W

hen Valentina had gone, Luzia let herself walk to the bed. She sat tentatively at its edge, afraid to place her full weight on it. She never

came into this room except to gather quilts and bath sheets when they were needed, and to dust when Valentina reminded her to. Twice a year they took the heavy blankets and cloaks from the trunks and beat them in the alley to free them of spiders and vermin. Once they’d opened the trunk and discovered a massive rat lying on her side, nursing the squirming bodies of her babies. Valentina had screamed. Águeda had gathered them up without a word, taken the wriggling bundle of bedsheets down to the kitchen, and drowned them in a bucket of water. Luzia had felt bad for the rats, and then she’d felt bad for herself because she’d had to walk to the fountain a second time that day and lug two more pails full of water back with her.

This was to be her bed now. She looked out the window. On the street below she saw Don Víctor speaking with Don Marius. An enormous footman stood beside the glossy De Paredes coach, dressed in mustard- colored livery.

Across the street, she could see into the second-floor windows of a room with blue draperies where a woman stood beside a harp. She laid her hand on its wooden frame, as if taking its measure, and Luzia hoped she might play. The woman looked up, her gaze barely registering Luzia, and moved on to some other task. What was there to look at or take note of? Luzia was just a servant who had come in to straighten up the room.

I sleep here now, she wanted to shout. A roof over her head instead of an entire house weighing down on her. A window she could open at any time of day and hear the hooves of horses, the rattle of carriage wheels, birdsong if she was lucky. There might be more, said that hungry voice inside her, so much more. You might look from the windows of a palace. You might make the acquaintance of a king.

She walked to the basin. There was no water in the pitcher. In the mirror she saw her sallow face, her cap tight against her braided hair. Something moved behind her and she jumped.

A piece of shadow seemed to detach itself from the corner and Luzia had to bite back a shriek as Santángel emerged from the gloom. He wore the

same dark clothes, his blond head bright as a cut jewel.

“How long have you been standing there?” she asked, trying to steady her voice. A man should not be in her room, but Guillén Santángel was

somehow something other than a man. “You shouldn’t be in here. With me. Alone. In my bedchamber.”

She sounded like a hiccupping ninny. “This is not your bedchamber.”

“Of course it is, señor.”

Santángel opened the wardrobe. “Not a single gown.” “This is my only dress, señor.”

“Nor any clean linen.”

“You’ve been looking through my trunk?”

“There is no trunk of clothes to look through.” His pale brow lifted. “Not a single sign of occupation. No icon of your patron saint, no candle or dried flower or memento to be seen.”

“I am a servant, señor. I have no use for such things.” “Even a servant is permitted a soul, Señorita Cotado.”

“Can I be of service to you?” Luzia’s cheeks pinked. She hadn’t meant the words to sound vulgar, but they’d emerged that way.

Santángel studied her, his eyes glittering. “I highly doubt it,” he said at last. His gaze traveled from the top of her covered head to her battered shoes. “You have a scullion’s hands.”

“Because I’m a scullion, señor.” “And there is dirt on your neck.” “Because I sleep in the dirt.” “So it is not your room.”

“It is not,” she admitted. Why did she care what he thought of her? Why protect Valentina and Marius? “I sleep on the floor in the larder. Like a common pig in the pen. If you don’t wish for me to look like a common pig perhaps you will see to it that I have hot water and a bit of soap. Then I may at least look like a more worthy pig.”

So much for curbing her tongue.

He frowned. “You cannot be this person, not if you hope to survive.” “And yet here I am.” She should be careful with this creature who

vanished into shadows and made her aunt tremble in terror. But keeping her mouth shut was proving harder than expected. Maybe it had only been easy when no one bothered to speak to her.

“The weed flourishes until it is yanked out by the root,” said Santángel, grim as a priest. “The Torneo Secreto isn’t just a game. It is not polite entertainment where your party tricks will impress. Pérez believes that he can regain the king’s favor by bringing him a holy magic user. His life and his fortune are at stake.”

“Some of us have no fortune to wager.”

“And your life? Do you hold it in such low esteem?” Luzia couldn’t help but feel he was asking her a different question, that if she could simply listen more closely she would hear his true meaning. He took a step toward her and she had to will herself not to back away. “Do you know why you’re being allowed to join the tournament?”

