Gabriel and the Swallows (The Volatile Duology #1) by Esther Dalseno

dip it in an array of pastes contained in long, flat rectangle dishes, some made of peppers and sweet chili, some of ground chickpeas and sesame. It was delicious. We talked, and slept, and smoked more huqqua , and as the sun came creeping down, I knew it was time to leave and I dreaded it.
    S. Khan made a big show of calling me a taxicab, but I refused, saying I had no money. She offered to pay for it, but she and I both knew it was impossible for me to accept such kindness, no matter how she insisted. So I left quietly, and a little sadly too, and stood on the doorstep of the Khan Emporium waving much longer than I should, looking very foolish. I turned to go, and was grateful for the bulge in my pocket – a brand new pair of glasses from the store that Signora Khan insisted on presenting to me, if I wasn’t to take the offer of a cab. “For your mother, with the compliments of Ayisha Khan,” she said formally. But I knew there would be no such compliments, and that Mamma should never know where I spent that day.
    When I arrived home, it was as if nothing had happened. Volatile was gone, and Mamma and Papa were quiet and contemplative. They showed no surprise at me showing up late, and if they detected the hints of tobacco and strawberry concealed in my clothing, they made no comment. I could not manage to say a word, I was far too ashamed. I ate all of my dinner gratefully, and hoped my downcast eyes and hanging head would convey all the apology that words could ever say. When I had finished, I pulled the little eyeglass case out of my pocket and placed it quietly beside my father’s plate. He opened it, and with great surprise, beheld his brand new, shining pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. He put them on, and Mamma laughed, for they were a strange shape on his head, and made his face look funny. I laughed too and Papa blinked many times. “Perfect,” he said, and did not ask where they had come from. I ducked my head and went to my room, where I lay in bed in the darkness and tried to cry because I was so happy to be forgiven.
    The next day, everything returned to normal. Papa continued to wear the spectacles, and indeed wore them for many years of his life, until the frames were tarnished and the glass too scratched to see clearly.
    “Mother says thank you,” Orlando said at school days later.
    “Thanks for what?”
    “She received five bottles of Dolce Fantasia yesterday. She said she couldn’t drink them herself, but will keep them until we have guests that will.”
    “Oh,” I said, not wishing to show my surprise. “You’re welcome.”
    I looked up at the sky and there they were again, the flight of swallows that followed Orlando wherever he went. There was a very large one amongst them. It was black and menacing and I couldn’t look at it for very long. It stared at me like it knew me, and had hated me all its life.

 
     
     
     
     
    M y dreams continued as normal, a beautiful life and a beautiful lie. I excelled at all that I did, had adventures and forged relationships that I couldn’t conceive of in my waking hours. At school I would daydream and relive my visions from the night, and at times would get so befuddled that I would confuse the two. Oh, how I lived for night. How I lived for sleep.
    However, upon waking, I would often recall a kind of bewilderment that existed in my dreams. I would recollect that in my dreams I was looking for someone. In fact, several times that week I found my dream self journeying to St Patrizio’s Well for no reason but to sit there. I would sit and be very still, holding my head in my hands and willing myself to remember, remember. And once, a breakthrough: I stood up and cried out, “Come back to me,” and had an image of a lovely woman with swallow’s wings. But no one would come. In the morning, I knew I was summoning Volatile, that in reality I missed her terribly and was consumed with guilt, and that was so strong it permeated my perfect dream