The second trial was to take place at night, and so Valentina wore her black velvet. Her lack of jewels would be less conspicuous in the dark.
Marius had appeared at the door when she was helping Concha finish placing the scalloped cockleshells in Luzia’s braids. He too had worn black and his goose-belly jacket looked a bit snug. The parade of food and wine at La Casilla never stopped. Still, she thought the excess suited him. He loved to hunt and to ride and he’d lost his sullen pallor. His black hair and beard were glossy, his eyes sparkled.
In the past it was as if he’d hoarded the things that brought him pleasure, greeting any question about his day or his interests as a kind of intrusion.
But now he seemed eager to share with her, turning to her at meals to suggest she taste an interesting dish, returning from the hunt brimming with stories, even inquiring over her own day.
Last night he’d told of a man being thrown from his horse, a near deadly thing.
“Well,” she’d said without thinking, “I had to spend the afternoon with Señora Galves, so I’m lucky I didn’t expire from boredom.”
When he’d burst out laughing, she’d nearly toppled from her chair in surprise. Had she ever made her husband laugh?
“Isn’t she the one with the son who writes poetry?” he asked. “Yes. She recited some of his verses for us.”
“Please tell me you remember them.”
“Only the very worst lines,” she confessed. They had spent the rest of the night making up awful couplets and getting very drunk, and as the hour
grew late, the talking turned to kissing, but still they laughed when they stopped to catch their breath. She hadn’t known such a thing was possible or permitted, and though she’d woken with a headache, she felt the price of discovery was well worth it.
Now he said, “Shall we go meet the vicar?” and offered her his arm.
Luzia followed them into the gardens and the blue dusk. Valentina knew this was a holy occasion, a test of purity for the hopefuls, another demonstration of their gifts. She should be solemn in the presence of the vicar and the other church deputies, seated on a raised platform, a blue tent salted with golden stars above them like heaven itself. But the gardens were lit with lanterns and torches, and musicians played from somewhere in the trees. It was hard not to think that she was simply at a party, the most wonderful party she’d ever attended.
Chairs were arranged on one of the lawns and a pretty little stage had been erected, festooned with red and white ribbons, the fabric of the curtain shining gold.
“A puppet show?”
“Yes,” said Catalina de Castro de Oro, approaching with a glass in her hand. “Pérez has brought the puppeteer all the way from Umbria.”
“Italian painters, Italian puppets,” grumbled Marius. “Is nothing Spanish good enough for him?”
The widow lifted a shoulder. “It’s the fashion.” “Is that wine?” Valentina asked.
“Wine and lemonade. A mixture from León they drink during Holy Week.
They call it matar judíos.”
“How clever,” said Luzia softly. “I’ll have to try it.”
The widow lifted her glass in a toast but her smile was sour. The reason soon became clear.
Víctor de Paredes had already taken his seat for the performance. Next to his wife.
Valentina was desperate for a good look at her. She was spoken of as one of Don Víctor’s greatest successes, a woman of beauty and fortune from
one of Spain’s oldest families, a testimony to his luck. Did the widow care because she loved him? Or because her place had been usurped? And why had Don Víctor chosen his mistress to see to Luzia’s care rather than his wife? Was such a thing beneath her in a way it was not beneath Valentina?
“All the luminaries of Madrid are here tonight,” said the widow. “Poets and singers. Even that lady playwright.”
“Quiteria Escárcega?” asked Valentina. “You know her work?”
Valentina exchanged a look with Luzia, and for once they were the ones who knew more than Catalina. “I’ve certainly heard talk of her.”
“Well, there she is in a very peculiar jacket.”
It was odd indeed, rendered in deep crimson velvet and banded with pearls. It made her gown look almost like a military uniform. Her hair was deep brown, her eyes the warm color of the chocolate Valentina had consumed so greedily.
“That woman is a plague,” grumbled Marius. “It’s said she has an apartment in Toledo where men come and go at all hours.”
“Women too,” said the widow.
As if sensing her interest, the playwright turned and met Valentina’s gaze, then lifted her glass, the gesture curiously bold, as if she were raising a sword at the start of a duel. Valentina felt suddenly warm.
“Are you ready?” she asked Luzia, seeking distraction. Luzia nodded, but her face was damp with perspiration.
“Something to drink?” Marius offered. “What is all this fretting? Has Santángel failed to prepare you?”
Luzia didn’t know how to answer. Santángel had met with her that morning and they’d practiced in the gardens, far from prying eyes. He’d been able to learn of the puppet show and they’d strategized on how she could be most ready. But it was clear he was eager to be gone from her presence. Only last night, he had spoken to her, alone in her room, as if they were lovers, tall and white as a phantom, and yet seeming to grow stronger and more beautiful with every day that passed. He had looked at her in the mirror and again she’d had the sense of rising out of her body. She had remembered the dream of the orange grove and she knew that if she did
lose her tether and somehow drifted up into the night sky and over the city, he would find a way to meet her there. She’d been certain of it.
Then he’d snarled at her and left, as if she were just another task to be seen to on his master’s behalf.
What else would you be? The trust they’d built between them was a temporary thing, a pact made at Don Víctor’s request and nothing more. But she found herself wanting to ask what would happen if she did somehow
manage to win. Would her lessons continue? Would his luck remain hers? And which of her secrets had he shared with Víctor de Paredes?
There were other fears she hadn’t considered until last night. She’d dreamed of being raised high in the court, of having a position of security
and even authority, valued, respected. But she would not just be an advisor or courtier—the king would make her his weapon. It was one thing to be wielded against the English or the Dutch. But would she be used to put down rebellions, to murder heretics and indios and Jews and any other enemy of Philip’s God? Would she be covered in the blood Teoda Halcón had seen in her dreams?
As if she had summoned him with her worry, Santángel appeared and said, “You must be led before the vicar. Don Marius, Doña Valentina, you will introduce her.”
“I see,” said Don Marius with a glance to where Víctor de Paredes was seated.
Santángel gave a single nod of acknowledgment. “I will take Luzia to Don Víctor when the blessing is over.”
Luzia let herself be steered toward the dais. More guests had arrived in capes and cloaks, dressed for the cool night. Luzia knew that she should focus on the competition, on the church deputies who sat on the raised
platform, three of them in a row, all in their robes and hats, pristine in white and red and black. She couldn’t help but think it was like an auto de fe in miniature. The torneo’s competitors brought before them as penitents, dressed in fine clothes instead of sanbenitos.
The autumn sun was long gone, and yet she was sweating in her prim gown. Concha had cleaned and starched the collar and cuffs so that they glowed white, and Luzia was grateful that they’d kept her face free of paint, afraid the vicar’s sensibilities would be more offended by artifice than by her freckled brown skin.
I have been baptized, she reminded herself. She went dutifully to mass.
She knew her Pater Noster, the Ave Maria and Salve Regina, her psalms and commandments. She would happily eat ham and mend a dress after sundown on the Sabbath. And yet she felt her magic like a damning thread, binding her to the past, and to every Jew in every synagogue who still bent their head in prayer. Hualit had slipped away. She might sip from a drink that called for the killing of Jews and do it with a wink, but she would not
place herself before the Vicar of Madrid.
