Luzia’s new room had no lock, and even if it had she wouldn’t have dared to use it. But she put her single chair up against the door, for reasons she

couldn’t explain. She didn’t think Valentina was going to come whip her with a reed in the night, and she had never feared advances from Don Marius. He had beaten her more than once and often at Valentina’s request, when she felt her arm too feeble for the discipline required. But Luzia had never worried about him cornering her in a dark hallway. The man’s only passion was expensive horseflesh. Besides, she wasn’t a stranger in this house. She knew the smell of this room, the linen that she had herself washed in cold water. What would it be like to lie beneath the roof of the

De Paredes house? Or at La Casilla? Would a palace have the same smells? Did Guillén Santángel sleep in fine quarters, or was he shoved into some attic, left to roost like a bat?

He was cold and snide, but she couldn’t deny his knowledge. She would gladly endure his contempt if he could help her win the torneo and keep her from the Inquisition’s notice. She had heard the words in her head, just as he’d instructed, and she’d seen them too, forming in the darkness as if written in golden ink, dancing when they found her tune. Scullions didn’t read or write, and she had no interest in inviting more questions about her background. She could work her milagritos and keep the refranes from her aunt’s letters all to herself. Here was the chance she had prayed for.

Luzia thought briefly of the hams and the garlic bulbs strung like

decorations for a party in the larder. She’d heard of soldiers who returned from long sieges and chose to sleep on hard floors because they couldn’t

tolerate the luxury of a soft mattress. But maybe Luzia was not of a military bent, or perhaps one dark room is very much like another, because she fell asleep instantly and dreamed of rows of orange trees, the paths between them tidy with white gravel, the sky blue and cloudless overhead. She could

hear the splashing of a fountain, music playing somewhere, a song she knew plucked from the strings of an unfamiliar instrument. She was walking hand in hand with someone, but she couldn’t tell who.

She woke famished and dressed slowly, unable to shake the pleasure of the dream. The languor of it had seeped into her limbs and made her

movements feel like steps in a dance she was still learning. Corset, stockings, skirts. She hummed along to each task, her mind grabbing at that song from the dream, trying to place where she’d heard it before.

Luzia descended to the kitchen to stoke the fire and start the bread. There was still work to be done, no matter where she slept; Valentina was right about that. At the market she dared to spend a little money on an

empanadilla stuffed with pork and sweet raisins. Águeda made hers with quince-bud wine and Luzia could admit they were better, but she sat down in the sun and ate it with relish anyway, letting the feeling she’d had in the orange grove overtake her, the peace of it, the delight of that hand in hers. She’d once helped Hualit choose silks for gowns and they’d run like cool water through her fingers. This had been a similar kind of pleasure. She tried humming that song again, felt it spark beneath her tongue. It wanted to be something, if only she could think of the words.

When she returned to Casa Ordoño, she tied on a fresh apron and tucked her hair tightly under her cap. She considered her reflection in the bulge of a tin pitcher. She had tried to make sure there was no dirt left on her neck, but she could do nothing about the sheen of sweat on her brow, the

ruddiness of her cheeks acquired in the heat of the kitchen, the freckles that hovered like clouds of pollen on her skin.

Águeda burst out laughing. “Is the fine lady preparing to receive visitors?

You can look as long as you like, it won’t make you any prettier.”

Luzia set down the pitcher with a clang. “Perhaps I should take up bathing nude in the moonlight. Quiteria Escárcega says it works wonders for the complexion.”

But Águeda only huffed. “It will take more than that, tonta.” “May you lose two teeth for every one you have,” Luzia muttered.

“Who do you hope to impress? Is Don Víctor come to grace us with his presence again? No doubt he’ll bring that cursed creature with him.”

For a moment Luzia pictured Víctor de Paredes with a bird on his shoulder or a panther at the end of a jeweled leash. She knew who Águeda meant, but she asked anyway. “Creature?”

“El Alacrán.” She crossed herself and spat over her shoulder. “Don Víctor’s servant, though who’s to know what he actually does in that house.”

El Alacrán. The scorpion. Her mother had told her that they were more

dangerous than snakes because when you chased them off, they didn’t have the sense to stay away. They hid until they were ready to strike.

