"Salgueiro's vineyards will remain as they are. A field of dead grapevines." Pedro managed a sitting position on the chaise.
"Even theArintograpes? You love the white wine from that hill. As the only producer in the region, if you don't rebuild,Vinho Luzwill cease to exist."
Pedro exhaled and dropped his weight back on the chaise.Vinho Luz. Delicate, it grew on the highest hill, closer to the sun but far from the heat, delicious to drink, a blend of acacias and passion fruit, perfect for sharing. Nowadays, the wine stunk of ashes and crushed desires. "My taste has evolved."
Cris sniffed one of the port bottles scattered over the side table and grimaced. "I doubt it. If you want to get drunk properly, let's go to the madam. At least we'll have better company."
"Better by what standards?" The thought of having a jaded whore brought a sourness to his mouth. Pedro felt with his hand for the decanter on the floor and took a hearty swig.
Cris sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "Until when are you going to brood? It is becoming predictable, and isn't predictability dangerous? You taught me so yourself."
Pedro threw away the empty bottle. It rolled over the Persian rug and vanished below the lacquered piano.
Cris grinned. "You are getting soft. I bet if we fight now, I will win."
"Not while I draw breath, little brother."
Cris pulled his cavalry saber from the scabbard and tested its balance with practiced movements.
Pedro stood. The floor swayed underfoot. With brittle legs, he went to the sword display and chose his favorite, the saber he’d used in the Battle of König Gratzin Bohemia. Lifting the Prussian steel high, he faced Cris at the center of the ballroom. Once a scenery for extravaganzas, it became their arena, the high ceiling and vast space allowing the swords to swing unperturbed.
Light flickered over the blade, glinting off the family motto—non ducor duco.Never the conquest, always the conqueror. Fingers around the grip, hand engulfed by the cross guard, Pedro was in his element. War. In a muddy plain, in a ravine, in a dispatch room, be it fought with a sword, a rifle, or a pen, this was what he was made for.
Pedro circled his brother, bare feet silent. In battle, Cris's height and brawn scared the breath from his enemies. But in their private matches, he never won a single bout. Too decent, he couldn't strike with blood in the eyes.
Pedro slashed forward, testing the sword's weight on his wrist and shoulder. Cris feinted to dodge the attack and parried, his arms flying madly. Pushing and drawing, Pedro cornered his brother between the Grecian column and the window. Using his distraction, Pedro grappled, locking Cris’s blade between their bodies. Cris widened his eyes, a trail of sweat raining down his forehead.
"Keep your left arm close to your body. When will you learn proper technique?"
"I don't mind using energy. I have enough to spare." Cris forced Pedro's sword back with sheer brute force, and Pedro had to withdraw several steps.
"If only you had used it in Mozambique." The words escaped Pedro's mouth before he could check them.
A flush blotched Cris’s neck, and he pushed Pedro away with his fists and raised his weapon, slashing out with right and left cuts. Pedro stepped back, heaving his breaths.
"I knew coming to the Douro would be a terrible idea. Julia moved on. When will you?" Cris panted and withdrew, splaying his hands on his knees.
"You don't know what you ask." Pedro flung away the sword. The saber clanked twice and stilled near his mother's harp—a twisted pair on the pristine marble.
"Tell me, then. Make me understand."
He’d hoped marrying Julia would bring him peace, would cleanse his soul. Pedro pointed at his chest. God, how he hated his brother’s concern. Exhaling, Pedro paced away. The statue drew him as a loadstone, a pull impossible to deny. Hands folded on her lap, hair flowing over her breasts, nude spine flaring to rounded hips, she gazed at him, a gaze too vivid to be true. She was beautiful, and Pedro recognized beauty in all forms—but this artist's skill went beyond coaxing emotion from stone.
It was in her eyes.
Her gaze was at once playful and alluring, girl and all woman, mother and lover, sister and friend. Pain erupted in his chest, and he extended his arm, his black-gloved hand hovering near her cheek. Years of waiting, and still the statue mocked him with all he couldn’t have. His hand closed in a fist, and he whirled lest he shove the slender sculpture, shattering its untouchable passion.
Julia had looked at him with tenderness, with pity for his father's beatings, but never like the statue, never that way.
"Why don't you forget the past? Forget Julia, forget—" Cris would no doubt say Mozambique, but stopped and exhaled forcefully. "The future is all that matters."
Pedro laughed, the sound like rocks grating on iron, and covered his face. By Saint George, he could not bear a woman's touch. His skin, the nerves and muscles underneath, must have been wired differently than everybody else. For ten long years, all his adulthood, he had hoped Julia would heal him. But after last summer, he understood his wishes to be delusional. Touch was repulsive to him. How did one forget that?
"My future is set." When the king arrived in the Douro, he would sign the betrothal. "But you should, Cris."
His brother sheathed the saber. "A political marriage with a prudish princess is a mistake. We should get away from court, give it time to... For you to collect yourself."
"The maxim that time helps is a fallacy made by hopeful fools. You should go. Choose any of my properties. Marry, proliferate, be gone."
