The palenque was not quiet at night. It was, in fact, quite noisy. All the windows of the houses were open to the breeze. Mattie lay beneath the window and tried not to listen, but listened all the same. A husband and wife muttered quietly to each other, their words low and amorous. A child awoke from a dream, and his mother spoke soft words to soothe him. A pair of men, still up and about despite the hour, laughed and talked, occasionally shushing each other, neither heeding the call of sleep. A billy-goat worried a nanny-goat. An owl flapped between the roofs. Someone snored.

            Mattie lay beside a woman called Enriqueta who had lived at Por Dios ever since fleeing from her cañaveral during the hurricane of 1841. Her husband, whom she had met at Por Dios, had since died and they had no children. Hence Enriqueta's willingness to share her small hut—and also her bed of woven reeds—with Mattie.

            Enriqueta lay facing the wall. Mattie lay on her back. The celebration of Adelaida's arrival had gone on until well after mdnight, though there were no clocks so there was no way to know for sure. Mattie’s stomach was full. There had been platters of fruit and vegetables and rice and beans, and even some rum, carefully rationed among the men. By now dawn must have been pressing at the edges of the night. Mattie was beyond exhausted, but somehow her mind was awake. It was not a rude wakefulness, however. She felt oddly peaceful in it, as if all her thoughts and sensations had been smoothed like warm wax, leaving her calm within.

            Still, Mattie shivered.

            How did I get here?

            The question seemed not to matter. The stillness of her brain wouldn't allow it.

            Her attention drifted back to the sounds of the palenque. A man coughed in his sleep. Mattie guessed it was the same man who had been snoring.

            The air shifted in the little room, and Mattie sensed that someone had entered. She sat up, unstartled, still held in an edgeless peace. In the low light from the one small candle, she saw Adelaida by the bed.

            “Adelaida…”

            Adelaida came forward and knelt. She did so with swift urgency, as if afraid she might be seen, or that she might change her mind. Reaching up to her neck, Adelaida removed her necklace, then held it in both hands and extended it toward Mattie. Mattie had never seen Adelaida wearing the necklace. It was plain, a leather cord with polished wooden beads and a kind of wood medallion.

            Plain but precious.

            "Adelaida, I can't..."

            Adelaida closed Mattie’s hand around the coiled necklace, then stood cupped her hands around Mattie’s hand and kissed it. Before Mattie could speak again, Adelaida rose to her feet and was gone.

            Mattie lay there for a long time, wondering if she'd viewed an apparition. Or been visited in a dream.

            The gift, the kiss. Gratitude, love. 

            She opened her hand. Twigs between beads, beads between twigs. The medallion still had its bark. In the middle were three crisp burns, side by side and parallel.

            Mattie pressed the gift to her lips. She smelled the woods and the mountains, water cascading over rocks in sunlight.

            As soon as the sky brightened, she was on her way.