Finally he widened his eyes, smiled, and stood up. He gazed at me, but he didn't speak; at least, not with his tongue. Instead, he began a series of hand movements I recognized as sign language. I watched him for a while and saw the frustration when I didn't respond. Even if I could, I didn't know how to respond, what to say. Was he asking questions?

I had seen only one deaf-mute before, Tyler Joans, who was eight when I met him. I had accompanied Mama on a traiteur mission to help Tyler's mother cure some warts on the back of her hands. The Joans family had moved away years ago and I never really got to know Tyler.

The boy below stopped and put his hands on his hips. He was a tall, slim boy with dark brown hair that fell over his forehead and covered his eyes. He wore a pair of khaki pants and a faded white T-shirt torn at the collar.

I pulled back when a tall, stout man appeared carrying a rake. I heard him call, "Henry!" and then I saw him gesture angrily for the boy to follow. "Finish your chores, boy, before I tan that hide of yours." He signed quickly with his big hands and shook the rake in the air.

The boy put his right forefinger on the top of his head, spun like a top, and shot off to the left, leaving me laughing quietly and wondering who he was

That night I was drawn back to my window when I thought I heard my heron strutting, about on the balcony railing. But instead of the nocturnal bird, I found a bouquet of hyacinth tied with a string. Their lavender blossoms were pale with a dab of yellow on the center petals, surrounded by some green leaves. Surely my heron hadn't brought them, I thought, and gazed into the darkness, looking for my benefactor. How could he have known how much I missed the sight of hyacinths stretching from bank to bank on the bayou surface? I was always fascinated by the way their color changed with the changing skies, shimmering from lavender to dark purple with a passing cloud. To me it was as if a divine artist were continually repainting the world in which I lived. It was never boring, never without surprise. And that was something I craved dearly these past, dark months, shut away from the world I loved.

"Thank you," I called into the night, and waited for a response. All I heard was a mournful owl and the monotonous symphony of cicadas.

I hid the flowers under my bed before I went to sleep. I would have to cast them out the window when they faded and dried so Gladys Tate wouldn't find them. She lingered in my room the next morning after she had brought my breakfast, and I was afraid she knew that the strange but fascinating boy had seen me.

She sniffed and gazed about suspiciously as I ate. "Smells like spring in here suddenly," she said.

"The breeze is bringing in the scent of flowers," I replied, but she stood there, still looking suspicious.

"Octavious hasn't been here, has he?" she suddenly demanded. Terrified of what would happen if I said yes, I shook my head quickly. "That cologne he wears turns my stomach now."

"No, madame."

"Stand up," she commanded. I put down my fork and did so. She stood beside me, her hands on her stomach, and gazed at mine. "You're lower down than me," She molded her padding a bit. "Any other pains?"

"No, madame."

She sniffed the air again and then, just before leaving the room, paused, her eyes focusing on something on my floor. She knelt down and picked up a tiny piece of the hyacinth stem.

"What's this? How did it get here?" she demanded.

"What? Oh. There's a heron that lands here every night," I said, pointing to the window. "She dropped some leaves and sticks."

Gladys screwed her eyes on me for a moment and then smirked. "I'll have my gardener check on that. We don't want a bird attracting attention to the window. Just stay away during daylight."

"Yes, madame," I replied, and went back to eating my breakfast. She paused for a moment, but I didn't look at her and she finally left.

Later that morning, I heard a tapping sound on the small balcony and against the window. I approached it slowly and observed that someone was throwing tiny pebbles. Peering between the curtain and the window frame, I saw my young gymnast again. This time he was juggling apples and got up to five. He stopped and offered me one.

I smiled and nodded. "I'd love one," I said, expecting he would throw one up, but in a flash he disappeared beneath the balcony. Moments later, I heard him scaling the wall and saw his hand on the railing. He pulled himself up and over as quickly as a cat. It surprised and frightened me.

"You mustn't come up here," I said, shaking my head emphatically. I gestured for him to go back down. "Please."

He tilted his head and wore a grimace of confusion. Then he smiled and pointed to himself. "Hen ree," he said, and pointed to me. When I didn't respond, he repeated the action. "Hen ree."