“Why call him that?” Luzia asked. “It’s what he calls himself.”

“He dresses like a gentleman and speaks like one too.”

“Don’t be fooled by his fine manners. And never look directly into his eyes. That’s how he steals souls.” Águeda lowered her voice. “He made a bargain with the devil for eternal life.”

Luzia couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “Then he should get his money back. He seems to be on death’s door.”

“But he never steps through it, does he?” Águeda snatched up a stalk of rosemary, dragging her hand along it to remove the fragrant leaves. “You’d best watch yourself, Luzia Cotado. People who cross paths with that man

come to bad ends. Don’t think I haven’t heard the gossip about your little tricks. That’s the devil’s work, I’ll swear it.”

Luzia yanked the rosemary from Águeda’s hand and tossed it into the fire. “Say those words again and I’ll toss your cap in next.”

“You have no—”

Luzia grabbed the cap from Águeda’s head and threw it into the flames. Águeda shrieked. “You’ve gone mad!”

Maybe she had. But talk of the devil was dangerous. It could take root and grow into a hanging tree. “My little tricks are milagritos. They are a gift from God.”

“The arrogance—”

“A gift from God.” Águeda’s knife rested on the table, waiting to be used on the fish Luzia had brought back from the market in her bucket. Luzia didn’t pick it up but she tapped her fingers on the handle. “Say it.”

“What is wrong with you? I—” “Say it.”

“They’re the work of God,” Águeda bit out.

“Next time you get it in your head to speak the devil’s name in this house, think about what it would mean to have an enemy who has his ear.”

Luzia stepped back. “Peace, Águeda. Think too of what a godly woman might accomplish for you, if you treated her with kindness.”

At that the cook blinked, her indignation and fear giving way to assessment, as if considering for the first time what accidents might befall a lady playwright.

“There,” said Luzia. “One must never expect miracles, but one can hope for them all the same.”

She expected to find Santángel waiting for her in her room, and she nearly stumbled when she saw Hualit sitting at the writing desk, Doña Valentina hovering at the window. At least she had an excuse to look flustered.

“At last,” Hualit said, rising from her seat so gracefully she seemed to simply float upward. She was in her full Catalina de Castro de Oro regalia, swathed in black velvet, her sleeves voluminous and pinked in an elaborate pattern to reveal the cream satin beneath. The corset smashed her breasts into a kind of armor plate so that she looked like a large bell, but somehow it suited her. “I’ve been so longing to meet you. You’re the talk of Madrid.”

The words were a near exact echo of what Hualit had said to Luzia in the chapel at San Ginés, and she had a strange sense of doubling. They were

Luzia and Hualit, niece and aunt. They were two strangers, scullion and widow.

Valentina’s hands fluttered, then settled at her waist. “Señora de Castro de Oro has agreed to help prepare you for La Casilla.”

“That is very kind of you, señora,” Luzia said, and curtsied.

Hualit’s brows shot up. Luzia had practiced her curtsy in her new room the previous night, tucking one foot behind the other. It wasn’t so hard, not when your legs and back were strong from servants’ work.

“It is, isn’t it?” Hualit murmured under her breath. She took a slow turn around Luzia and said, “Well, this won’t be easy. She’s too short to be imposing, and I could wish for a finer complexion. But Pérez should look at her and see a weapon to be honed. Besides, Gracia de Valera is one of the other hopefuls and it would be foolish to try to place them on even footing.”

“I don’t know that name,” said Valentina. “No? She is often at court.”

Luzia wanted to celebrate her aunt’s cruelty, but she couldn’t help feeling that in this moment, she and Valentina, ordinary gray birds seldom seen far

from their roost, had more in common than she and Hualit.

Hualit clapped her hands and strode toward the door. “Come. There’s much to do.”

“You’re leaving?” Valentina asked.

“We are leaving. It will be easiest if we visit Perucho at his warehouse.” “You cannot take her!”

Hualit paused and turned slowly on her heel, the movement exaggerated, almost comical. “We will go together, will we not?”

“Together?”

