He drew in the veins, half-leaves, half-beetle wings, and suddenly Rosa knew things about Uncle Marco that she had never suspected—how much his bad leg hurt him and how much he feared being a burden on his family, how he sought escape in paint, because in art, it did not matter if you had to walk with a cane or not. The energy that surged into her from her uncle was so determined that it was terrifying. It was a warrior spirit, hammered and forged like steel. “Why are you an artist?” demanded Rosa. “You should be leading armies!” Uncle Marco laughed. “I may have done something of the sort in
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