15. 15

We followed the sidewalk along the edge of Central Park, stopping at each of the vendors and asking if they'd seen a girl dressed in gold.

No, no, and no. Shaken heads. Uninterested faces.

We reached the last cart in the area and Berron stepped up. "Hey, have you seen a teenage girl dressed all in gold? She order a hot dog from you?"

The hot dog seller's expression crumpled like the aluminum wrappers he put on the dogs. "Why you wanna know?"

"Just answer the question."

"I ain't gotta answer no questions from the likes of you. Order or move along, you're scaring off business." He waved a thick hand.

"She bought one, didn't she?" Berron said. "Let me see the money she gave you."

"What is this, some kinda scam? I said beat it!"

"Zelda, give the man some money for his atrocious dirty water dogs."

"Me? Why not give him your money?"

"Because I don't have any."

I glared at Berron and pulled out my wallet. "Two, please," I said.

"Oh, and a couple of bottled waters," Berron added.

I shoved him.

"What?" he said. "I'm thirsty."

"Be thirsty on your own budget."

The hot dog man dutifully prepared two dogs and pulled two bottled waters out of a cooler.

Berron collected the food and cold drinks. "Listen, man. My sister? She's… kind of a troublemaker. We try to keep a close eye on her but"—he shrugged—"you know how it is with family."

Against all odds, the hot dog man was actually nodding.

"Anyway, sometimes she gets some fake cash and tries to spend it with unsuspecting innocent businesspersons like yourself."

"Fake? You mean like counterfeit?"

Berron nodded.

The man rooted around in a cash box. "She gave me a twenty. I marked it with the counterfeit pen and everything." He held up what appeared to be a completely normal twenty-dollar bill and squinted at it.

While the hot dog seller was performing this careful inspection, Berron quietly took my hand.

"What are you—"

"Ssh." His magic climbed my arm like the ivy climbed the walls in my bedroom: persistent, green, and smelling of spring. As it sank in, the completely normal twenty-dollar bill faded from green to a very abnormal rust color.

Then it became, simply, a big leaf.

I gasped.

"Sir, I can tell that bill's a fake," Berron said. "If you'll return it to me, I'll give you a real one."

Suspicion soured his face like pickled onions. "You think I'm going to give this to you just because you say it's a fake."

Berron sighed. "Nevermind. Keep it." He turned to me. "Give him a twenty."

"This date is getting wildly expensive," I said, pulling another bill out of my wallet and passing it over the counter.

"See?" Berron said. "We paid you back for what my sister did. No harm done. Now, did she say anything to you? Anything at all?"

The hot dog man tucked the bill away safely. "She said she wanted to go shopping. That's pretty much what you would expect from a teenager, eh?" He laughed. "How does a teenage girl not know where to go shopping?"

"Did you make any suggestions?"

"I told her to try the Columbus Circle mall. My nieces like to go there when they're in town. I said, ‘All you gotta do is walk south along Central Park West until you see the pointy statue.' Then she left." He heaved a big, philosophical shrug.

"Thank you," I said.

We walked on.

"You want any of this?" Berron said, brandishing our very expensive snack.

"Leave the dogs, keep the waters."

"What?" he said, chucking the hot dogs in a trash can. "Too good for street meat?"

"I don't see you chowing down."

"I'm a vegetarian," he said. "I wouldn't eat them if they were from Nathan's on Coney Island."

"You're missing out. Although personally I think Gray's Papaya has it all over Nathan's. Nathan's is just coasting on reputation at this point. If you want a dog from a cart, though—"

"I don't."

"Shut up, you might learn something. If you want a cart dog, there's a guy who sells 'em out front of the Met. Marine veteran. Fought the city to get that spot. Good story." I swigged the water until half of it was gone.

Berron drank some of his. "I've never been to Coney Island."

I almost said, Eh, you're not missing much, but I swallowed it along with another sip of water. It had been too easy to take for granted how easily I could go where I wanted, anytime I wanted. If I were trapped in the same twenty-two square miles forever, Coney might sound pretty good. "Maybe we'll go there someday," I said. "I'll buy you a funnel cake, and you can throw it up after you ride the Cyclone."

"And then to Sparkle Beach," he said, getting into it. "Where I will bathe in Suntan Queen lotion and fry myself to even more of a crisp than a funnel cake."

"You remember Sparkle Beach and Suntan Queen? I think I've mentioned them to you, like, once."

Berron looked offended. "I listen, Zelda."

I smiled to myself, a little, picturing Berron in swim trunks and a floatie, with a stripe of brightly colored zinc sunscreen down his nose.

