A Chalice of Wind (14 page)

S
treetcars are not air-conditioned, like buses or subways. Instead they have windows that go up and down. Except for the window
I
was sitting next to, which was broken and wouldn’t budge. I was already clammy and sticky, and it was barely eight thirty in the morning.

Axelle hadn’t come home until almost ten o’clock last night. After I’d left Luc, I’d gone back and taken a long shower. When Axelle walked in, I was calmly eating a microwaved chicken potpie and going through my school papers at the table. So much for her wanting me to come straight home from school.

We hadn’t talked much. I was dying to shriek questions at her: who was she, why was I here? But something held me back. Meeting Clio had made this whole scenario even stranger and more upsetting, and Axelle was a big part of it. Though she didn’t actually seem dangerous, I was much more on my guard. Did she know about Clio? If she knew about Clio but hadn’t mentioned her to me—then she didn’t want me to know about her for some reason. So if I told Axelle that Clio went to my school, would she ever let me go back? Or would this whole situation unravel horribly? So I just tried to act normal. Axelle was distracted and uninterested, and I slipped off to bed as soon as I could.

The next morning she’d still been sleeping when I left the house.

Now I sat on the swaying, clacking streetcar, leaning forward to catch the warm breeze from the open window by the seat in front of me. Once again I was nervous, on edge, as if Axelle would run up and pull me off the trolley. Or maybe a huge live oak would topple across the tracks and mash us. Or someone would try to snatch my backpack. Just something, some unnamed dread was weighing on me, winding me tight.

Maybe I should switch to decaf.

I was sitting toward the back—every seat was taken by people going to work, kids in Catholic school uniforms, kids going to École Bernardin and other schools.

When we passed Sacré Coeur, a Catholic girls’ school, a lot of seats emptied. Still nervous, jumpy, I suddenly decided to move up front so I could see when École Bernardin appeared. I stood up, grabbed my backpack, and was three feet down the aisle when I heard someone scream. Time stretched out as I slowly turned.

Outside the back windows, a big, bright red pickup truck had jumped the curb and was flying toward the streetcar. I hardly had time to blink as the truck plowed into one of the old-fashioned streetlights that lined St. Charles Avenue. The streetlight snapped off a foot above the ground, and the top of it speared through the streetcar window, smashing the glass and reaching halfway across the aisle.

Right where I’d been sitting.

Streetcars can’t stop on a dime, so we dragged the streetlight about twenty feet as the brakes screeched and shot sparks. I sank, weak-kneed, into the closest seat. If I hadn’t moved, that broken, jagged streetlight would have speared me like a fish.

The driver strode toward the back of the streetcar.

“Anybody hurt?” he boomed, and we all looked at each other.

Despite the broken glass, no one had even a scratch. People had gotten almost knocked off their seats, but no one had fallen. It was amazing. I felt shaky, realizing what a close call I’d had.

“Okay, everybody move to the front of the car,” the driver said authoritatively. “Watch out for the glass.” He opened the back door of the streetcar and went onto the median, where a dazed teenager wearing a baseball cap was unfolding himself from the pickup.

The streetcar driver started yelling at the teenager, who looked scared and upset. I heard him moan, “My dad is gonna kill me.”

“He’s gonna haveta get in line!” the streetcar driver said angrily. “Look what you did to my trolley, fool!”

Then the police came. After they had checked everything out, that streetcar went out of service. I didn’t want to wait for another one and walked the last ten blocks to school. The aftereffects of my near escape made me feel hyped up and anxious. Limp from humidity and damp with sweat, I got to school just after the first bell had rung.

A couple of people said hi—the whole twin story had probably made its rounds. I smiled shakily and said hi, grateful for any friendly face.

“Thais! Hey,” said Sylvie, walking up. “Did you find your one-inch, three-ring binder with the clear panel outside for your name?” It had been on one of our supply lists.

I nodded and smiled faintly. “Yeah. But I just almost experienced death by light pole.” I told her what had happened, trying not to sound as scared as I felt.

“Oh no!” she said sympathetically. “What a sucky way to start the morning. But I’m glad you’re all right.”

Sylvie liked me as me, not just as one of the bizarre separated twins. A thought of Luc popped into my mind—I wanted him to like me as me too. Granted, he didn’t know about me and Clio. The image of our burning kiss seared my mind for just a moment, and I felt heat flush my cheeks.

“Yeah, it’s already hot,” Sylvie said as the second, tardy bell rang. “We better get to homeroom.”

But as I turned, I saw Clio disappear into a room down the hall. For a second she met my eyes, and I tapped Sylvie’s arm.

“You go ahead—I’m going to get a drink of water.”

She nodded, and I took off down the hall, looking through glass doors. One room was unlit and empty and I almost passed it, but then I saw a dark silhouette. I opened the door and peered in.

“Clio?”

She was leaning against a desk, her long hair down around her shoulders. “Hey.” She looked me up and down, as if to remind herself of how identical we were. She gestured to her right. “This is my . . . uh, nan. My grandmother. Nan, this is Thais.”

An older woman stepped out of the shadows. I searched her face, but I’d definitely never seen her before. She didn’t look like me or Clio or our mother.

“Thais,” she said softly, stepping closer to me. She glanced from me to Clio and back. “My name is Petra Martin. You’ve . . . both . . . grown up beautifully. I’m so happy to finally see you again.” Clio’s grandmother. So my grandmother too. My mother’s mother.

