and stared off into the crowd, nodding.
Cécile turned, following the old woman’s gaze, and spotted the two young basket sellers, their hair loosely flowing around their shoulders. One of them held a cluster of cypress baskets, each one striped with indigo. For a brief moment, they looked in Cécile’s direction, their large, slanting eyes dark and piercing in their long thin faces. The two looked so much alike, Cécile wondered whether they were boys or girls. They began moving toward her swiftly, bobbing and weaving through the crowd as smoothly as water snakes in a river.
Cécile held her breath. The children were heading right for her. Did they have her necklace?
She jumped as a hand grasped her shoulder. “Here you are,” Monsieur Lejeune exclaimed, gently turning her toward him. “Thank heavens! I thought we’d lost you. Come with me. Mademoiselle Lejeune and Monette are waiting for us near the carriages.”
“I’m so sorry, monsieur. Please, wait just a moment—” Cécile began. But her words were swallowed up by the boom of a cannon. Cécile knew this was the signal to warn that it was nine o’clock and all the slaves needed to be off the streets. She glanced back over her shoulder, but the two children were gone.
Before Cécile could say more, Monsieur Lejeune took her hand, pulling her urgently through the crowd. Cécile pressed her lips together, trying not to cry. She had lost her chance to find out if the children had her necklace, or to question the other people who had been near her when she fell.
As she and Monsieur Lejeune inched forward in the crowd, Cécile caught sight of the old woman standing a few feet ahead. How had she gotten there so fast?
“Monsieur Lejeune, may I stop for a moment to speak to that lady ahead?” Cécile asked. “I knocked her down earlier by accident, and I didn’t apologize properly.”
“All right, but hurry, please. I’ll wait right over there, where I can see Monette and my sister waiting for the carriage. Please don’t tarry.”
Cécile rushed over to the old woman, surprised at how easily she reached her. She could see now that the old woman was barefoot, even though it was cold outside. Had she lost her shoes when she fell?
The old woman’s eyes met Cécile’s, almost as if she’d been expecting her return. The woman took the pipe from her mouth. “You are searching for something very valuable,” she said, reaching out to touch Cécile’s face. Her fingers felt cold and ironlike as they stroked Cécile’s cheek.
Cécile’s thoughts raced. The woman must have the necklace—how else would she know that something of value was missing? Excitedly, Cécile asked, “You found my necklace?”
The old woman gave Cécile a long look. “No,” she said gently. “It is your heart that you must find.”
Cécile flushed as if she were standing too near a hot cookstove. She didn’t understand what the old woman was talking about.
“As for your necklace,” the old woman went on, “those we cannot know have it.” Without warning, she grasped Cécile’s hands. Cécile tried to pull away, but the old woman’s grip was strong. Cécile looked around, frantic. She caught sight of Monsieur Lejeune, but he was staring out over the crowd toward the carriage stop. The old woman drew Cécile’s hands toward her, palms up. Staring at Cécile’s palms, she said almost in a whisper, “Remember, hunters always want to kill lions… Lions only want to eat.”
Cécile felt tears pushing out of the corners of her eyes. She was frightened, and she wasn’t sure why. The old woman let go of her hands and pointed up to the sky. Cécile’s eyes followed the motion, noticing the woman’s wrinkled hand, the many jangling bracelets on her wrist, and all the rings on her fingers.
The old woman’s hand moved in front of Cécile’s face in a circular motion, as if to include the crowd, the warehouses, and the ships that lined the wharves. “Open your eyes, girl,” she said. “Open your eyes so you can see.”
“I can see,” Cécile whispered, feeling a tightening in her stomach.
“Not yet,” the old woman said, moving her hand so close to Cécile’s forehead that she could feel the air stirring. “Not yet.”
Cécile felt as if she were falling again. Her body tensed and she closed her eyes, whispering, “But I can see.”
When she opened her eyes, only Monsieur Lejeune was standing beside her. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Who are you talking to?”
Just then a woman screamed, “Thieves! Thieves!”
Cécile and everyone else looked in the direction of the screams. They seemed to have come from a marchande selling popcorn balls and macaroons in front of one of the warehouses.
Cécile spotted two children racing toward the edge of the crowd. She recognized them as the children with the cypress baskets. Some of the men in the crowd tried to grab their threadbare cloaks, but no one caught them before they disappeared into the darkness.
When the commotion had settled, Monsieur Lejeune and Cécile made their way to the carriage. The word thieves rang in Cécile’s ears as Monsieur Lejeune ushered Mademoiselle, Monette, and Cécile into a carriage. As she stepped inside, Cécile wondered if those two children had the cameo necklace, and if they were the pickpockets and thieves making off with their prize.
And the old woman—whatever had she meant? Those we cannot know have it…Open your eyes so you can see…Cécile trembled with confusion and fear just thinking about the old woman and her words.
As the carriage jounced home, Cécile forced herself to join in the conversation around her, as Maman would expect her to. But her mind tumbled with the events of the evening—the marvels of the circus, the strange talk of the old woman, and, most of all, the awful misery of losing Tante Tay’s necklace.
3
Uncle Henry’s Last Gift
When Cécile arrived at her home on Dumaine Street, she found her mother waiting up for her. Promising to tell Maman all about the circus in the morning, Cécile said good night, rushed upstairs to her bedroom, and closed the door.
Inside her room, alone at last, Cécile stared at herself in the mirror, touching her neck where the necklace had been only an hour before. As she watched the tears slip down her face, the true horror of losing the necklace stabbed her heart.
Tante Tay had shown Cécile the beautiful necklace a month ago, as Cécile helped her pack for her first journey back to Philadelphia to visit her in-laws since her husband, Uncle Henry, had died. In the two years since Tante Tay had been widowed, she and her little son, René, had lived with Cécile’s family, and Cécile had grown very close to her gentle young aunt.
Fingering the beautiful cameo, Cécile had nearly swooned. “Oh, Tante Tay, if you go someplace fancy on your trip, you will look so lovely in your necklace.”
“Merci, Cécile,” Tante Tay had said. “I do love wearing this necklace. One day I will let you wear it for a special occasion. Would you like that?”
“Oh, yes,” Cécile had breathed. “That would be wonderful.”
But instead of packing the necklace, Tante Tay had put it back in its velvet box and placed it in her drawer. She had explained that the