When we reached Columbus Circle, traffic had slowed to a crawl—and not from rush hour. The massive roundabout had five lanes circling a small island of concentric flowerbeds and a ring of fountains, all framing a marble statue of Christopher Columbus atop a tall pillar decorated with boats. The usual swirl of movement had been slowed by a car that had managed to jump the curb and hit a direction sign on the edge of the island.

A crowd of onlookers had joined in the owner's effort to push the car off the bent sign, where it appeared to be stuck.

Berron surveyed the scene. "You'd have had to make a real effort to swerve hard enough to leave the innermost lane and make it onto the sidewalk."

"Probably avoiding hitting your sister, who walked into traffic," I said.

He nodded solemnly. "Better go get her before she tries to cross again."

We joined the rush of pedestrians crossing to the closest side of the monument island. Chris Columbus loomed overhead, attracting pigeons with nothing better to do. We reached the other side of the island and waited our turn to cross the traffic circle again.

The mall itself rose in layers of steel beneath a bank skyscraper. It reminded me of Daniel and his condo: modern, polished, money. The glass-fronted atrium towered many stories above, each shop window promising a different brand name famous for luxury, while escalators carried passengers below street level to an upscale grocery store.

We stopped in front of a mall directory.

"Where do we even look?" I said. Then I thought of the leafy fairy money she'd given the hot dog vendor. "And how do we cover what she bought? I can't cover a shopping spree at Whole Foods, let alone Burberry."

"Maybe she hasn't bought anything yet." Even Berron didn't sound like he believed himself.

"At least she already has a knick-knack, so maybe she'll leave Swarovski alone."

"Very funny."

"I think we can safely rule out Hugo Boss, unless she's shopping for you."

"More like Daniel," Berron scoffed.

"Williams-Sonoma? Is she really into kitchenware?"

"Whole Foods," he said. "It smells kind of like home."

We took the down escalator at a jog, dodging around stationary riders to descend below street level.

The polished concrete floors shone under the carefully aimed spotlights. Everything, from the flower stand to the immense piles of produce, looked artfully placed and perfect. Almost too perfect. I liked food, and I liked quality, but something about Whole Foods made me want to topple a display just to mess it up a bit. I preferred the Union Square Greenmarket with its jazzy chaos.

We started at the produce section. It's not like the Princess of Arrows could have been hiding there—the displays were low enough to reveal anyone but a small child—but when you look for something, you have to stop and really pay attention.

The nearby flower stand almost overwhelmed the scent of fruits and vegetables, but not quite. The crisp, sweet smell of apples was in the air. Traces of dirt on the humble Russet potatoes and their fancier multi-colored cousins. The green of cut cucumbers in boxed salads. Oranges and lemons in piles.

And yet… there was something else. Something green but not fleshy; not cucumbers, not cut bell peppers for fajitas, not torn lettuce slowly wilting in a salad bag. A growing green. A living green. A wild green. Where had I smelled that before?

Something, in this place of perfect order, was out of place.

The produce lay before me like one of those cartoon pictures in the newspaper: spot the difference.

I stalked the aisles. Celery, green beans, cut herbs. Kiwi, onions, bananas. What was I missing? And why did it seem so familiar?

I completed the circuit and came back to the apple ziggurats.

And then I saw it—

A bite mark.

I hurried forward and scooped up the bitten apple. A delicate bite, taken out of the reddest and best part.

And not only that, but the apple itself had sprouted leaves! Tiny, emerald leaves blooming freshly on a stem no longer stiff. Every apple surrounding the bitten one had sprouted them too. The familiar smell? Riverside Park, with its wild apple trees. Not just the fruit, but the leaves.

"Berron!" I called, hurrying to the next apple bin and finding another bitten apple surrounded by a halo of more apples with green leaves. Almost every variety had been sampled: Cosmic Crisp, Sugar Bee, Autumn Glory.

Almost. She'd skipped Red Delicious, and who could blame her?

I gathered the bitten apples into my arms until they threatened to spill onto the floor, at which point I had to use my shirt as a makeshift basket.

Berron walked up. "What are you doing? This is no time to be shopping."

I fumbled an apple out of my collection and shoved it in his face. "Look. Your sister was here."

He peered at the apple. He took it out of my hand and brushed his thumb over the new green leaves.

He was holding his other hand, the one not holding an apple, behind his back.

I looked over his shoulder. "You were getting a coffee? I thought you said this was no time to be shopping."

"I think better with caffeine."

"Give me that." I took it out of his hand and downed a scalding sip, then handed it back. "There. Now we're both thinking better." I dumped the apples out of my shirt onto the nearest pile. "How many checkouts are open?"

"Just one. It's not busy."

