Once, a rich and glorious Mexico stretched from the isthmus of the middle Americas to the northern redwood forests and as far east as the bayous. Within this vast land, one of twelve provincial kingdoms—San Gregorio—lay nestled in a highland valley bordered by thousands of oyamel fir trees. Solimar, almost out of breath, ran toward the forest, hoping she wasn’t too late. In one hand, she clutched a red silk rebozo, the tails of the finely woven shawl trailing behind her. In the other, she held a crown of flowers that she’d just finished weaving from pink dahlias, a swag of ivy, and ribbons. When she’d heard the news that the arrival was imminent, she dashed from the garden, calling to her grandmother, “Abuela, they’re coming! I will meet you at the creek!”
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