Blood & Flowers Read Free Page A

responsible way. “Nicholas just left.”
    Max sighed. “At least ten minutes, then. If Pekar’s is open.”
    â€œThey are,” Lucia said. “We came home that way.”
    â€œAh, good.” Max turned, and as he went back into the kitchen I heard him say, “Might as well start on the spinach, then,” and Tonio said, “Already done. Shall we work on the walnuts, instead?”
    Floss was paying no attention to the kitchen conversation. She took measured steps toward us. She moved like a dancer. “No waxed thread? Not one spool?”
    â€œBe right back,” I said, walking backward. I slid out the door and left Lucia to deal with Floss.
    WHY FLOSS NEEDS TO BE DEALT WITH AND WHY LUCIA IS THE ONE WHO SHOULD DEAL
    Floss is Faerie royalty, and even though she doesn’t claim it, sometimes she acts like it.
    Floss can be very fierce.
    Lucia deals with Floss better than I do. Probably because when she was so sad, Lucia escaped by wishing herself into Faerie. The first time I met her, she and Floss came through together.
    Floss really needs the thread. (It was irresponsibleto forget. I hate being irresponsible.) As puppet master, Floss is making breathable flying fish puppets—I don’t know, I just know that if Floss is making them, they’ll work—and she needs very strong connectors.
    So Lucia dealt, and I went out for thread.

III
“Soggy. Wet out.”
    T he rain had decided to be serious by the time I hit the street. And of course I didn’t have an umbrella. My cotton sweater, the one that had felt so cozy when we were flyering, soon felt like a piece of chain mail.
    But Floss needed thread, and it was truly my fault that I hadn’t bought it before the rain decided to cover my world, so I kept squelching through puddles, some up to my ankles, until I got to Knobbe’s Stationery shop.
    I loved Knobbe’s. It smelled of handmade paper and dust. There were rainbows of pens, little rubber stamps and multitone ink pads, book boards, andbins full of spangles that you could mix and match in tiny brown paper bags and then buy by the ounce. There was no reason at all for this shop to be where it was except for the fact that a Knobbe started it when Max’s apartment and all its neighbors, for blocks in each direction, were high-tone addresses. The store just didn’t leave when everyone else did. People came to the shop from all over the city.
    Knobbe III knew me. This was because I was there all the time, except of course when I was supposed to be—e.g., thread for Floss. For me, I just came to breathe the air and dream. I had all kinds of ideas. One day, I’d start making those accordion books and I’d sell them down at Pastimes Square during the weekly market. And Floss had said she knew something about Japanese bindings. I thought I could use those to make blank books. Or I could bind sections together with different colored threads and make memory books.
    This time, though, it was waxed thread for the Outlaws.
    â€œHello, Knobbe Three,” I said as I squelched through the door. I wrung out the hem of my sweater,which didn’t help at all.
    â€œSoggy,” said Knobbe. “Wet out.”
    Knobbe is often a man of few words.
    â€œYep.” I am sometimes a woman of few words when I’m with him.
    â€œWant something?” he asked.
    â€œWaxed thread, please. Cherry red, sea blue, grass green, sunlight.”
    Knobbe clicked the spools on his counter, tallied the total in his head, and named his price.
    When I got my bag it was much bigger than it needed to be for four spools of thread. Inside there were two 3 x 4 book boards and silky cream paper, perfect for accordion folds.
    â€œKnobbe,” I said, touched by the gift, but he waved me off.
    â€œStay dry” was all he said.
    But dry was impossible. The rain was more like a high-pressure cold shower than the screen of water it had been before. I