“Because Pérez is desperate?”

At that, he paused and she knew she was right. “One of the competitors was killed,” he said. “Good. I see you’re listening now. A young monk from Huesca.”

“He … did Don Víctor …”

Santángel’s peculiar eyes narrowed. But he didn’t exclaim, Of course not or How could you think such a thing? Instead he said, “No, the monk drowned over a week ago. Long before Víctor had heard of your gifts.”

“An accident, then?”

“What a hopeful disposition you have. Men have been known to fall off of bridges. Or jump. Or be pushed.”

“If not Don Víctor …” Luzia sat down. “There are other competitors in this torneo?”

“Three.”

“So, one of these hopefuls had the monk killed?”

“More likely one of their patrons, but yes. Or maybe the monk was drunk on brandy and leaned over the bridge to get a better look at his reflection.”

“I should go see to the soup.” “The soup,” he repeated flatly.

“Águeda gets distracted and lets it cook too long. It will be too salty to eat.”

It was all she could come up with to say. She needed time to think. She wanted money, a chance at a life that didn’t end in a paupers’ hospital or on a street where people would step over her body until someone had the courtesy to roll it out of the way. But she wasn’t sure getting thrown into a river or poisoned by a rival sounded much better.

Santángel drew a velvet pouch from his pocket and upended it over the writing desk that sat beneath the window. It landed with a clatter.

“A bean?” she asked. “Do you wish for me to add it to the soup?”

“I wish for you to show me the talent you displayed in the courtyard.”

She couldn’t do that. Not in the quiet of this room. Not without some way to hide her words. “Then you’re done trying to scare me?”

“If I wanted you frightened, you would be. I want you to recognize the danger you will face.”

“Yes, señor. I understand. I will most likely be murdered in my bed.” “You may. But you may also see this through and win.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I have lived long enough to believe all things are possible.”

He didn’t look very old. Ill and headed to an early grave, but not old. “Possible,” she said. “But unlikely.”

“Very,” he conceded. “My job is to prepare you and to make sure your miracles don’t doom you.”

“You can keep me from damnation?”

“I can at least try to ensure you don’t bring it to your door.” “Or to Don Víctor’s.”

“Correct. There are certain places your miracles must not go.

Resurrection, transformation. Only God in His glory can turn one thing into another.”

“Like turning water into wine.” “Just so.”

“But don’t alchemists strive to turn lead into gold?” “That is science, not a miracle.”

“That makes no sense,” Luzia protested, even as she told herself to stay silent. Be humble. Be grateful.

“Take it up with the Inquisition. Illusions belong to the devil. Miracles belong to God.”

“And my milagritos?”

“Are the way God speaks through you. At least that is what you will say when asked.”

“Why would God choose me?”

“Because God loves the wretched,” he snapped. “I’ve answered enough of your questions, so here is one of mine: Have you heard of Lucrecia de León?”

“The girl who had visions.”

“Prophetic dreams. Hundreds of them. She predicted the defeat of our king’s armada.”

“Then she was no liar.”

“Maybe not, but now she dreams in a cell in Toledo, imprisoned by the Inquisition. She will be tried and found guilty of fraud and heresy, maybe witchcraft, maybe more.”

“Will they burn her?” Luzia didn’t want to show her fear.

“Another possibility. If she’s fortunate she will be reconciled, whipped, and exiled. Did she predict the defeat of the armada, or did she somehow bring it about? There is a fine line between a saint and a witch, and I wonder if you are prepared to walk it.”

“Have I been offered a choice?”

He seemed to consider this. “You could choose not to enter the torneo. It would spare us all the humiliation of defeat.”

Here it was: a new invitation, a chance to choose wisdom over her own pride.

“And if I try to win?” she asked, unable to help herself.

“Then I will help you and we will strive to make the best of all our bad decisions. That means practicing, not spending your afternoon stirring the soup. Víctor de Paredes’s commands must be followed.”

Maybe so. But they’d reached the end of this dance. She could risk nothing before this stranger.

Luzia shrugged and took pleasure in turning her back to him. “And yet the soup must be stirred.”