It was still cold on the eastern terrace and Luzia was grateful for her cape and her wool stockings. Gracia de Valera sat upon a golden chair, her
luminous face shaded by two servants holding a fringed canopy. She wore a gown of coral velvet, the bodice embroidered with tiny buds and flowers,
the sleeves and ruff thick with seed pearls. Her large blue eyes slid once to Luzia, then back at whatever dream of glory lay in the middle distance.
An artist was laboring over an easel, his hands dirty with charcoal, the
table beside him piled with sketches. He seemed to be working in a kind of frenzy, as if his hands couldn’t move fast enough to capture the perfection of Gracia’s features.
Another long table had been laid with platters of fruit and breads baked into the shapes of birds. Teoda Halcón sat on a raised cushion beneath an apple tree, her red-gold hair braided with ribbons, her dress a cascade of
white ruffles. Two of her ladies stood at a distance whispering to each other.
Luzia wondered if she should worry about poison, but unless someone had decided to kill them all, it seemed safe to pile her plate with bread and fruit.
Learn from them, Santángel had said. Very well. If she hoped to survive in Philip’s court she would need to become a spy for herself.
She made her way to Teoda and sat down on the other tuffet, trying to arrange her skirts.
“We were not introduced last night,” the little girl said in her high, sweet chirp.
“No. But I saw you once. At Perucho’s warehouse with your father.” “Perucho is the best of tailors. I had hoped he might make me something
a little more interesting, but my father says the king prefers traditional styles.” She took a sip from her tiny white cup.
“Is that chocolate?”
“Yes, and it’s very good. Have you had it before?”
“Only once,” Luzia admitted. Hualit had arranged for it at her home. A gift from Víctor. Luzia and her father had met there and they’d watched Ana stir the pot, smelling the cinnamon and cloves, and that strange, bitter, wonderful smell. It was one of the last times she could remember her father being clear in his thoughts. He’d made up silly rhymes for them and told the story of when he’d first met Luzia’s mother. Luzia had thought, If this is what life can be, it is enough.
Teoda signaled to one of her women. “Bring La Hermanita a cup of chocolate.”
“I prefer Luzia.”
“Luzia, then.” She bobbed her head toward the artist. “My father had a
miniature made of me on my sixth birthday. This seems a far more elaborate affair. I’ve been told only the winner will be painted in oils. The artist is Italian, brought from Venice at great expense. He’s been laboring over Gracia’s sketches for over an hour.”
“You can hardly blame him.”
“She is very beautiful. Like a lady in a ballad. She should enjoy the attention while she can.”
“You don’t think she can win?” Luzia asked carefully.
Teoda met Luzia’s gaze over her cup. “You’re the one who specializes in miracles.” She glanced toward the palace, shading her eyes. “Oh good, the farmer has arrived.”
Fortún Donadei emerged into the autumn sunshine, pulling at the lace of his collar, the golden cross resting against his chest. He smiled cautiously when he saw them and waved as if from a country road, then dropped his hand, catching himself in the blunder. He had some kind of stringed instrument slung over his back.
“And what do you think of his prospects?”
The Holy Child made a humming noise. “Well, his manners need work, but he’s certainly not a fraud. We should be so lucky. No, his power is real, but probably not the most valuable of his gifts.” She cocked her head to the side. “He is so very beautiful. So many white teeth, such marvelous curls. And funded by Doña Beatriz Hortolano, who will happily have you murdered in your bed should you look at him with too much interest.”
It was strange to hear such words from the mouth of a child, but Luzia supposed Teoda Halcón was no ordinary child. She had seen the future, the
past, into the hearts and minds of men. One of her ladies arrived with a cup of chocolate set on a delicate saucer.
Luzia took it and thanked her but then paused. “You do not drink,” Teoda observed.
“It’s very hot still.”
The girl grinned, a dimple appearing in her cheek. “Here,” she said, handing Luzia her half-full cup. “Take mine and I will drink from yours.”
“I feel foolish.”
“Don’t. I heard someone slipped a scorpion beneath your pillow. You’re right to be cautious.”
Luzia shrugged and they traded cups. They lifted them in a toast and drank. She hadn’t expected to like the Holy Child, but she did.
Fortún approached and bowed to them. “Señoritas, may I join you?”
“We would be honored,” said Teoda. She gestured for him to sit and he settled on a chair a respectful distance away. “Have you come to play for us?”
“Only if you wish it,” he said, setting the vihuela at his feet. “I’m more at ease with an instrument in my hands. For a farmer’s son, conversation is
more frightening than a bit of music.”
