2 Gabriela's Lucky Break

Gabriela Sica was not having the best day.

Her head was pounding with the heat and her bestie was annoying the hell out of her; worst of all, Indira Chaudhuri was nowhere to be found.

She had looked around the ice-cream stands. She had asked random people if they'd seen her. Nothing—not a whisper; it was as if she hadn't even bothered to show up. And that simply wasn't good enough; not for Gabriela, who desperately needed a scoop. If anyone thought Gabriela was going to spend her entire career hanging around the Debens Falcon's offices, they were wrong—she was going places.

Gabriela was getting desperate—she scanned the entire street, trying to see past the colourful floats and kiosks and flag-waving crowds; trying to hear something beside the shouts and cheers and idiotic Dixie babbling away beside her:

'I mean, I love trying out new restaurants and trying out new things in general; you know that, Gab, don't you? And this place—like—you have to see it to believe it, you know? It's the real, authentic Laziran cuisine—and the place, like, is just so Laziran in its style and its vibe and—oh, Gab, let's go, forget Indira—can't remember her last name. It's so fun, and they have great, you know, air-conditioning and it'll be nice and cool, and a break from the heat. Come on, Gab!'

Gabriela was not listening. Of course she wasn't going to go off to some restaurant on a day like this; the day for Santa Gianna, when every reporter in the country would be out and about—hunting. Everyone else would be writing about how the cute the choir from such-and-such national school was; about the few naiads whom the government had convinced to come out of hiding and join the parade; about the official schedule for the day; about any injuries or, more scandalous still, deaths that occurred during the festivities—but who the hell cared about that? Who the hell cared about snotty-nosed choirboys when one of the girls of the moment might be out and about, in their very midst?

No—Gabriela was going to find Chaudhuri, and she was going to find her before anyone else did.

'Gab,' Dixie hissed in her ear. 'It's Clara Combera.'

Sure enough, a few feet away, the biggest idiot at the Debens Falcon was stumbling around, looking lost. Clara had obviously given into temptation—she was licking a magnificent ice-cream, which looked as if it might slide off its cone at any moment.

Gabriela marched over. Yes, she was going to do something about this. She didn't care in the slightest about Clara Combera, but she did care about how Clara Combera reflected on the Debens Falcon—and, by extension, how she reflected on Gabriela herself.

'Clara,' she snapped. 'What are you doing?'

Clara, who had been gazing vacantly in the opposite direction, swung around to face her. It was remarkable how much she resembled a particularly dull-witted calf.

'G-Gabriela!' she exclaimed. 'I didn't see you there.'

'Well, of course you didn't. You were facing the opposite direction.'

'I was, wasn't I?' Clara blinked. 'Gosh, it's a great day—isn't it? Everyone just seems so happy—the children with their—with their parents. All—all the people on the floats—you know? I think the organisers and everything must be really, really happy with how the entire thing turned out—'cause, you know, everyone else is really, really happy, and that must be a sign of a very good parade. You know?'

You're forgetting about someone, Clara, Gabriela thought bitterly. You're forgetting about me. And I'll tell you one thing—I'm not really, really happy.

Gabriela sighed, 'What have you written down? Can I see your notes, Clara?'

Once again, Clara blinked in that bovine way of hers. Then she dug around in her satchel and sheepishly handed over her notepad.

Completely blank. This was so typical.

'Clara,' she said through gritted teeth. 'What have you been doing these past few hours? You do realise that you're a journalist. You're supposed to interview people. You're supposed to write things down. God almighty���didn't you learn anything at Inadala—how many times do I have to—'

At that point Gabriela's luck ran out. A man shoved impatiently past Clara, sending her stumbling forward—stumbling—stumbling straight into Gabriela.

They both went down with a crash. Gabriela knocked her head against the pavement—for a moment, stars danced in her eyes—she couldn't do anything but lie there, staring at the vast blue expanse above. Seething.

Clara looked like she was about to cry. Getting up, she wiped down the front of her dress, which was smeared with ice-cream. Not as much as Gabriela's blouse, though—that's where most of the damage had taken place.

'You little idiot,' hissed Gabriela, sitting up before Dixie hauled her to her feet. 'You're absolutely useless—it's a wonder you haven't been fired—'

'I'm so, so sorry, Gabriela!' Clara wailed. 'I swear—I didn't mean to—here, let me help--!'

Gabriela shook her off. 'I—don't—want—your—help!'

This was just too much for her. Supposing she even found Indira Chaudhuri, how on earth could she stand in front of a girl like that with ice-cream dripping off her? There was no time to go back and get changed. The day was ruined—and it was all Clara's fault.

Dragging Dixie along with her, Gabriela left Clara there to mull over her sins—she couldn't stand even looking at her any longer.

Maybe, just this once, she'd go along with Dixie's suggestion. It wasn't as if she had anything better to be doing. At least it'd be a chance to get in out of the heat.

'Dixie,' she grumbled, 'Where is this place, anyway?'

Dixie looked absolutely delighted with herself. 'We're going, then? Brilliant! Aw, Gab, you're going to love it—it's so chic.'

So, Gabriela followed her friend away from the parade, down twisting avenues and past sparkling fountains. Upon seeing it, she had to admit—it was kind of cute. A chalkboard menu stood outside, a little distance away from the summer dining area, listing appetisers and the meal-of-the-day—in Kruschi, obviously, but also in Laziran and Garsonian and Lyaséen. Curious. Must be a lot of international clientele.

It was dark inside—the air itself seemed to shimmer, the Laziran lamps dangled delicately from the ceiling, Gabriela's nostrils inhaled the intoxicating mixture of spices. She couldn't believe she hadn't been to this place before. She noticed a curious collection of antiques by the window.

But there was something even more curious sitting straight ahead of her. Her prey.

Indira Chaudhuri was sitting a few feet away.