I’d never even known about her, and Clio had had her for seventeen years.

I swallowed nervously, hoping that she would want me too, that I had found my family. Quickly Petra hugged me. Her hair smelled like lavender.

She pulled back and smiled at me. “You’ve got to come with me now,” she said, starting to walk to the outside door on the other side of the room.

Petra opened the door and headed briskly across the school yard to go off property. I hurried after her, and Clio followed me.

“Are we skipping out of school?” I had never done that in my life.

Petra gave me a quick glance, her eyes clear and blue and piercing. “Yes.”

“Oh. Well.” I nodded. “Okay.” There’s a first time for everything.

She led us to a Volvo station wagon, and five minutes later we pulled up in front of a small house, set back from the sidewalk and surrounded by one of the cast-iron fences I saw all over the place. The front garden was lush, so thickly planted that it practically concealed the house from the street. The house was small and painted a dark rust color, with natural wood trim. Two tall French windows opened onto the small porch, and the front door had stained glass around the main frosted pane. It was adorable.

After my dad had died, I’d felt more alone than I had thought possible. I’d practically wanted to die myself. Since I’d seen Clio yesterday, I’d been hoping and praying that somehow this would work out and the horrible, unbelievable turn my life had taken in the last couple months would be over. I wanted normalcy, a grandmother, a home, a sister. Real, normal people who would never take Dad’s place, but be a close second.

The front door opened directly into a sparsely furnished living room. I looked around with interest, as if examining my new home. I wished.

The furniture was simple and old-fashioned. The walls were painted a dusty rose. I felt comfortable here—it was so much homier than Axelle’s black-leather art deco stuff. Like in Axelle’s main room, the ceilings were ridiculously tall, maybe twelve feet? Fourteen? Two wooden bookcases were centered on the far wall, and I read their titles, hoping they would give me clues as to what kind of person Petra was.

My breath caught in my throat as I hoped desperately that Petra was all into beading.

I couldn’t keep the dismay off my face. All the hopes that had been born yesterday—my dreams for a real family, my sad need for a home and normalcy—withered inside me.

“You do voodoo,” I muttered, blinking back tears. Then it hit me: Petra and Clio did this magick stuff—just like Axelle and the others. What were the chances of that? Just how common was it in New Orleans? I swallowed, feeling suddenly cold. Petra and Clio were my only family. Couldn’t I trust them? Could I give them up, not have anything to do with them? I took a breath. I would hear Petra out. Then decide. Everything in me wanted Petra and Clio to belong to me and me to them. I would wait and see. If they were connected to Axelle somehow . . .

“Not voodoo,” said Petra with a little smile. “
Bonne Magie.
The Craft. Similar to Wicca, with the same roots. Now, come into the kitchen. We’ll have tea.”

The kitchen was painted a pretty green, and the two windows both had shelves of healthy houseplants in front of them. A large white cat was asleep on top of some newspapers on the kitchen table. I felt crushed, devastated. I’d been so stupid to get my hopes up.

“Get the cat off the table,” Petra said, going to the cupboard and taking out three glasses.

Clio picked up the cat and handed him to me. “This is Q-Tip.”

I held him awkwardly. Q-Tip sleepily opened his blue eyes and looked at me. Then he closed his eyes and went heavily limp in my arms. For a moment I was surprised at how he’d accepted me, but then I realized I didn’t look like a stranger.

“Q-Tip is a big boy,” I murmured, looking around for a place to put him down. I didn’t see one and finally just sat in a chair and arranged him on my lap. Petra put a tall glass of tea in front of me, and then the three of us were sitting there together. In a witch’s house.

“He’s deaf,” Clio said as an icebreaker. “A lot of white, blue-eyed cats are.”

“How do you call him?” I asked, trying to be polite.

Petra smiled, and suddenly her somewhat forbidding, stern-looking face relaxed and an affectionate warmth stunned me. I was still blinking in surprise when she said, “We stomp on the floor, hard enough to send vibrations through the house. Then he comes running. He comes even if he’s outside, if he’s close enough.”

I looked down at the huge cat, impressed. He purred.

“Unfortunately, until just a few years ago, when Clio was mad, she’d stamp her feet and slam doors,” Petra went on wryly. Clio made a semi-embarrassed face across the table. “Finally she had to learn to get her temper under control, if only for the cat’s sake.”

“He kept running up, wanting treats,” Clio admitted, and I smiled.

“Why do you do magick?” I blurted. “It seems so—”

“It’s our family’s religion, dear,” Petra said, as if explaining why we were Lutherans.“What do you have against it?”

I realized I was on thin ice. Despite the magick, despite my worries about Axelle, I couldn’t help wanting Petra to love me, to want me. I shrugged and drank my tea.

“I don’t think I’ve ever stamped my foot or slammed a door,” I said, returning to the earlier conversation. “Dad and I didn’t fight much.”

Petra’s face softened when I mentioned my dad. “I’m very sorry you lost Michel, dear,” she said gently. “I only met him once, but I thought he seemed very nice.”

“If you met him, why didn’t we both go with him?” I asked, and saw the same curiosity on Clio’s face.

Petra sighed and took a deep drink of her tea. I was halfway through mine—it was unusual, not sweet, though I tasted traces of mint and honey. With surprise I realized that I felt unexpectedly comfortable, even relaxed.

“I’m going to tell you both what happened,” Petra said, folding her fingers around her glass. “Yes, obviously, you’re twins. Identical twins. And I was the one who separated you.”