“Of course. You need new dresses too. Or did I misunderstand?” How clearly Luzia grasped Valentina’s longing, her humiliation. “We cannot …” Valentina’s voice was hoarse. “We cannot go

unaccompanied.”

Widows had greater freedom than most women. Wealthy widows even more. But there were limits.

“My confessor will go with us,” Hualit said as if it were obvious. “He is waiting in the coach.”

“Your coach?”

Hualit’s lips twitched. So Valentina wasn’t totally without spine. “The coach belongs to Don Víctor, but he has offered us use of it.”

Luzia watched Valentina hesitate. She didn’t know which rule she might be violating, which liberty she might be taking. She would have to ask Don Marius for permission to leave. Luzia wondered what Hualit would do if Valentina said no, if she forbade Luzia from going. She probably should. It

would put Hualit in her place, and Luzia knew her aunt: such a show of will would impress her. But Luzia didn’t want Valentina to refuse this opportunity. The greedy thing inside her was hungry for velvet and fur.

“I will fetch my cloak,” Valentina said.

Hualit smiled and Luzia couldn’t help smiling too.

Valentina had purchased her two house dresses from a market stall and made the third—the same gown she’d worn for her wedding—herself.

There was no pride in this. She knew wealthy women had their own tailors who brought them fabrics or even gowns from Italy or France.

Valentina’s confessor, who was much older and sterner and more covered in whiskers than the young man riding beside the widow, had told her that it

was a woman’s nature to be too concerned with worldly matters and that this was how the devil tempted Eve in the world’s first garden. He’d told her the story of a young countess who had pined after a ruby brooch with such fervor that she’d woken with a forked tongue.

So Valentina knew that both her soul and her tongue were in danger as the coach rattled over the streets, and yet she couldn’t stop her wayward, venal thoughts. It was unseemly, immoral, but try as she might to tamp it

down, she felt as if her delight was oozing from her pores, slicking her skin. It was not just the promise of new clothes. To ride in a coach down the street, to see the world passing by in such colors. She would have happily ridden around the entire city that way, her mind scrambling to recognize

streets and monuments, taking in fountains and storefronts and flocks of pale-breasted pigeons. Valentina lifted her wrist to her nose; the sachet of dried herbs tied to her sleeve was stuffed with rosemary and sage and she breathed deeply. It was made to protect the wearer from foul smells, but nothing could be foul about this moment. The stink of the city, even the

sludge of garbage and excrement in its streets, was beautiful today.

Marius looked ill at ease in the close quarters of the coach, but he’d been unwilling to let his wife venture out with Catalina de Castro de Oro, priest in tow or not. Widow she might be, favored for her wit and beauty, and welcomed among the best families. But her allegiance was to Don Víctor, and he didn’t want her alone with their Luzia.

Not that Marius had asked, but Valentina thought he was right to worry.

There was a peculiar ease between Luzia and the widow. Maybe ease wasn’t the right word. It was as if each word they spoke had another meaning tucked beneath it.

When their party emerged onto the street, Valentina felt another jolt of exultation. They hadn’t gone far, only to Puerta de Guadalajara, but it felt as if they were an entire ocean away from Casa Ordoño. She wasn’t sure what to call the building they entered, part shop and part warehouse. It was not

like a butcher’s or a bookseller’s, but a kind of silo for the storage of luxury, two tall stories full of shelves and racks, connected by walkways and ladders, the stacks of folded fabric and heaps of brocade looming over three cutting tables and a chorus of stuffed dress forms, their torsos pinned with

swags of stiff silk and wound with bolts of lace. Two rows of heads bracketed the doors in jeweled caps and veils. Cases full of feathers caught the light from the window, their shelves laden with carefully constructed

panaches wound with gold and silver wire, striped pheasant feathers, blue and red parrot, iridescent plumes shimmering green then yellow.

“You’re staring,” Marius said, pinching her elbow and steering her along. “Why should I not stare?” she snapped without thinking. “Would a blind

man not stare at his first sight of the world?”

Now he goggled at her and she wondered if he might strike her or … she didn’t know what. She had never attracted Marius’s attention or his ire.

