The Cameo Necklace. Evelyn Coleman

Cécile had never seen baskets with indigo-blue stripes.

      A very short woman with tiny blond ringlets pressed close to the marchands. Cécile’s eyes widened as she noticed that the woman was wearing a purple and gold circus costume; a band around her head held a matching plume of purple and gold feathers. Cécile’s heart sped up. Maybe she could meet a real circus performer! Before she could speak to the woman, Cécile felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned and found herself looking at Agnès and Fanny Metoyer and one of their servant boys.

      “Hello again,” Agnès said. She reached out and touched Cécile’s necklace. “I do so love this necklace.”

      “Merci. Thank you,” Cécile said. She turned to face forward again, trying to see Monette and the Lejeunes. At that moment, she noticed a shabby old woman coming toward her, making her way against the crowd. The colorful tignon knotted around the woman’s head bobbed up and down as she moved through the throng.

      The tall marchand reached out over the crowd to the old woman as he called, “Get your orange buns. Hot orange buns!”

      Suddenly he lost his balance. He crashed into Cécile, who lost her footing and fell, knocking the old woman down.

      “Oh, madame, I am so sorry!” cried Cécile, now sprawled on the wharf beside the old woman. The stacks of orange buns rained down around them, followed closely by the crashing tray. The two children selling baskets scrambled to pick up the buns, even grabbing a few that had landed in Cécile’s lap. The Metoyer sisters looked on as their servant picked up buns next to Cécile. The tall man reached over Cécile’s head and snatched up his tray.

      Cécile looked at the old woman with concern. “Are you all right?” she asked.

      Despite the chaos, the old woman reached out, her bangles and bracelets shifting as she grasped Cécile’s wrist. She pulled Cécile closer, as if she were going to say something.

      The blonde circus performer leaned over them, her drawstring purse dangling in Cécile’s face, and asked, “Is either of you hurt?”

      Suddenly, only a few feet from the spilled group, a passerby hugging a bottle slurred loudly, “Somebody picked my pocket!” The crowd around him began jostling as men checked their pockets and women secured or felt for their jewelry.

      Cécile started to feel for her necklace but found herself being yanked up by the old woman, whose grip was surprisingly strong.

      “Merci. I am so sorry for knocking you down,” Cécile said, hastily straightening her dress and cloak. She was about to make sure the old woman was all right but realized that she was no longer beside her.

      As quickly as the old woman had disappeared, Cécile found herself being moved along by a new crush of people emerging from the showboat. Anxiously Cécile rose on tiptoe, attempting to catch a glimpse of Monette or the Lejeunes.

      At the same time, Cécile reached up to feel for her necklace. Her fingers grasped air.

      Panic exploded in her chest. The necklace she had borrowed from her aunt was gone.

      2

      Confusion on the Wharf

      Cécile’s heart raced; she could hear it pounding. She had to find that necklace.

      She turned and tried to retrace her steps to the spot where she had fallen. She put both arms out, attempting to part the sea of people still streaming down the wharf. They were so close, Cécile could smell on their breath the foods they’d eaten. She could hear bits of conversations, laughter, an argument or two. Looking down, she frantically checked the ground as she moved against the flow of the crowd, but she saw nothing. “Excuse me,” she shouted. “Did anyone see my necklace?” People ignored her or shook their heads no.

      When had she lost it? She’d had it on only moments before, when Agnès had greeted her and touched the necklace. Then she’d fallen.

      For a second, Cécile thought she heard her name being called, but she ignored it. Only one thing mattered now—she had to get back to the spot where she had fallen to see if she could find Tante Tay’s necklace.

      “Pardon. Excuse me,” Cécile said, alternating between French and English. She shoved against the crowd, but its movement was strong and she was still being pushed forward, away from the spot where she’d fallen.

      A surge of fear shot through her: What if the pickpocket that the passerby was yelling about had taken it? No—Cécile would not allow herself to think that. The necklace had to be there, right where she’d fallen.

      In desperation, Cécile dropped onto her hands and knees and began crawling through the crowd. “Ouch!” she cried as someone stepped on her fingers. She felt the squish of something nasty, a wad of tobacco that someone had spit out, and realized she’d forgotten her gloves again. She wiped her palm, now caked with dirt, on her cloak.

      Cécile kept moving through the crowd, still saying, “Excuse me.” When she saw a few trampled buns, she knew she was in the right place. She swept her hands back and forth across the dirt but found nothing.

      Cécile hopped up, calling out over and over, “Has anyone seen my necklace?”

      Finally she stopped. She looked out over the crowd surging by and realized that not only had she lost the necklace, she had lost the Lejeunes and Monette too. They were nowhere in sight. The crowd was thick, festive, and constantly shifting. Cécile was alone.

      She had to think clearly. What should she do?

      She decided she must keep looking for Tante Tay’s necklace. It must have come off when she fell. If she didn’t find it now, she might never get it back. Had someone picked it up after it slipped from her neck? Cécile studied the faces of the people nearby.

      The tall marchand who had dropped the tray of buns was standing over to her right. Now he held the empty tray at his side. He was looking downward, concentrating on his right hand. Had he picked up the necklace?

      Just as Cécile started to push her way toward him, she caught sight of a plume of purple and gold feathers. It belonged to the blonde woman in the circus costume—and she was even closer. Cécile shifted direction. “Excuse me. Pardon,” she murmured, keeping her eye on the performer, who was now busy tucking something into her jeweled drawstring purse, the same one that had dangled near Cécile’s face.

      But the crowd’s momentum propelled her slightly to the left, and instead Cécile found herself right in front of the old woman she’d accidentally knocked down.

      The old woman was leaning against the wall of a warehouse, staring at Cécile. She clenched a strange, elaborately carved wooden pipe in her mouth. Her brown face was angular and weathered, and long tufts of gray hair fell loose from her tignon. Abruptly she stopped looking at Cécile and stared off into the crowd, nodding.

      Cécile turned, following the old woman’s gaze, and spotted the two young basket sellers, their hair loosely flowing around their shoulders. One of them held a cluster of cypress baskets, each one striped with indigo. For a brief moment, they looked in Cécile’s direction, their large, slanting eyes dark and piercing in their long thin faces. The two looked so much alike, Cécile wondered whether they were boys or girls. They began moving toward her swiftly, bobbing and weaving through the crowd as smoothly as water snakes in a river.

      Cécile held her breath. The children were heading right for her. Did they have her necklace?

      She jumped as a hand grasped her shoulder. “Here you are,” Monsieur Lejeune exclaimed, gently turning her toward him. “Thank heavens! I thought we’d lost you. Come with me. Mademoiselle Lejeune and Monette are waiting for us near the carriages.”

      “I’m so sorry, monsieur. Please, wait just a moment—” Cécile began. But her words were swallowed up by the boom of a cannon. Cécile knew this was the signal to warn that it was nine o’clock and all the slaves needed to be off the streets. She glanced back over her shoulder, but the two children were gone.

      Before Cécile