I grabbed one of the apples. "Let's buy it and see if there are any leaves in the cash drawer."

We headed for the checkout.

When the cashier rang up the apple—now looking the worse for wear, having been picked up, bitten, put down, sprouted, and picked up again—the drawer sprang open to accept my money and revealed a couple of leaves stacked on top of the one-dollar bills. "Bingo," I said.

"Pardon?" the cashier asked.

"Did you happen to see a young woman dressed all in gold a little while ago? Carrying a bow and a quiver full of arrows maybe?"

"Yeah, you know her? What is she, some kind of street performer?"

"Yeah, she's a, um, street performer. Trouble is, I wanted to catch her next show but she didn't tell me where she was going. Did she mention anything to you?"

"She didn't say anything. Just bought a paper." The cashier gestured to a rack.

I scooped one up. "I'll take one, too."

"One apple, one paper. You want a bag?"

I shook my head and took my items, and then we walked out. "Does she read the paper? Is there a Forest of Emeralds Times?"

"Beats the hell out of me; and no," Berron said as we ascended the escalator.

"Where to next?" I said when we stepped off.

"I can't just go home and sit on my hands," he said. Frustration gave him wrinkles around his eyes. I could have traced them with the tip of my little finger, like scores on a peanut butter cookie. "Maybe we should—"

"Hang on," I said, stopping him with one hand. A familiar silhouette had caught my eye in the store across the way.

The sign over the door said Venus et Fleur, and the windows were filled floor to ceiling with colorful displays of dozens of roses stuffed neatly into boxes. Round boxes, square boxes, even heart-shaped boxes.

The familiar silhouette became Victorine, chic as usual in an elegant outfit that I couldn't pull off even if I hired an army of stylists. She held a box of red roses in her hands and examined it carefully. "Victorine!" I called as Berron and I entered the flower shop. "What are you doing here?"

Victorine spoke without even turning to look. "I suspect that I live here, Zelda. And occasionally, I do some shopping." She put the box down, finally, and faced us. "Berron," she said, with a nod.

"Victorine."

"And you?" Victorine said. "Are you also doing some shopping? I confess that Columbus Circle is a poor destination; you would do better by far on Fifth Avenue."

Berron picked up the box of bright red roses that Victorine had put down, and brought it to his nose. He made a face. "They're dead!"

"Indeed they are," Victorine replied. "Which is what brought me here, rather than to one of my usual stops."

I took the box from Berron. The roses were beautifully arranged, brightly colored, and definitely dead. "Why would anyone want dead roses?"

"It is most difficult to buy a gift for a wealthy person, as you can imagine. What do you buy the person who has everything?"

"Not dead stuff," Berron muttered.

Victorine ignored him. "Instead we purchase novelty." She gestured to the boxes of dried roses. "Flowers that will last forever. Or close enough."

"Who's it for?" I said.

"A normal person would not ask."

"Who said I was normal?"

A faint smile moved her lips. "A housewarming gift for the new Lord of the Blessed. I have been remiss in welcoming him. I thought a box of ‘Eternity' flowers would be suitable."

"The new Lord of the—oh! You mean Daniel," I said.

"I can't get anything past you, can I?" She leaned in, peering at the paper tucked under my arm. "Did you pick that up off the bench?"

"What bench?"

"Someone left a paper on the bench by the entrance. I assumed you picked it up, to save a dollar."

Berron and I looked at each other. "No…" I said.

"Ah, well," she said, turning away to examine another expensive box of dead flowers. "Someone will pick it up soon enough."

"Good luck with Daniel's roses," I said. "Excuse us, will you?"

"Au revoir," Victorine said, without looking.

I dragged Berron away.

"What's the rush?" he said.

"What if it's your sister's paper?"

"So?"

"Maybe there's a clue!"

We reached the bench and Berron scooped up the paper. He unfolded it and handed me half. We sat side by side, and the scent of apple mixed with newsprint rose as we flipped pages.

"I've got something," he said, pulling out a sheet. A large piece had been torn from it. "Get your copy and see what's on this page."

I quickly unfolded mine and found the page. What my copy had, and the other did not, was a photograph of the Statue of Liberty illustrating an article about a local protest.

"The Statue of Liberty?" Berron said. "But she can't get there—it's outside the barrier."

"Battery Park," I said. "Anyone she asks will say Battery Park. That's where the tours depart from."

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Victorine stood before us, her dark sunglasses and silk scarf in place, a large, fancy-looking Venus et Fleur bag in her hand.

"Do you have your car?" I said.

"Why?" The word was long, drawn-out, laced with a century of suspicion and a less-than-charitable view on human nature in general.

"We need a ride to Battery Park."