“We were speaking of Señorita de Valera.” “She was most impressive last night.” Teoda’s dimple appeared again. “Was she?”
He ducked his head and stammered out, “Per—perhaps not so much as her patron expected.”
“Very diplomatic.”
Fortún reached for the neck of his vihuela, then thought better of it. “I … May I ask you something, Señorita Halcón?”
Luzia was surprised by the girl’s giddy laugh.
“I wondered if you would come right out and ask,” Teoda said. “Luzia has not quite worked up the courage. Usually people want to know if they will find true love or make a great fortune, but I think I can guess your question. You wish to know which of us will win the torneo?”
His bronzed cheeks flushed. “Have I made a fool of myself?”
“No, but I can offer no predictions. My angel is silent when my own fate is too bound up in the outcome.”
“I suppose that’s for the best,” he replied, looking around at the gardens, the glorious facade of the house. “That way we can all dream a little
longer.”
At those words, Teoda’s merry grin faltered. “Is something wrong?” Luzia asked.
Her small shoulders rose and fell. Her gaze was distant. “It’s this house. My dreams are troubled here. There’s too much silver, too much gold. All of it plunder. All of it stinking of death. At night the walls bleed.”
Fortún’s hand closed over the gold cross he wore, as if he were afraid she’d try to take it from him. “That treasure is Spain’s by right, as God has willed it.”
Teoda seemed to wake from her brooding. “Of course,” she said with a bright smile. “As God and our great king have willed it. Now, I’m getting restless.”
She gestured for one of her ladies to help her rise. Luzia hadn’t considered how difficult getting up might be and suddenly missed her stern performance dress with its meager verdugado.
“Signor Rossi,” Teoda called, “only God can master perfection. To pretend otherwise is blasphemy.”
The artist looked up, flustered, brow shining with sweat.
Gracia rose, a blossom gilded by the morning sun, and joined her own ladies, one of whom offered her a broad-brimmed hat trimmed in pale green ribbon. She drifted into the gardens, trailed by two of Pérez’s footmen. As if she were the one who needed protection.
“I don’t know what to make of Señorita Halcón,” said Fortún, his eyes on the girl as she took Gracia’s place in the golden chair, her feet dangling well off the ground. “That was … quite terrifying.”
Maybe she had wanted to scare them. But Luzia didn’t think so. “I suspect it’s much more frightening for her.”
“I hadn’t considered that,” he mused. “She’s meant to be an answer to the traitor Lucrecia de León. I don’t see how we can compete with such a
talent.”
“You believe in the Holy Child’s visions?”
“What I believe doesn’t matter. If Pérez and the king believe in her … Well.” Again he reached for his vihuela and this time he lifted it, let it rest across his knees. “If I may say so, your performance last night was extraordinary. Though …”
Luzia waited.
Fortún glanced at the path down which Gracia had disappeared. “I wonder if it was the performance you originally intended?”
As much as Gracia de Valera deserved the blame, Fortún might simply be looking for gossip to repeat. “Opportunity is like porridge. It must be eaten hot.”
“And you really are a kitchen scullion?” “I can’t pretend otherwise.”
“As a simple farmer’s son, I wouldn’t wish you to. I’m so glad you’re here.” Her face must have shown her surprise because he said hurriedly, “Have I said something wrong? I … I feel as if everyone here speaks the same language I’ve known my whole life, and yet I can’t understand a word.”
Luzia knew that feeling well. It was only that she was fairly sure no one had ever told her they were glad to see her. The closest was Águeda shouting, Finally! Go fetch more water.
“You said nothing wrong. I’m pleased to be here.”
He smiled, his teeth bright against his sun-browned skin. “What a
pleasure to have a few hours of leisure. I feel as if we’re children left alone without our mothers.”
“We’re not alone,” Luzia said with a meaningful glance at the guards who stood at every doorway.
“No, I suppose not. I heard of your brush with death last night.” “It wasn’t such a near thing, I assure you.” Luzia chose her words
carefully. “Doña Beatriz is your patroness?”
“Yes.” Fortún’s hand returned to the gold cross, studded with hefty ovals of jade, a massive emerald at its center, the green dark and cool as a shaded wood. Luzia’s rosary looked shabby in comparison, but she suspected its weight was easier to bear.
“Such a generous gift,” she ventured.
He gave an uneasy laugh and dropped his hand. “Yes. She is most generous, most kind.”
“Is it very important to her that you win?”
A ferocity came into his gaze. “It is important to me.” He dropped his chin and she wondered if he was going to start apologizing again. But he leaned closer. “You are really, truly a scullion?”
