Description: chapter 1 In Which Life and Death Arrive, and a Girl''s Destiny Hangs in the Balance Life sauntered into town on a wave of heat. He looked quite dapper in his black suit and matching vest, with a crisp white shirt and the tiniest hint of red peeking out of his jacket pocket: a crimson handkerchief, monogrammed. His tall short-brimmed hat provided little shade from the blinding white sky, and his walking stick left cracks on the dry and brittle land. The high-pitched whine of cicadas pestered him incessantly. Life raised his walking stick. With a tap, the stick opened into an umbrella that shaded him and his companion, a skeletal figure in a bright pink dress delicately embroidered with flowers and birds. A crown of roses rested on her skull; a few petals trailed behind her, plucked by a curious draft of hot air. "Shall we?" Life asked. "We shall," his companion replied, brushing dust off her sleeve. She may have been Lady Death (though she preferred to go by the name Catrina), but that didn''t mean she was immune to the allure of beauty. Catrina placed her bony wrist, clinking with gilded bangles, upon Life''s outstretched arm. Together, they walked up to the main plaza in front of the Santo Domingo cathedral. "I wonder where everyone is?" Life asked. "Taking shelter, no doubt," Catrina replied. It was already one of the hottest mornings on record in the hottest summer anyone in Oaxaca City could remember. People burrowed deep inside their houses shaded by the massive branches of purple-flowered jacaranda trees. Exhausted fans made eddies of hot air bloated with lethargic mosquitoes and flies. The ceramic tile floors, usually so cool to the touch, radiated an infernal heat. Jugs of water steamed like pots on a stove. Catrina''s bracelets rattled against her bones as she flicked her bangled wrist, spreading out a fan. Made of black lace and glinting with tiny white pearls, the fan was a gift from one of her admirers--of whom she had plenty. It had been left for her on one of the many marigold-covered altars that blossomed around the Da de los Muertos celebration, tucked between candied skulls and photos of lost relatives. A note attached to the gift read, "Por favor cudalos." Of course I''ll take care of them. Catrina watched over all her wards with a fierceness matched only by Life. "Well, let''s get to it," Life said. "Let''s," Catrina replied, and she began to fan herself. A cool breeze spread out from the black lace, a welcome relief in the searing heat. Strings of silver frost emanated from the fan, drifting out like so many wishes. Beneath their makeshift parasol, Life and Death followed the silver strands unfurling before them. They peeked into a doorway where a little boy played with a kitten in a box while his mother made a batch of tortillas to sell later in the day. The kitten meowed at the intruders, and the little boy looked up. He saw a handsome, well-dressed man and a beautiful woman with creamy brown skin and long dark hair. Life nodded at the boy. Catrina smiled. The two companions moved on. Next they passed a peeling wall painted with a faded mermaid clutching a basket of fruit. Bold letters above the mermaid spelled the store''s name: la frutera sirena. It was run by a wrinkled man who had been there longer than anyone could remember. The man and his wrinkles were fast asleep on a hammock strung up in the middle of the fruit shop. A strategically placed fan spun endlessly beside the slumbering man, its blades in a losing battle against the heat. Catrina took extra notice of the old man; his light was fading, and he would soon be joining her. But not today. They walked past La Rosa hair salon and the aptly named nursery La Maceta, the Flowerpot. Meaty cacti bursting with fruit stood sentry on either side of the door. Towering palm trees shaded the owner while he read a newspaper. At the end of the street, they approached a small church. Life gazed up at the brightly colored papel picado--paper cutouts--tied from the bell tower to the lush trees surrounding the church. Each cutout depicted a scene of love. Crushed flower petals clung to the papers and stained the ground. "There was a wedding," Catrina said. "May the couple live long and well," Life replied, briefly bowing his head. The couple would indeed go on to live long and well, never knowing they owed their good fortune to the blessing of this strange visitor. But that is a story for another time. Catrina fanned herself again, sending out a new wave of silver strands. At that very moment, on another cobblestone street, a young girl in a small house with walls painted robin''s-egg blue