A Clatter of Jars Read Free Page B

door, Caleb,” she growled.
    Caleb studied his nails, as though thoroughly bored by the conversation already. “You did. You also sold me a Talent for lock-picking last week.”
    Jo drew a deep breath, which resulted in an accidental
waaaaah
from her harmonica. With the note, Jo saw a swirl of color around Caleb’s scalp. Sunshine yellow, with streaks of puce.
    Lock-picking, indeed.
    â€œShut the door,” she told him.
    â€œI brought someone along to meet you,” Caleb replied. At his insistence, a boy, about five years old, stepped into the doorway. The child clung to Caleb’s side.
    â€œThis isn’t a day care,” Jo said.
    â€œDanny’s my nephew. You’ll like him.” When Jo scowled, Caleb let out a truffly laugh. “Well, maybe
you
won’t, but most people do. Only one thing.” Caleb mussed the boy’s hair. “Hasn’t found his Talent yet.”
    Danny gazed up at Jo with big, wet eyes.
    â€œI don’t do party tricks,” Jo informed them.
    â€œNo, of course not. Only business.” Caleb examined the shelf along the wall, his eyes narrowed as though working through careful calculations. “How many jars is that you have to sell me today?” he asked. “Twenty?”
    Jo flipped the harmonica end over end. The instrument was shiniest near the edges, where so many fingers had handled it. Her grandma Esther had bought the harmonica at an antique store in Istanbul over seventy years ago, from a fool who didn’t realize its value. That and a gold pocket watch, similarly purchased, had been the heart of Grandma Esther’s collection. Artifacts, they were called. Rare objects imbued with Talent.
    â€œTwenty?” Jo asked, taking in the six tiny jars. “Have you gone blind? There are only—” When Caleb pulled the thick wad of bills from his pocket, Jo suddenly understood. “There are fifty at least.”
    Caleb snorted. “Looks more like thirty to me,” he said, eyes on his cash.
    Little Danny took it all in, shifting his attention from one adult to the other.
    â€œThere are forty-five jars on that shelf,” Jo said firmly. “And not one fewer.”
    Caleb counted off the bills with the speed of a shrewd negotiator. “Forty-five jars.” Jo took the money without bothering to count. Caleb was a crook, but he was no cheat.
    Jo opened the top drawer of her desk and pulled out an envelope, tucking the cash inside. “Come in,” she said. “Both of you. And shut the door.”
    With the door securely closed, Jo returned her harmonica to her lips. It didn’t matter which song she chose—the magic was in the harmonica itself, not the notes it made. But Jo had her favorite tune. As she played, she heard the voice of the man made famous for singing it, the Talented singer they called El Picaflor. The Hummingbird.
    Los golpes en la vida
    preparan nuestros corazones
    como el fuego forja al acero.
    Jo never knew quite what she’d see when she played Grandma Esther’s harmonica. The colors—different every time, depending on the person she played for—rose with the notes, swirling in a mass of hues that only Jo could see. And somehow, when she was playing Grandma Esther’s harmonica, Jo could interpret those colors. The surge of autumn shades with dots of Mediterranean blue she saw when playing for her father, that was a Talent for calligraphy. The bright fireworks of copper and pink that danced above her mother, that was a Talent for plumbing. Catching lizards, growing tomatoes, interpreting dreams, parallel parking, caning chairs, telling lies—Jo had seen them all. Before Jo had discovered those first glowing jars at the edge of the lake, when Atropos had still been a camp for Fair children, playing her grandmother’s harmonica had been Jo’s greatest joy. Most people who called themselves Fair simply hadn’t discovered their Talents yet,