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he had worked around them…
    â€œLook at the jade,” I said. “Feel its weight; see its shape. It should be framed by the gold, not weighed down by it. You have made it look as though … as though…” I struggled to find an apt description, but Mitotiqui supplied one for me.
    â€œAs though a bird’s dropping has landed on it!”
    I smiled at him, laughing. But then our father’s voice slid like a knife between us.
    â€œQuite so.”
    These words alarmed us as neither Mitotiqui nor I had heard his approach. We sprang apart guiltily, although why we did so was a puzzle, for we had done nothing wrong.
    Our father studied our faces closely in the fading light. We had become so used to his indifference that such intensity was a frightening thing. Furtively I glanced at Mitotiqui, but his expression mirrored my own; neither of us knew what to say.
    My father broke our silence. Crossing the room and taking my arm, he led me into the courtyard. Pointing at the ground he said, “There! Show me what you would have done with the jade.”
    It was a test, a challenge: one I did not wish to fail. My heart pounded. I did not know what my father meant by it, but I felt the moment was heavy with significance. I would not be hurried. I held the necklet in my hand and considered the jade. It was a perfect circle of smooth, even colour. How best to enhance its beauty? It should stand alone, of that I was certain, not compete against other beads. Not a necklet, then… Perhaps a figurine?
    While the sun’s last rays streaked the sky blood red, I found a sharp stone and scratched the image of Tezcatlipoca, the god who brings fortune, on the terracotta tiles, the jade the mirror in which the god sees the future. It was hastily done, but not poorly. The shape I had drawn was elegant and apt.
    My father expelled a long breath. Slowly he nodded his approval.
    â€œYou have the eye of a goldsmith!” he exclaimed, and his tone was one of wonder. He whispered, almost to himself, “My own seem to have been tight shut these many years.” Then, grasping my chin in his hand, he softly spoke my name. “Itacate.” A smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he looked at me, seemingly for the first time. “Child, you have the face of your mother!”
    His voice was so unexpectedly tender that my vision was briefly blurred with tears. Wiping them away, I glanced at my brother to see his reaction to this strange scene.
    Mitotiqui stood framed in the doorway, lit red by the dying light. He was struggling to compose his features, but I could read the emotion upon them. He – the glorious child whom the gods favoured – had never had cause to feel envy before, not of me, not of anyone. But now it burst into his heart with all the heated energy and raw strength of a new-made sun.
    Brilliant. Fierce. Searing.
    He turned away, for he did not know how to control his anguish. My own heart contracted and I felt then that I was cursed. It seemed bitter indeed that at the very moment my father had looked at me and seen something more than an ill-favoured daughter, my brother’s face had become stained by the dark cloud of jealousy.

I t had taken my father fifteen years to recall that he had a daughter. It did not take him so long to make use of me.
    The next market day, instead of going to the square with Mayatl as usual, I accompanied my father there, walking three steps behind him, head bowed, the very picture of a dutiful daughter. And this time I did not stop amongst the fresh fruit and vegetables. Instead I followed where he led, winding through stalls piled high with turkeys, deer, rabbits, fish. The smell of dead flesh jostled with the scents of heady oils and perfumes. My father led me past the sellers of pots and jars and bowls, and the vendors of fine cloaks and sandals. We did not pause to admire the bright displays of precious feathers laid out by Mayan traders, nor