As they pass King’s College Chapel, sunlight through the stained-glass windows scatters cubes of coloured light on the pavement like brightly wrapped sweets at their feet.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah,” Bea says. “And you’ve never met Mamá.”
Vali brightens. “I’d like to. If—”
Bea drops her paper cup in a dustbin. “No chance. Never. Not happening.”
“Okay, no need to sugar-coat it.” Vali pats his stomach. “I’ve got enough padding to absorb the blows.”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“You’re not very perceptive for a shrink, are you?” Bea nibbles at her croissant. “All that self-deprecating bullshit. Just cos your mamá treated you like crap doesn’t mean you need to do it too.”
Vali tugs his beard, smiling. “I didn’t know you cared.”
“I don’t,” Bea says. “It’s just annoying. Anyway, if you’re going to sort out other people’s shit, you’d better sort out your own first, don’t you think?”
“I never claimed to be doing anything of the sort,” Vali says. “My focus is more theoretical than practical. Are you going to eat that?”
Bea hands Vali her nibbled croissant. “What use is that to anyone?”
“Thanks.” Vali takes it. “Says the philosopher.”
“Touché to you too, you little prick.” Bea smiles. “And your mamá was wrong. Being fat isn’t so bad.” She stops walking to eye him up and down. “You’re soft and cuddly, like a baby owl.”
“I thought you were the owl,” Vali says. “And I’m the mouse.”
“Yeah,” Bea says. “That was before I knew you. Anyway, if you’re an owl, then I’m an eagle.”
Above them, the golden weather vanes of Corpus Christi College spin unseen in the wind. Catching a reflected glint of light on the pavement, Bea glances up, thinking she’ll drop in on Dr. Finch later and finagle him into giving her access to the glider again.
11:59 p.m.—Liyana
Liyana can’t stop thinking about the damn voice and its cryptic messages. She’d been shocked and scared to hear it again. But, as experience became memory, fear began to fade and frustration had seeped in. She’s been searching for clues, for a possible code. But she’s never liked crossword puzzles and only has four sentences to work with:
I’m going to kill Cassie when I see her.
Oh, Grandma, what are we going to do?
I said stop smiling—now you look like a constipated hamster.
It’s time to find your sisters.
Liyana doesn’t want to kill anyone. She doesn’t have a grandmother, at least not living. And she’s certainly never called anyone a constipated hamster. Her insults, learned at her aunt’s knee, are in her mother tongue. But strangest of all is the instruction, since Liyana doesn’t have any sisters. Also, why should she be trying to find these fictitious sisters, when what she really needs to find is a job?
Liyana sits up in bed shading the contours of BlackBird’s breasts underneath her leather jacket. As she curls the halo of BlackBird’s hair, Liyana pauses. She touches her hand to her own hair and thinks of her mummy, of the bottle of thick white gloop that burned her skin. An echo of pain flushes Liyana’s scalp. She rubs at the sting and the memory pinballs to sitting in her mummy’s arms, snuggling into her approval, asking to be told the story of her birth.
You were born with the rain. As I birthed you, the rain rushed from the gutters and drains, flooding the streets. You were born on the bridge from one day to the next—your head emerging a moment before midnight, your limbs a moment after. You didn’t cry. You hardly ever cried. You were a good baby, so soft, so quiet.
I was the first to hold you, the first to whisper secrets into the tiny shells of your ears. We chatted in a language without words, cementing a connection that rose from the roots of life itself. When you blinked up at me I saw your soul in your watery eyes and I knew your name. You were a daughter of the rain, so I called you Liyana. A good, strong Zulu name, in honour of your maternal great-grandfather, meaning “it is raining.” And I knew that whenever I called your name I would be calling the rain. This would be my gift to you. You were birthed in a flood and you, like every plant and animal in our magnificent country, would thrive in the rain. Then Aunt Nya added your middle name. Miriro: “she who was wished for.”
Liyana stares at her drawing and realizes, all of a sudden, that she needs to stop. To