The cell was lonely without Teoda and without hope. Neva slept more than anyone Luzia had ever encountered and she listened jealously to
the old woman’s snores. She would have liked to sleep through these interminable days.
Rudolfo was posted at her door all night long now and he wasn’t happy about it, but his bad mood was tempered by anticipation for the love spell he was owed.
“It isn’t time yet,” Luzia told him. “I need to know more about your beloved.”
“She is beautiful,” Rudolfo told her. “Smooth skinned, eyes like—” “Sapphires. Yes, so you told me. But what are her interests? Where is she
from?”
Rudolfo faltered.
“Do you want wobbly magic?” she prodded him. “Do you want her to fall in love with some other man named Rudolfo?”
“No!” he cried.
“Everyone knows Mariposa Baldera is beautiful. You must discover her
likes and dislikes, find out about her family, learn everything you can about her.”
“How am I to do all that?” “Talk to her.”
“I couldn’t.”
Luzia sighed. “Then there’s nothing I can do.”
“You will help me or I won’t let you out to collect your rations. You will starve!”
“Do as you must,” said Luzia. “You will be the one to live without love.”
The next day he returned. “Mariposa is from Salamanca. She has a brother who is about to start at the university. She likes fried fish and lilies.”
“Then you must bring her lilies.” “It is November!”
“Bring me a bulb.”
“I can’t afford such things.”
“Then dig one up in the monastery gardens.” “That is a crime!”
“You can be an honorable man or you can have love, Rudolfo.” Really, was it any kind of question at all?
He brought her the bulb, and she whispered over it, and Rudolfo had lilies to bring to the girl he loved.
“Can you make me rich?” Rudolfo asked when he returned. “The man courting her is rich.”
“Does she love him?” “I don’t know.”
“Did you ask her?”
Teoda had promised Rudolfo magic to earn a few favors, and Luzia had kept the charade going to avoid reprisal when he discovered love spells
were nonsense. But now she liked the idea of Rudolfo finding favor with his lady. Now that he didn’t smell of sweat and his teeth were less stained
and he had actually bothered to speak to her rather than gawking at her like all the other dullards, maybe there was hope for them both. Besides, it was the only entertainment she had.
“Are you certain he deserves her?” Neva asked when a glowing Rudolfo told her he had finally stolen a kiss.
“Better a man who works for her love than a man who buys her for a beauty that will fade. He talks to her. He treats her kindly.”
“It won’t last,” Neva scoffed, and rolled onto her side to sleep. “People forget the work it takes to make wine. They drink it down and wonder why the cup is empty.”
True enough. But there was only so much within Luzia’s power. If she couldn’t be happy, if she couldn’t live past this week, someone should have the joy she hadn’t managed to keep.
The next day, Rudolfo arrived with her water jug. “You’re to wash,” he said.
“Sentencing,” said Neva. “I haven’t seen my son in two years, but I guess I need to be a famous beata with money coming out of my ass if I’m to get any answers from the tribunal.”
“Be silent,” said Rudolfo. It was all he had for an argument.
Luzia took the jug of water from his hands. She could see her face in the surface, a phantom already. Only those who would be sent to die were given their sentences before the pageantry and ritual of the auto de fe.
She heated the water on the stove, then washed as best she could, standing in the basin. She didn’t care what the judges thought of her appearance, but she didn’t know if she’d have a chance to clean herself again.
She was led downstairs and out into the large, empty courtyard, and on into the sala dorada, the gilded coffers of its ceiling floating above her, the tiles patterned in undulating ribbons beneath her feet. She remembered the water choking her, filling her throat, the darkness crowding in, Hualit’s lipless, eyeless face. There should be no beauty here, she thought. There should be no lie to offer visitors or dignitaries. There should be no pleasure for the men who tied me down.
Two big windows looked out into the courtyard and the walls of the prison beyond. Why didn’t she know words for flight? Or was that another form of magic too big to contain, another spell that would crack her in two? Maybe real miracles did belong to saints. She thought of Teoda’s angel. Did he see a future now? Was he watching over the child who wasn’t a child? If nothing else, Luzia had that proof of her defiance. If Teoda lived, someone would remember.
