She kissed his shirt, a place she had seen a scar crawl up to his shoulder. She wanted to give her own breath to every part of him that hurt, every piece of him still broken or bruised or left underground.
Her lips slid up the side of his neck. He bowed his head so the next time her mouth left his skin, he caught her lips with his.
He kissed her, and she was a world in bloom, her skin becoming starflowers. His tongue between her lips was borraja, that first bloom of hers that he’d taken into his mouth.
The sky over them lightened to gray blue. She kissed him hard enough that each time their lips broke, she heard him drawing in a thread of breath.
He kissed her until her tongue felt like it would burst into petals. He kissed her collarbone, his tongue tracing the path where her necklace had been. Her skin felt hot as the stars those beads had become.
The wind brought a rain of blue over their skin. Not the deep shade of borraja, or the lavender of forget-me-nots. Turquoise and blue green, petals from the tree of colors Fel had brought with him when he came back to her.
Years ago, her family had been forced off their own land, displaced by treaties and newly drawn borders. Rumors had followed them, and they’d been driven out of every town they tried to make their home. Their gift for holding earth in their hands had drawn suspicion, fear, scorn.
Wherever they lived, even now, they would have to give the ground flowers. That was a truth that stayed in their blood. Unless they wanted their gifts to decide when and how they showed themselves, they would have to bring into life the blooms waiting in their hands. If they refused, hundreds might show up in an attic or growing from wallpaper.
There were places that might hate them and the work of their hands. There were whispers that might follow them like shadows. There were women who might declare them witches and men who might chase them from their streets.
But there were also oceans and ice forests. There were deserts as red as foxes and forests of cork oaks and wild olive trees. There was this boy and his brother, and the land where they would care for horses, hills softened with meadow grasses.
There were hearts girls like her could love without fear of them vanishing. There was the five of them standing at the edge of La Pradera, their bare feet in the wet grass and the perfume of their names clinging to the hems of their slips.
There was so much ground they had never felt under their hands. There was the whole world, all its gardens still unseen.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I surprised no one when I said I was writing a book about flowers. Especially not my mother and father, who when I was growing up had to put up with me wanting to visit the botanical gardens of every city we ever visited.
What surprised me was that this book about flowers also became a book about families. The ones we’re born with, the ones we find, the ones we make. Families are where our stories start, and it’s families who teach us how to bring our stories with us into the world.
I’m deeply grateful to those who’ve given me safe spaces to tell the stories I want to tell, and those who do the incredible work of making stories into books. Here, I’ll name a few:
My agent, Taylor Martindale Kean, who I’m lucky to have as an advocate and a friend, and Full Circle Literary, for being a wonderful home for diverse voices.
My editor, Kat Brzozowski, for bringing me along on this next part of her adventures as an editor and for, with every note, helping this story find its heart.
Jean Feiwel, for welcoming me and the Nomeolvides girls to Feiwel & Friends.
For turning this story into a gorgeous book, art director Rich Deas and designer Danielle Mazzella di Bosco, who brilliantly brought La Pradera to life through the beautiful cover and interior.
Everyone at Feiwel & Friends and Macmillan Children’s Publishing Group: Jon Yaged, Kim Waymer, Allison Verost, Liz Szabla, Angus Killick, Brittany Pearlman, Molly Brouillette, Melinda Ackell, Teresa Ferraiolo, Kathryn Little, Erica Ferguson, Romanie Rout; Katie Halata, Lucy Del Priore, Summer Ogata, and Melissa Croce of Macmillan Library; and the many more who do the magical work of creating books.
Wallieke Sutton, and everyone who gets the mail where it’s going.
The brilliant writers whose insight helped shape this story: Tehlor Kay Mejia, my sister in countless shared jokes, who lent her brilliance to the earliest and latest versions of this book. Shveta Thakrar, for her caring spirit, and for teaching me to embrace the unexpected that so often holds the magic of stories. Mackenzi Lee, whose notes make my drafts better, and whose wit has brightened many days.
Fadwa Lahnin, for helping Fel and Adán’s family come to life.
Dahlia Adler, for her friendship, humor, and heart, and for letting me use the Spanish version of her name for one of my favorite characters in this story.
My husband, for his attention to this strange fairy tale, his guidance on the genderqueer character who became a bigger part of this book with every draft, and for letting me lead him through the nighttime gardens that inspired the story.
My mother and father, who not only put up with every botanical garden visit but always encouraged me to learn all I could. My family, who were the first to teach me that we have to write our own stories.
Readers, always, for giving books lives of their own once they leave our hands.