Chapter 1
There goes a fine human being, I think to myself. He is tall and muscular, with short brown hair that rises to the occasion. He dances around the room with the grace and dignity of a dolphin, swimming in the seas of elegant company. He used to be one of us, before he went away. He used to remember me.
A blonde bumps into me, shattering my thoughts. “Watch where you're going!” she chastises. I shrink away in embarrassment, hoping he didn't see what just happened. It wasn't my fault. She danced right into the tray of refreshments I was holding. But perhaps Ethan would not have known that, and I would feel disgraced in his presence.
I mutter some soft apologies and bow my way backwards into the corner. I have lost track of where he is in the crowd, but it matters not. He doesn't take notice of a maid, and I cannot blame him. I am undesirable, and ugly. In fact, I am afraid that my hair resembles the floof atop a newly hatched baby pigeon. And despite my bravest and most valiant efforts to control the wild follicle rats nest that weaves endlessly into an abominable mass on my head, it still strays out every which way, and I'm afraid it is my most defining feature.
How divinely astute of my parents to name me Pigeon. It is forethought that only the powers which be could have designed.
Thus, it cannot be explained any other way, except that it is a likewise ordained matter of fate that when I turn around, I suddenly behold his face. The dishes clatter as I stumble back a little. His sea blue eyes are alive and bright with merriment, and his whole face lightens in a smile at my blunder. His strong hands grip my shoulders to steady me, but I dare say it made me quiver all the more.
“I have something to say to you,” he laughs. “Put away that...tray,” he swats at it, disgusted.
I am confused and full of wonder, and I'm sure it shows on my face because he laughs at me all the more. I am dumbfounded, so he acts as a gentleman and takes the tray from my hands, placing it on the table. He takes me by the hand, and I am suddenly self conscious of how cold and small my tiny hands are, in his.
He leads me out of the golden ballroom, and steadies my steps down the enormous flight of stairs. At the base of them, he opens the grand wooden doors and leads me out into the cold night air.
We pause for a moment in silence, and I can feel my heart pounding. I shiver from the cold, and he notices. He rips off the black floor length coat draped around his broad shoulders, and with a flourish, he wraps it around my frail structure. It is already warm from his body heat, and it smells like his French cologne. I slip my little arms into the sleeves and cross them, rather comically I suppose, for he laughed anew.
It immediately sprang to my attention that there was a quite strange weight inside the coat, and I patted at it curiously. It was large and square. He could see my confusion I think, and he rushed forward, uncrossed my arms and took it out of the inside pocket.
He holds a book in front of me. It has a red fabric cover and gold lettering, but it's in a language I can't understand, so I look at him waiting for an explanation.
“Oh, right,” he says, “you're wondering why I brought you out here? And this book, it's um, Spanish. A collection of foolish tales and the like, but one of them is reoccuring and leads me to believe it might have a touch of truth in it. But that’s just me rambling. Right. So, do you remember me?”
Remember him? Of course I remember him. You can't easily forget your first kiss, even if you were only 8 years old.
So I nod, hoping he will elaborate further.
“Ah, good. I always liked you..” - And yet he had wiped off my kiss - “And you are really unimportant, as far as history goes. So I was wondering if you'd grace me with your presence on a little journey?” He smiles at me and holds the book in front of me again.
My head swirls as I try to comprehend the proposal he has just made, and the strange reference to my historical unimportance. Though I'd venture so far as to say I affect my history very much. In fact, I do so all the time, as it is the essence of living, so I understand not his meaning. I feel a bubbling trill of joy, however, at his mentioning liking me. Perhaps he was just a scared little boy when I gifted my first kiss to him, too afraid to let a girl know that her kiss was not a farthing as bad as his reaction. It was all an act, perhaps? But either way, he was now looking at me expectantly and I felt the urge to assemble my thoughts into some coherence and respond.
“Your offer is graciously kind, sir. And I accept, but satisfy my curiosity, I beg you, and tell me where it is that we shall go?”
“Oh yes yes!” Once again, he holds the book out in front of me as if it were a compact blue ribbon racehorse, a prize to be beheld. Truthfully, it is rather annoying because I care not to gaze at the little capsule of unintelligibly inked paper whilst a living masterpiece stands before me breathing in the same night air. I think I looked cross about it, or at least I felt that way. But, over the crusty book cover, he looks me in the eyes and I feel a little weak again, and I wish now more than ever that I could simply hide my frizzy hair, as I'm sure he notices it at this moment and is looking into my eyes rather than at the monstrosity out of pure goodwill. But I stare at him blankly….expecting more of an explanation.
He gets the hint. “This book! Like I just said, there’s an Aztec legend about a special hidden treasure, and I intend to find it. But of course I don’t want to go alone. And I’ve done a lot of research, you're just about the most unimportant person I can find! Not like that’s an insult, it's an honor! I can't tell you all the details,” he slides the book back into the inside pocket of the coat I am wearing, and grabs my hands in earnest, “unless I have your promise that you shall come with me.”
“I already said I would go,” I remind him.
“I know, but I need your promise!”
I decide to oblige him, and so I assure him repeatedly of my devotion to this journey and, upon his prompting, use the word “promise” and slip my pinky around his to seal it.
Who are the Aztecs?
