids. He was only allowed to have one because his parents couldn’t make the deliveries themselves.

Not wanting the lamb to spoil, Arturo decided it was time to stop dawdling. As always, the Ionescus’ sprawling brick house took his breath away. Arturo left his bicycle on the sidewalk and went to knock on their door.

“Arturo, good morning,” said Mrs. Ionescu. “Come in. Would you like a candy?”

“Yes, please,” Arturo said, and she smiled. It was always easier to show good manners when he wasn’t around his own family. He followed Mrs. Ionescu inside with a brown paper package in each hand.

“Dimitri is just getting up, but I’m sure he would be happy to see you as well. He was just asking me yesterday when you were coming again …”

When Arturo left the house nearly a half hour later, already wondering when he would get to come back, he saw right away that his bicycle was gone. How could he have been so stupid! Of course someone had taken it. Wouldn’t he have done the same thing?

After he’d searched the whole block, Arturo finally gave up. He’d just have to make the deliveries on foot. Either that, or his family would starve.

About a week or so later, after Arturo had endured punishment from his father, two calloused feet from his deliveries, and one insufferable day of gloating from Alec and Nadia, a girl appeared at their door. She had his bicycle in tow.

“I found it near my house,” she said, looking Arturo right in the face. “I could tell from the shirt that it must belong to you.” She handed him a brown paper package with a shirt tucked inside.

“You found me from one cotton shirt?” Arturo said.

“It’s not many people who deliver cotton in butcher paper.”

Arturo wrapped his fingers around his handlebars, recalling the wonderful feeling of power and speed. But the girl hadn’t let go yet.

“Why do I feel like I’ve seen you before?” Arturo asked.

“Because you did see me. I didn’t think you’d remember, though. I work at the hospital with my mom. She’s a proper nurse. I just clean the rooms and keep people company.”

“Well, thanks for bringing my bicycle back. You don’t know how much I needed this.”

“Yes,” the girl said, picking at a hole in the sleeve of her threadbare dress, “I do.”

That was the day Arturo and Esmerelda became friends. It was years before Esmerelda admitted she hadn’t found the bicycle at all. In fact, she’d stolen it, and returned it only when she heard from Nadia Marandici that the Antonescu boy had lost his bicycle and been punished for it.

They rode their bicycles to the mineral springs for months, ignoring the swiftly changing tides of the world. It wasn’t until Esmerelda’s tire caught on a rock one day that they discovered the cave.

“Your knee is bleeding,” Arturo said, running over to help her back to her feet.

“It’s just a scratch,” Esmerelda said, taking his hand.

Once again, they’d been going too fast. That’s what happened when Arturo let Esmerelda get in front. Seventeen years old, and still she was no closer to acting like a young lady than she had been when they met. Now her front wheel was bent beyond function, and they were stranded on the far side of the lake just as raindrops were starting to fall. It would take them many hours to walk home.