But the widow looped her arm through Valentina’s. “So few pleasures are allowed to women. No wonder we ache for a little silk.”

“It is sinful,” Valentina said, hating her prim, fussy voice.

The widow only winked. “More sinful to walk around naked.”

“This is why there are no tailors in hell,” said a short man dressed in heavily embellished layers of plum brocade.

The widow’s confessor made a disapproving mew, and Valentina didn’t know whether to laugh or beg forgiveness for keeping company with such people.

The tailor bowed to each of them, welcoming them warmly and introducing himself as Perucho with the air of someone who expected his name to be well-known. He wore his hair long and parted in the center, his mustache elaborately oiled. Beside her she felt Marius recoil. While the tailor’s accent was pristine, he had the air of the foreign about him.

“You have noted the work of our plumajero,” he said, gesturing to the cases. “Second only to the king’s. Egret, ostrich, parrot, even night heron. Note the colors. You’ll find no alum here. We dye with turmeric and berries from Persia more purple than a bruise.” He shepherded them toward one of the tables. “Come. I’ve just returned from a buying trip that took me over land and sea, and I have such treats prepared for you.”

But as he spoke he bobbed his head very subtly toward customers in another corner of the shop, a father and daughter.

The girl was like a tiny doll, her laugh high and sweet, her reddish-gold hair worn pulled back from her face in two jeweled combs.

“Ah,” said the widow, her eyes sparkling with interest. “Teoda Halcón. I trust you didn’t waste your best wares on that little viper.”

“She is a child,” Valentina said, scandalized.

Teoda turned as she and her father exited the shop, her gaze roving over their group and landing on Luzia, her lips curling into a smile.

“That is not an ordinary girl,” said the widow when they were gone. “That is the Holy Child.”

Her confessor crossed himself. “Of the sacred visions.”

“She’s one of your competitors,” the widow said to Luzia. “Take note.” “A little girl?” asked Valentina.

The widow nodded. “That little girl speaks to angels. Her visions are remarkably accurate.”

“A pure heart,” said the confessor. “The embodiment of innocence.” “We’ll see,” said the widow.

“What did her father buy for her?” asked Don Marius.

“Fripperies,” chortled the merchant. “Gifts for his dear one. His business often takes him to Germany and the Netherlands, so he has little need for my services.” He exchanged a look with the widow that Valentina didn’t understand. “Now, Luzia, let me see you. I’ve heard so much about your milagritos. I’m not so crass that I will ask for a demonstration, but perhaps when I transform you, this humble merchant will earn himself an invitation to dine with your benefactors.”

Marius stiffened and Valentina felt a sense of sadness. Her husband would never welcome such a man into their house, but what beautiful things might she acquire if he did?

Perucho stepped back and considered Luzia. “How is a scullion to

impress a king? She is both performer and servant, so how to show her to best advantage?”

“She should dress as the other competitors in the torneo,” said Marius gruffly.

Again the merchant laughed. “That would be a disastrous mistake. The prince is of scant concern to us—”

“Prince?” Valentina squeaked. “Luzia will compete against a prince?”

But Perucho continued on. “The Holy Child will wear pale colors to compliment her hair and eyes. And Señorita Gracia de Valera … Well. She has her own tailor, an Italian, and though it pains me to admit it, a genius. But this …” He gestured to Luzia. “A challenge. She has a waist. That’s something. It’s too bad we can’t show the bosom. If only she weren’t so dark. Like a little nut.”

“I know how I should be dressed.”

They all stared at Luzia, and Valentina realized that she had nearly forgotten the woman could talk.

“Is that so?” said the widow.

“I cannot compete with beauty. I cannot be winsome like a child. So give me armor. Make it seem as if I have chosen to be humble.”

“Intriguing,” mused Perucho.

“You have my attention,” said the widow.

Luzia’s eyes were sullen as she held Catalina de Castro de Oro’s gaze and sank into another shockingly graceful curtsy. Valentina wasn’t sure if they had just formed a friendship or if she was watching soldiers prepare to face each other in the field. Either way, she would have three new gowns and

perhaps a new cap if she budgeted carefully.