The inquisitors were seated in their three chairs behind the table, a notary at their side. There would be no torture today, and pain had taught her to be less afraid of death. They wanted her to fear the pyre and being burned alive, but she would never let that happen. She’d repent and let the executioner strangle her. Or maybe she’d let them light the fire, then heal her skin and her lungs until she was too tired and had to let the flames
consume her. What would they think when the heat didn’t blacken her skin? When her hair burned away but her body didn’t turn to ash? Would they set upon her with knives? Pull her apart? Or would they wonder if they’d made a new martyr? She supposed she could just give in to the wild magic and let herself split. Maybe she’d take some of the crowd with her. Or if the king
came to watch, she could try to cut him in half before she died. Let Spain fall into chaos. She wouldn’t be here to punish for the crime.
But Luzia’s steps faltered when she saw the judges weren’t alone. Víctor de Paredes stood in a relaxed pose before a row of chairs to the right of the
tribunal. He wore black silk corded with black velvet and trimmed in silver braid, his hand resting on the jeweled hilt of the sword at his hip. Behind Víctor, the shadows seeming to cling to him like cobwebs, was Santángel.
He was alive, and there was no visible sign of a wound that should have been mortal. She knew that if she unhooked his jacket and pushed aside his tunic, she would find no scar or mark on his smooth skin. He’d lost some of the strength he’d gained at La Casilla, but still he seemed to glow.
Who was he, this man she knew more intimately than any other? She wanted to believe that he’d only stayed away from her because Víctor had prevented him from coming, but that faith felt out of reach. His gaze stayed on her, but she didn’t know how to read it. Was he there to advocate for
her? To denounce her? How long had he and Víctor been here, in conversation with the tribunal?
Don Pedro—or at least the man Luzia thought was Don Pedro since she still struggled to tell them apart—addressed the room at large. “The accused, Luzia Calderón Cotado, has been brought here because Don Víctor de Paredes, a good and wise friend to the Church, has offered to speak on her behalf. If she will answer her conscience and the will of God with true and honest confession, her sentence will be decided by this consulta de fe, her punishment and penance to be performed tomorrow in full sight of the
people of Spain in the Plaza de Zocodover.”
So Víctor had come to claim her after all. Despite the failed torneo and the specter of the Inquisition, she had somehow held her value. But what price would his protection demand?
Now Don Pedro turned to Luzia. “Luzia Calderón Cotado, you have been charged with heresy and for contriving to collaborate with other heretics to pervert the teachings of the Church and mock God Himself. If you speak
now and tell us who led you so astray, you may not save your life, but you will save your soul.”
Luzia wasn’t sure what game they were playing. She might still face a death sentence. Were there words that could keep her from the pyre, even if they landed her forever in Víctor’s debt? Who was she meant to accuse?
And if she said the wrong words, spoke the incorrect incantation, would they drag her back down those stairs and under the water?
Luzia cleared her throat, swallowing her fear. “Ovidio Halcón,” she ventured. The tribunal could do nothing to him or his sister now. “He
introduced me to strange new teachings. He said that I had been misled by my parents and my priests.”
Don Pedro made a dissatisfied grunt. “We are well aware of the Halcóns’ perfidies and your association with them. Ovidio Halcón is beyond our reach but not the reach of God, and when his daughter is apprehended, she will face her own retribution.”
Then Teoda was still alive and free. Luzia hoped she was far from Spain’s borders and that her nights were dreamless.
The man to Don Pedro’s right shifted in his seat. His name Luzia knew now: Don Francisco, the man who had placed the bridal veil so lovingly upon her face.
“If this is all the prisoner can offer, there is nothing we can do for her. It’s clear she isn’t prepared to unburden her conscience fully.”
They wanted new people to blame, new prisoners to fill their cells. But who was she meant to doom?
“Señores,” said Víctor, his wet green eyes fixed on Luzia. “Did I not tell you she is slow-witted? She will need more guidance.”
Don Pedro steepled his fingers. “Tell us what happened beneath the Ordoños’ roof.”
“I already have,” Luzia replied.
“You told us of when you went to mass and when you fasted, but what of your masters?”
