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and the right before approaching. “My name is Celeste, remember?”
    “Oh yes.” They were now both at the top of the stairs. “ Mija just means little one—little girl.”
    Celeste took a moment to study the woman’s face. Her eyes were wide and brown, darker than any she’d ever seen, and the brows above them were black, like her hair, and thinned to pretty arches. Her nose had a little hook right at the top of it; her lips were full and pink, like she’d just eaten a strawberry. And her skin—the color of cocoa after Mother had added a generous bit of milk. Graciela looked old enough to be a mother too, but Celeste knew better than to ask if she was one. It made women sad, Mother said, to ask such things.
    “Are you hungry, Celeste?”
    Celeste nodded and clutched her doll.
    “Then why don’t you and I go downstairs to the kitchen and you can help me. Would you like that?”
    Celeste nodded again and reached for Graciela’s hand, as she was never to walk up or down stairs without holding a grown-up’s hand, unless they were the stairs at home, and this didn’t feel like home yet. Graciela seemed reluctant at first, even looking over her shoulder toward Calvin’s room, but then gave a quick squeeze before the two took the first step.
    En route to the kitchen, Celeste got a glimpse of their new parlor, and her father’s office, and a dining room, all with the familiar accoutrements and furnishings of their previous house. It was then, too, that she noticed a particular hitch to Graciela’s step, reminding her of a boy back home who had one leg longer than the other.
    “Why do you walk like that?” After all, Mother never warned against asking that .
    Graciela didn’t stop walking. “My leg was hurt, a very long time ago.”
    “How?”
    “That is not a story for today, mija . Let’s get to know one another better first.”
    “Why do you talk like that?”
    Graciela looked down, amused. “Like what?”
    “You sound different.”
    “I suppose it’s because when I was a little girl, like you, I spoke Spanish. Only Spanish. I didn’t learn to speak English until I was already a grown-up. So the words in my head are one language, but in my heart, they are another, and when they meet in my mouth, I suppose they get all tangled up.”
    “I think it sounds beautiful.”
    Graciela gave her hand another squeeze, then let go, making an abrupt turn. “This way.”
    While the rest of the house had the comforting advantage of familiar furnishings, the kitchen was unlike anything she remembered of home. For one thing, it was full of sunshine, with large, paneled windows looking out onto the fantastical backyard. She could see the playhouse from here, and her eyes darted over to the door that would lead straight to it, but she’d promised to help Graciela.
    “What shall I do?” Celeste asked, watching the woman open the door to the largest icebox she’d ever seen and pull out a tray covered by a white cloth.
    “We’re making tortas ,” Graciela said. She removed the cloth from the tray, revealing an array of sliced meat and cheese. Then she used the cloth to protect her hands as she opened the shiny oven to pull out a pan filled with delicious-smelling breads—each smaller than a loaf but bigger than a roll. She reached high into a cabinet above to bring down a pretty cut-glass bowl, then left to return shortly with a large jar of floating colors.
    “ Verduras encurtidas. Pickles. Cucumbers and carrots and peppers.” She opened a drawer and took out a long-pronged fork. “Fish them out, please, and put them in the bowl.”
    She helped her up onto a tall stool, and Celeste dove in, at first clumsy with the unfamiliar task, but soon pleased with the colorful display. Meanwhile, Graciela sliced the breads and stuffed them with the meats and cheese, making a pyramid on the tray. She hummed a tune as she worked, one Celeste had never heard before, but after a few measures, she picked it up and began to