looked up. With an urgency she couldn''t quite explain, she turned her gaze toward the window. From her perch, the girl could just make out the twin crosses that crowned the cathedral''s blue-and-white cupolas. A lone white dove beat its wings against the hot sky. The girl rose and opened her window. The church bells tolled. "Clara," the girl''s mother called. "Come." A hint of cool breeze entered Clara''s room. Hesitant at first, the breeze tentatively explored the confines of the space, just big enough for a child-sized bed, a two-drawer dresser, and the girl herself. The breeze wrapped around the girl and tightly wove itself into her braids. A shiver ran down Clara''s back, and she shook her head, trying to dislodge the breeze from her hair. She tugged at a stray strand of silver. "Child, I need you," her mother called. "I''m coming." Clara set down her sketch, a messy doodle of a horse with eagle''s wings. Clara was not a good artist, and she knew that. Perhaps with more time and resources, she could develop this interest into an actual talent. As it was, she could sketch only on weekend mornings before her parents awoke. The rest of the time she spent in school and helping her parents run their small restaurant, La Casa de Juana. The restaurant had started off as just a few tables in their living room, where Clara''s parents liked to host dinners for friends. However, as word of Juana''s talents in the kitchen spread, more and more tables were added. Their guests insisted on helping cover some of the costs of the food and preparation, and the living room was gradually transformed into a restaurant. "Clara!" her mom called. "Okay, okay," Clara called back, and made her way to the kitchen. Juana was Clara''s mother, and by all accounts the best cook in Oaxaca. Her tamales were light and flavorful. Wrapped in banana leaves, the cornmeal patties were stuffed with mole, corn, chicken, and black beans, or pineapples and raisins, then steamed and sold still hot to the touch. Juana also made the best tlayudas: large, thin, and partially toasted tortillas covered with a spread of beans, cheese, lettuce, and avocado, topped with beef, pork, seafood, or, Clara''s favorite, mushrooms. Juana''s specialty dishes were many: tasajo, chorizo, cecina, guacamole, dozens of salsas. But what made La Casa de Juana truly special was the hot chocolate. Clara''s mother had inherited the recipe from her mother, who had in turn received it from her mother, and she from her mother . . . and so forth for generations. At some point, Clara had taken it upon herself to sample hot chocolate from every vendor in the city, just to see if what people said was true. There was no contest. Her mother''s combination of hand-ground cacao, almonds, cinnamon, and sugar was unmatched. "She must have a touch of magic!" the other vendors speculated, and their words felt as true as the sharp bite of cinnamon on Clara''s tongue. Clara walked into their small kitchen to find her mother bent over a large ceramic pitcher bubbling on the stove, surrounded by a swirl of scents. A long wooden stick jutted up from the thick dark mixture. The molinillo was a wooden whisk, specially designed to yield the frothiest hot chocolate. "Gracias, mija," Juana said. "We''re meeting with your cousins later today, and I need to pick up some things for the picnic. Can you keep an eye on this while I run to the mercado?" "Sure." Clara stepped up to the stove. "What''s that in your hair?" Juana asked. Clara looked down at her braids and marveled at the dozens of thin silvery strands interlaced with her own dark strands of hair. She pulled at the ribbons at the ends of her braids, loosening the plaits. Her hair spilled out, releasing the silver strands. She watched them slip gently to the ground. "Strange," Clara said, retying her hair. But the deed was already done. She had been chosen. Clara took the molinillo from her mother. "I won''t be long," Juana said. "Okay." "Do not stop stirring that," Juana added, giving Clara a stern look. "It''ll burn." As she stepped outside, Juana stumbled over a bottle at the threshold of her house, discarded the previous evening by a drunken man. Had the bottle not been there, Juana would have noticed the pack of stray dogs sitting quietly beneath Clara''s window. And she would have remarked on the unusual flowers that had suddenly sprouted along the wall of the house. And she surely would have paused at the sight of a festively clad woman on the arm of an impeccably dressed gentleman watching her from across the street. But Juana saw none of that.

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