Lucía’s sudden spark of vivacity did not come out of the blue, as Zoila presumed. It smoldered at all times, febrile and fumy, within Lucía’s own internal kiln, and lay dormant until reignited by the crosswind of other people’s reactions and expectations. If others reacted with delight at the sight of Lucía, then she reciprocated with equal charm. Other times, her internal spark was inflamed by the raucous laughter and ridicule of strangers. Hearing taunts of “teensy troll” or “evil chaneque” made Lucía react with equal rudeness, even though it was precisely this short-fused, surly behavior that had frightened people in her village.

Whenever Lucía transformed from a pleasant little fairy to an ill-mannered troll, she confirmed the villagers’ perception of her as a reckless chaneque. This is why her mother attempted to keep her indoors and away from strangers. Señora Zárate instinctively knew that any time Lucía reacted badly, her hostile behavior would be perceived as a curse upon the person who’d provoked her, and after that any bad event that occurred in the village would be attributed to Lucía’s chaneque temperament, to her retaliatory evil eye.

Many strangers gasped with fear or shock when first confronted with Lucía’s minute form. These reactions made Lucía withdraw deeper into herself. She was, in every way, their equal, with the exception of her vastly reduced height and weight, but other people’s suspended breaths of fear almost knocked the wind out of her.

Without being consciously aware of it, Lucía yearned to keep her spark ignited, and she learned early on to extend a friendly smile and courteous words to any stranger, in order to preempt a reaction of shock or horror. No matter how exhausted she felt, in public Lucía tried to act the part of the happiest girl in the world. Her bright, welcoming smile almost always averted the dreaded response of fear from strangers.

In fact, the last time Lucía had exhibited her most charming self to strangers had been after the downpour in Veracruz. That day, the more she had laughed and sang and danced, the more the masses sang along with her—and the more they thought of her as a delightful pixie rather than a dangerous demon. The crowd had swelled with genuine excitement over her charismatic personality and she had piled it on like syrupy chocolate, until her father squelched her performance.

Lucía’s diminutive size had always created a see-saw of emotions within her. She either frightened people or suffered their ridicule. Her parents’ reactions to the perceptions of others had been equally unpredictable, so Lucía coped by displaying an exaggerated geniality—but only for a limited time. Eventually her buoyant personality deflated and Lucía collapsed into some kind of stupor.

In New Orleans, despite her rallying cry of “let the good times roll,” she and Zoila did not immediately set off for the fitting with the French seamstress. Instead Lucía slumped lethargically on the sofa of her room at the Charles Hotel, exhausted from projecting a non-stop cheerfulness since her arrival in the city. She wanted to lie low and just be a normal twelve-year-old girl for a change instead of a performer and a spectacle, the wage-earner for her entire family.

Some people said that her parents used Lucía’s fame to climb up her back onto a higher rung in Veracruz society. Certainly, Lucía felt the burden of carrying the welfare of her family on her narrow shoulders. A few days back during the New Orleans press conference, everyone laughed when Lucía had offered the portly reporter a piggy-back ride. But really she was making a sarcastic comment about shouldering the responsibility of supporting the entire Zárate clan, making money for the agent, and paying Zoila for her services. But no one had comprehended the true meaning of her joke—not even Zoila.

Now when Lucía stood up at Zoila’s request, her cheery attitude waivered. She wasn’t sure she was ready to go for her dress-fitting after all.

Zoila shook Lucía’s shoulders gently. “Don’t be such a silly girl,” she said. “We must go to your fitting.”

“I don’t really care about all the costumes I wear. Can’t you go and pick them up for me?” Lucía yawned.

“You know that your audiences expect you to dress and behave like a proper young lady. Now up you go.” Zoila lifted Lucía and carried her to the washbasin. “Let’s wash your face, shall we?”

Lucía covered her eyes with tight fists. She didn’t want to catch sight of the floating memories that plagued her. Memories such as the time the villagers living near the Totonac ruins of Cempoala accused her of causing the death of a newborn simply because Lucía had been seen by the newborn’s mother the day she gave birth. Lucía didn’t want to relive the cruel taunts of the village children, and she was definitely in no mood to tolerate the giggles from the workers at the seamstress’s workshop.

On Lucía’s first visit there, the seamstress had oohed and aahed over her. “O la la, but she is like a Bébé Jumeau doll that has come alive!” she’d exclaimed, pinching Lucía’s cheeks.

The milliner then brought out a dozen hats she had made for the Bébé Jumeau dolls, and tried every single one of them on Lucía’s head. “You have a teensy head, little doll,” the milliner giggled as she arranged a too-tight green felt hat on Lucía’s head. And she punctuated her words by pinching Lucía’s already red cheeks.

The green hat’s long pheasant feather made Lucía look like a very disgruntled elf. Lucía sat glumly on a stool while another shop girl tried to squeeze a pair of boots on her delicate feet. When the seamstress picked her up and plopped her in front of a tall mirror, Lucía gasped. She did not look like an elegant French girl at all: she looked like a clownish version of a French doll. Lucía managed to scream, “Zoila, pay attention to me!” before stumbling to the floor in all the ill-fitting clothes.

Zoila had not been paying attention to the shenanigans taking place at Lucía’s expense in the seamstress’s workshop. She’d been daydreaming about leaving Lucía with the agent and heading on her own to New York to seek employment as a translator. But observing how even well-meaning people mistreated Lucía, Zoila felt her heartstrings tugging; she reminded herself of the compassion that Felipe would have shown Lucía. Suddenly ashamed for neglecting her small charge, Zoila sprang into action.

“These clothes are unacceptable to my client,” she snapped at the seamstress and her assistants. “You will measure Lucía correctly and then you will write down our order.”

Zoila helped Lucía change back into her clothes behind a cloth screen in the room. “Please forgive me for not paying attention,” she said, hugging Lucía. “I promise to focus on you and only you from now on. Now tell me all your favorite colors and fabrics.”

Lucía inhaled the scent of vanilla emanating from Zoila’s chest and she smiled serenely. Behind the screen, she and Zoila sat on a chair and conferred on styles and colors. Finally, Zoila called, “We are placing an order for fifty items.”

There was a flurry of excitement in the workshop.

“First,” Zoila said, “Lucía would like a pink silk dress with a coat to match. Don’t forget to add lace and pleats to the dress. She will require a parasol of pink silk and four pairs of gloves. She will need a hat of braided horsehair, decorated with flowers, and—’

The seamstress could not write quickly enough. “Please, Mademoiselle Zoila, slow down,” she begged.

“No, I will not,” Zoila answered in her sternest voice. “You had enough time to poke fun at my charge, and now I will not extend any courtesy to you. Keep writing the rest of my order.”

Lucía wrapped her arms around Zoila’s neck and asked, “Can you please say the list as fast as you can?”

Zoila did as she was told, much to the seamstress’s chagrin. “Please repeat that,” the seamstress cried. “Please slow down!”

Lucía prodded Zoila on, peeking at the seamstress’s reaction from behind the screen. A warm glow flared up in Lucía’s gut as she saw the seamstress squirm. Revenge was a sentiment Lucía had not experienced before and she relished its warm rays. She wanted to feel its comforting fire again and again.