Then she was meant to denounce Marius and Valentina. They were the sacrifice Don Víctor wanted her to offer. Luzia thought of the smell of cocido, of Valentina unbraiding her hair, of the sprig of rosemary tucked into her sleeve, the barest scrap of protection, the barest scrap of kindness after years of slaps and punches and disdain.
“They prayed as good people do,” Luzia said. “They met with Antonio Pérez,” Víctor prodded.
Luzia allowed herself a small, embarrassed laugh. “Oh no, señor. They did not keep such company as that. They were not fashionable people.”
Don Víctor’s hand flexed on the hilt of his ornamental sword. He gestured to Santángel. “This is my servant. He helped her prepare for the torneo and can attest to how stupid she is, how easily led. He can encourage truth from her.”
Luzia saw the men of the tribunal blink. The notary frowned and sorted through his pages, his face confused. Luzia knew they would say nothing,
but that each of them would wonder how they had failed to notice the stranger in their midst.
“State your name that it may be entered into our record,” said Don Pedro. “Guillén Barcelo Villalbas de Canales y Santángel.”
“And what role did you play at Casa Ordoño?” “I acted as a kind of tutor to Señorita Cotado.”
“So you had cause to spend time with Don Marius and Doña Valentina.” “No.”
Víctor pressed his lips together.
“Then what good are you to this tribunal?” asked Don Pedro.
“In the years I have served my master, I’ve done all I can to protect his good name. I have seen many people attempt to harm and defame him, and I have learned that the most dangerous attacks are never direct. It is the
arrows shot from the flanks or from behind that find their targets.” “I fail to see what—” Don Pedro began.
But Santángel wasn’t looking at Don Pedro. His opal eyes were trained on Luzia when he said, “Sometimes his critics have even attempted to aim at me in their attempts to do him harm.”
Luzia remembered standing by the lake’s shore before the third trial, full of rage and love, threatening to kill Víctor de Paredes. Santángel had warned her that his luck would ensure her failure. I have seen countless
enemies seek to strike down De Paredes, he’d told her. They’d be better served by harming me. But if they can’t see a target, they can’t take proper aim.
Luzia saw him clearly. She always had. And now he was telling her to attack him, but why? What was his plan?
Don Pedro said, “That’s all very well, but how does it relate to the prisoner?”
“I have testimony to offer,” said Luzia. All she could do was pray Santángel knew what he was doing.
Don Pedro waved his hand impatiently. “Then we will hear it.”
“The man called Santángel did witness my time with the Ordoños. He visited me there nearly every day. I didn’t understand what I was being asked to do. I was told I would be given money, and food, and pretty gowns. So many pretty gowns.” Let them believe she was a fool so long as they believed her. “I was seduced away from the Church and to the devil’s side. By Guillén Santángel.”
Víctor released a surprised croak.
Don Gaspar pushed his chair back and even the notary couldn’t hide his surprise.
“The girl has had her wits muddled,” Víctor attempted.
“Ask my maid from La Casilla,” Luzia continued. “She is in Don Víctor’s employ. Ask her who came to my rooms late at night. It wasn’t Marius Ordoño who took my virtue and invited me to consort with the devil. Santángel admitted to being a demon himself.”
Víctor’s laugh was unconvincing. “The girl is more deluded than I realized.”
“He said Christ was no more than a magician,” Luzia continued, enjoying the anger in Víctor’s eyes. Santángel had pointed the way, and even if she didn’t understand the destination she was choosing, she at least saw the road before her. “He said that resurrection was a trick that anyone could master. Cut him and see how he heals. Stab him through the heart and he will rise up, living and unharmed.”
Santángel smiled. Their path was chosen. The crossroads long past.
The judges didn’t look scandalized, only uncomfortable. The Inquisition considered witchcraft a delusion. The devil was real, but he didn’t visit the kitchens of Madrid. Don Pedro shook his head and Don Francisco sighed.
“It’s clear she’s gone mad,” said Don Víctor, “and would repay my kindness with cruelty. Best to put an end to this pathetic display.”
“You’re right,” said Santángel slowly, testing the words in his mouth. He stepped forward, and the judges recoiled. The scribe made a little mewl. It was as if they were truly seeing him for the first time, a creature of light and shadow, his bright hair, his glittering eyes. “It is time to end this deception. The scullion speaks the truth. I am the devil’s own man.”
