Back at the house, Luzia helped Águeda remove balls of lead from the game birds. She tucked cloves beneath their skin, stuffed their soft
insides full of currants and bits of pork, tied their legs together with string, and slid them onto an iron spit, the rod so heavy she and Águeda had to lift it together. While Águeda strained a sticky syrup of pomegranates for the sauce, Luzia turned the spit slowly, high enough above the flames that the birds would cook without burning, her face pink and shiny from the heat.
Soon she would baste them with honey and wine so that they might turn golden and become pleasing.
The birds didn’t care if they were cooked or raw, their bodies soft and cold or charred and ready to burst with juices. They were past caring what the fire might do. She had heard of heretics and witches being burned alive alongside Jews and Muslims suspected of keeping to their laws after being baptized. Her own great-grandfather had ended that way, or so her father had told her. They too had been transformed by the fire, and their burning had transformed those who watched, the crowds who gathered to pray and be purified by the purging of dark forces from their midst. Luzia didn’t
want to end in misery, but as she contemplated her soot-stained hem and her feet rough as hooves, she had to admit she was well acquainted with ash and sorrow both.
Too much ambition, her mother had warned, telling the story of Luzia’s birth and how the city had wept for a queen. Too much wanting. Luzia did long for things—a soft bed, fine clothes, a full belly, a chance to rest, and
some things that were harder to name. When she was with Hualit, her mind felt different, as if a dam had burst and the mire of routine gave way, the water racing along, turning clear and lively, her tongue free to get her into
trouble without really getting her into trouble. She wanted to live that way always.
When the roasted birds had been served on rosemary beds, tucked between split pomegranates, when the pears soaked in wine had been nibbled on in their bowls, Luzia climbed the stairs and watched the goblet shatter in the candlelit room. The happy gasps were like honey spread on her skin, turning her golden in the warmth from the fire.
Maybe these pleasures wouldn’t last. Maybe her aunt was right to warn her. What had she really accomplished? She hadn’t so much climbed a mountain as a low hill, but she might as well enjoy the view while she could. And if she was going to throw herself into the flames, why not do it with some decision?
She lifted her eyes from her shoes and met the gazes of the guests. “You all must clap.”
“But you haven’t yet performed,” protested Don Marius, frowning. “One feeds the goat before one takes the milk,” she replied.
“How coarse!” the woman beside her shrieked happily. She nearly knocked her own goblet over as she struck up the clapping, and the others joined in. The laughter felt good this time, maybe because she was the one who made the joke.
Luzia ignored Valentina’s worried expression and let the clapping mask her words as she sang her spell a bit more loudly, the magic leaping up to do her bidding, at play with her. It liked the rhythm of those clapping hands. A change of scene. A change of fortune.
When the glass came together it made a sweet ping as though someone had struck it gently. It filled the room and was then washed away by a tide of applause. But as the clapping tapered off, the man sitting in the corner, at Don Marius’s right hand, leaned forward.
“And?” The word landed like a finger snuffing out a candle. Valentina laughed nervously.
The man had a short beard that he’d used some kind of dye to burnish red. It made him look like he had blood on his chin. His eyes were heavy- lidded, as if the dullness of the evening’s entertainment had lulled him into an early sleep.
“We have all heard about your little trick with the cup,” he drawled. “What else can you do?”
It was as if Hualit had conjured this man to set her back on the proper path. Here was her opportunity to take her punishment, to slide down to the bottom of the hill and burrow beneath it once more.
Maybe if she’d been born on a different day, or even at a different hour, without the prayers for a queen’s soul echoing in her ears, she might have done just that. But she could be no one but herself.
On that very first night, when she had repaired the cup, to save Valentina from her husband’s contempt, to save herself from the tiresome weight of humility, she had felt herself rise into the night. She had seen Madrid from above, its crooked streets, the dark gap of the Prado. What might she see if she ventured higher? The old apartment where her mother had pushed a pen into her hand, the slums where her father once sold rags, the cursed bridge where he had died. Roads carved into the countryside, the torchlit walls of El Escorial far beyond, meadows and fields and farmland, and somewhere in the distance, the black nothingness of the sea, the faint glimmer of an island in the darkness, a hopeful lantern swaying from a ship’s mast. How big might the world become?
Or she could remain here, in this room, in this house. She could return to her dirt floor and take root like some kind of turnip. She could shuffle her feet and play the oaf. Valentina would beat her. Marius would join in. But they could all put their delusions aside and go back to what they’d been. All would be as it was, the goblet restored and placed back on the shelf to gather dust after its brief moment of incandescence.
“Well?” demanded the man with the red beard. “See how she stands there like a knob of rock. You expect me to believe God would place real power in the hands of such a creature?”
“God or the devil,” murmured the woman who had laughed so heartily at Luzia’s joke.
The man laughed. “Surely the devil would choose a more pleasing means of seduction.”
“Clap your hands,” Luzia said, surprised at the command in her voice. It had the snap of a whip over a horse’s back.
The man’s laugh died on his lips. Who was a peasant to command a person of his stature? And yet, in this room, on this night, he had asked for her to perform, and so her impudence must be permitted. Such was the temporary power of the singer, the actor, the fool.
“Clap your hands,” she demanded, and they obliged.
Luzia felt the song, hot under her tongue like the seeds of a pepper. The noise cloaked her tune, a familiar song, one she used when the coals in the hearth had gone cold. Ken vende el sol, merka la kandela. A warning. A
chastisement. He who sells the sun must buy candles. Luzia could see Hualit’s finger wagging, but in her mouth the words caught fire.
The candles on the table and the sideboard had been guttering in their wax pools, burned down to the nubs. But now the flames shot upward, gouts of yellow light that nearly reached the ceiling.
Don Marius gave a shriek as his sleeve caught fire. He banged his arm against the table, trying to quench the flames. Valentina hurled a pitcher of water at him.
Everyone pushed their chairs back. They were all talking at once. Luzia knew she had done too much and yet she didn’t want to stop. En lo eskuro es todo uno.
The song took shape easily, as if it had been waiting for her; it sent a chill through her like a cloud passing over the sun.
There was no need for her to raise her arm, but she did, demanding the audience’s attention. With a whoosh the candles were extinguished, leaving the room in darkness.
Now everyone was chattering and shouting. “I shall faint!” the woman cried.
Valentina lit a candelabra. Her hands were trembling and she dropped the torch as it burned the tips of her fingers, but her wide eyes were full of happy wonder. The guests were laughing now, fanning themselves, their
cheeks flushed with pleasure. Light had been restored, Luzia was once more just a serving girl who had done her best to entertain. The delicious illusion of danger had passed and they could all exclaim about it and marvel over Don Marius’s scorched sleeve.
But not the man with the red beard. Only he stayed silent and seated. He didn’t look sleepy any longer. He certainly didn’t look pleased. He remained in his chair, staring at Luzia, still as a cat that has spotted its prey.