"I'm Gabrielle," I told him.

He shook his head and held up his hands, pointing his right forefinger at his left palm.

"I don't know how to say anything with my hands. Please, you must climb back down. No one is supposed to know I'm here." I shook my head and pointed to myself.

He shook his head as if I had said something in a language foreign to him and then boosted himself up on the railing. When he stood on his hands and turned to me, I cried out in fear, but he just laughed and bounced back onto the balcony. He squatted and started to speak in sign language again. He was explaining that he was mute and could speak only with his hands. He continued these rapid hand movements, carrying on what I was sure was a long conversation.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't know how to read your hand movements." I held up my hands and shook my head.

He paused and stared at me a moment, thinking. He had eyes the color of pecan shells and moved nervously from side to side as he struggled to think of another way to communicate his thoughts.

"You've got to go back down," I said, waving toward the railing. "Madame Tate will be angry. She doesn't want anyone to know I'm here, understand?"

He raised his eyebrows and grimaced, holding out his arms, questioning. It was so frustrating. I started to act out what I was telling him, first trying to look like Madame Tate, scowling, walking about with exaggerated authority, shooing him away. All I did was make him laugh.

Finally I pointed to myself and then put my finger on my lips and shook my head. He seemed to understand what I was telling him now.

"It's just something that has to be kept secret. Please don't tell anyone I'm here." I wagged my head and kept my finger on my lips.

He smiled. Keeping a secret was obviously fun to him. He nodded emphatically and then his gaze fell to my stomach.

His eyes widened and then he put his right palm under his left hand and rocked his arms as if he had a baby in them.

"Yes," I said, nodding. "I'm pregnant and I'm going to have a baby soon."

I saw that he wasn't going to get off the balcony quickly, and I did enjoy the company, even if he was a mute.

"Do you work here for the Tates?" I asked, and pointed to the house and the grounds. To indicate work, I raised and lowered my arms as if I were chopping wood and then carrying something, He nodded and began tb make gestures to indicate his work as a grounds person raking up leaves, trimming hedges and trees, planting. "Shouldn't you be in school right now?" I asked him. I pointed to him and then seized a book and held it up, pretending to read. Then I pretended to write. His face brightened.

"Skooo."

"Yes, school," I said, and pointed to him.

He nodded, and from the expression on his face when he did so, I understood that he wished he were in school rather than working. He shook his head and went through the gestures to indicate grounds work again. Then he leaned in to look at my room. It filled his face with more curiosity. This close to him, I could see the tiny freckles under his eyes and a small scar under the right corner of his lower lip. He had a complexion almost as dark as Daddy's, and I could see that although he was slim, his arms were lean with muscle and his stomach rippled like a washboard. His eyes raked over the dolls and then settled on my embroidery. I could read the question in his face and gestures.

"Yes, I do that," I said. He nodded, smiling and gesturing with appreciation. "Thank you. Of course, if I didn't keep busy, I would go nuts," I mumbled. He looked confused, so to indicate going nuts, I rolled my eyes and shook my head. His right eyebrow lifted. I was sure I looked absolutely ridiculous going through these silly gestures.

He began to sign another question.

"I don't understand. I'm sorry." He worked harder and I caught on.

"Oh. I can't go down." I shook my head. "I told you," I said, pointing to myself and then holding my finger on my lips. "I'm here secretly." He grimaced with confusion, but he didn't let it linger. He indicated he wanted to crawl through the window. "No," I began, but he was already moving into the room. When he stepped down, I brought my finger to my lips and pointed to the floor to indicate he must keep very silent. He understood and walked with exaggerated care. It brought a smile to my lips, which made him smile.

Then he reached up as if he were plucking a fly out of the air and opened his hand in front of my face to reveal a single costume-jewelry pearl in his palm.

I laughed. "How did you do that?"

He held up his forefinger and closed his eyes, pretending great concentration. After a moment he opened them and reached behind my ear to produce another pearl.

I laughed again. "You're very good."

He nodded, smiling emphatically.