He slid his hand over her palm, asking the question he couldn’t say.
Her fingers answered his. She took his hand, held it, trapped its heat against hers.
“Yes,” she said.
“Yeah?” he asked. He wanted her sure. He wanted to know she understood. This was different than going with his family to Madera County. This was choosing him, just him, and herself, apart from every other Paloma.
She turned her head, looked at him. “Yes.”
The wind picked up. It made the trees whisper and breathe.
The feathers took off on a gust, tumbling over themselves. Cluck and Lace ran after them, following them through the new light. When the feathers floated over the old Craftsman house, the two of them got into Alain Corbeau’s Morris Cowley, and Cluck pulled it onto the road.
They drove past the Blackberry Festival, where Almendro crowned a new queen who would add sons and daughters to this town.
They drove past the grocery store and the bus stop, and the truck got up to speed on the highway. A flock of birds made a V in the corner of the windshield. They had to be calling to each other to stay together, but if Pépère hadn’t taught him that, he’d never know it from here. They seemed quiet as the clouds.
He couldn’t tell if Lace noticed them. She didn’t watch the sky as much as he did. She kept her eyes low, like she was always looking for the sun glinting off a ribbon of water.
They covered miles of highway, past the roadhouse. Past Elida Park, where a leucistic peacock crossed the crabgrass. Far enough that the sound of glass chimes in trees and breath through reed pipes could not reach them.
Far enough that he couldn’t hear the flight calls that told him to come back, to fit himself into that small space his family made for him. His grandfather had kept that space a little bigger, held it open like pulling aside hornbeam branches. Now that he was gone, it had collapsed in on itself. It couldn’t hold Cluck anymore.
Empty land flew by, studded with cornflowers. The scent, like celery seed and desert grapevine, filled the truck.
“What happened to your hand?” Lace asked.
The question drifted between them. Her words brushed his forearm like feathers.
“My brother broke three of my fingers when I was nine.” He just said it, eyes still on the highway ahead, no glance over fearing her pity or wanting it.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
His nickname did not wait on his tongue. It curled and hid on the back of his neck, where his feathers touched his collar. He straightened his shoulders, and it slept.
“Luc,” he said. “My name’s Luc.” Not Lucien. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But the name was still his. His mother had given it to him. Those first three letters let him claim it.
He felt her folding his nickname up like one of her scarves, slipping it into her dress pocket. She kept it close. She didn’t let it fly out of the truck’s windows and drift on the highway’s current like a postcard.
Luc and Lace held between them this unspoken hope, that wherever those feathers landed, they’d find an old but not old woman who smelled like cinnamon, now unafraid to cross the woods. They’d find an old man blowing cigarette smoke into the last light, ready to think of Lace Paloma as more than made of her family’s stories.
They’d find the books Cluck would study from, later editions of the same ones Pépère had read. They’d find a house, and even though Cluck wouldn’t recognize it, he’d recognize the lemon tree pressing leaves against the kitchen window. They’d find Lace’s spring with all those turtles and manatees wasn’t in Florida, but just under the ground where those feathers settled.
But the feathers didn’t settle, not yet. They floated over the highway, tumbling on the updrafts, flying like each was a whole bird, red as tourmaline. So Cluck and Lace kept driving, chasing these things that had gotten lost.
Acknowledgments
Of the people I have to thank for bringing this story to life, there are many who have, unwaveringly, believed in me. There are others who have worked hard on this book without ever having met me. And others still have given generously of their time and expertise even though they barely knew me. To all of them, I am deeply and humbly grateful. A few, I’ll mention here:
Taylor Martindale, for your faith, your fearlessness, and your friendship; I am truly lucky to have you as my agent and my advocate.
Kat Brzozowski, for being a dream to work with, a pleasure to get to know, and a brilliant editor who helped this book find its heart and its grounding. Lisa Pompilio, for designing such a beautiful cover that captures so much of this story. The wonderful team at Thomas Dunne Books/St. Martin’s Press: Tom Dunne, Michelle Cashman, Stephanie Davis, Marie Estrada, Karen Masnica, Jeanne-Marie Hudson, Lauren Hougen, NaNá V. Stoelzle, and everyone else who touched this book; whether or not I got to work with you directly, I am so thankful for everything you’ve done.
My fellow authors who helped this book along the way: Caroline Richmond, for your invaluable notes on the earliest incarnation. Kelly Loy Gilbert, for your insight on some of the most important moments in this story. Mackenzi Lee, for being one of this book’s earliest and most enthusiastic fans. And the Fifteeners; I am lucky and proud to share a debut year with you.
The experts who helped make this story more accurate and authentic: Romani scholar Ethel Brooks, for answering questions about everything from pluralization in the Romani language to the history of Sara-la-Kali. Jen Cowitz, for giving me a look into your life as a professional mermaid and character actor. Catherine G. Anderson, for kindly and cheerfully enduring my e-mails about French phrases and proverbs. Stefanie von Borstel, for checking my Spanish, and for some perfect dichos.
My father, for every book you gave me, every question you welcomed, and for making me believe in the risks that are worth it. My mother, for showing me the strength that comes with being a woman, and for teaching me never to believe that I am less than anyone else. My family, without whom I would not know the kind of fierce loyalty at the root of this book.
My husband, for reading every page of every story. For being the boy I fell for so hard and so fast that I will never forget what it feels like to be seventeen.
And readers, for believing that stories count. For making them count.
About the Author
ANNA-MARIE MCLEMORE was born in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains, raised in the same town as the world’s largest wisteria vine, and taught by her family to hear la llorona in the Santa Ana winds. She is a Lambda Literary fellow, and her work has been featured in The Portland Review, Camera Obscura, and at the Huntington–USC Institute on California and the West. The Weight of Feathers is her first novel.
You can find Anna-Marie at annamariemclemore.com or on Twitter at @LaAnnaMarie. Or sign up for email updates here.
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