“Must I show you my hands as I did Pérez?” “Perhaps your callouses are milagritos too.”
“I can tell you how to make a lye mixture from grape lees or how to iron a ruff to make a fine curve, if that will help you feel at ease.”
Fortún rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. “Forgive me.
This is all …”
“I know.” Overwhelming, baffling, nothing like the existence that had come before.
“I’m a farmer’s son. My days were shaped by sunrise and sunset, by rainfall, fear of blight. When Doña Beatriz found me she gave me music, art, the finest food I’ve ever eaten. I should tell you I loved the simple life, that I long for home, but …” That brilliant smile appeared again, smaller
this time, a kept secret. “I don’t! I don’t want my father’s life. I don’t want to work until my back breaks. I don’t want to clear fields of stones and harvest the fruit and work the presses. I like this easy life.”
Luzia couldn’t help but smile back. “You think a life at court will be easy?”
“Do I sound like a clay-brain?”
“You sound like someone who would rather sleep on a soft bed than a hard one. There are worse sins.”
“Sins,” he repeated. He plucked a few notes from the strings at the vihuela’s neck. “You must understand I … I belong to her. In every way. De Paredes does not … He isn’t …?”
Luzia knew she should be offended, but the suggestion was so absurd she couldn’t be. “Víctor de Paredes would sooner sell his beard than find himself in my bed.”
“Ah.” Fortún seemed almost disappointed.
“I’m flattered you think a rich man would want me for his mistress.” “Why wouldn’t he?”
“Señor Donadei, if we are to be friends, don’t flatter me. It makes you look a fool and makes me feel like one.”
“I know you’re not a city beauty. But …” He shrugged. “You look like the girls from my town.”
Was this flirtation? Luzia didn’t know, but the Holy Child was right—he was charming.
Fortún plucked another series of notes, rising and falling. “You aren’t scandalized by my situation?”
Luzia realized she’d made a misstep. She should be scandalized, horrified, at a man addressing such things with her, at the idea of a woman
violating her marriage vows to take a young musician as her lover. Men and women were brought before the Inquisition for fornication and lewd behavior often enough. But her time with Hualit had made her too ready to accept vice.
“I’m afraid I’ve revealed myself,” she said as lightly as she could. “I’m not one of your good country girls. I was raised in the city, and I’ve seen things I shouldn’t and heard things I never wished to.” It was the best
excuse she could offer, and it wasn’t untrue. “Do you love her? Doña Beatriz.”
“I loathe her.” The words rumbled in his throat, like a pot brought to boil. “It’s why I must win. If the king makes me his champion, I will have money, and silks, and fine food, and I will not have to fuck her to get it.
Maybe then I won’t hate myself so thoroughly.”
Now Luzia knew she should excuse herself with some loud declaration of disgust. A worthy woman would be scandalized at such language. But no
one had heard. No one but her.
“You should be careful,” she said, her voice low. “What?”
“I could turn around and tell Doña Beatriz what you’ve said. It would be that easy to ruin your chances and better mine.”
He stared at her, his hazel eyes startled. “But you wouldn’t.” “You don’t know me.”
“We are the only two people here who understand what it is to work until your hands bleed. I knew you as soon as I met you, and I know you won’t tell her because you’re not a pretty snake like Gracia de Valera.”
Maybe Luzia should tell. A clever competitor would steal any advantage. “I won’t,” she conceded, neglecting to add for now. “But this isn’t the
country. You can’t … well, you can’t be so honest.”
“I can.” His bright smile returned, a white sail unfurling. “If I choose my friends wisely.”
“Then tell me something useful. Do you know what the next trial will be?”
“Our purity will be tested. I’ve been told we will face Satan in front of the vicar, but I don’t know what that means.”
Luzia tried to ignore the chill that overtook her. She supposed the devil himself would come to La Casilla if invited. “I’m not sure I want to guess.”
“Luzia!” called Teoda from her perch on the golden chair. “It’s time for you to sit for Signor Rossi.”
Luzia sighed. “Perhaps I look like the girls from his town too.” She started pushing to her feet and was grateful for the hand Fortún offered her, even if it wasn’t quite decorous.
“You cautioned me, Señorita Cotado,” he said. “I’ll give you the same warning: be careful.”
“I hardly think I’m in danger of being too honest.”
“I saw Don Víctor’s servant this morning, riding out for the hunt. El Alacrán.”
“Santángel?”
Fortún nodded. “He is not what he seems.”
She pulled back, forcing him to release her hand. “What do you mean?” “Only what I said. Be careful.”
Fortún smiled and waved her along, as if he’d merely warned of coming rain.
