“I saw you talking to my brother.”
“You saw me trying to warn him, but he wouldn’t listen. Hedidn’t believe in curses. But you do. You’ve come to die, haven’t you? Silly girl. Well, I won’t kill you. I have no grudge against you.”
Yes, she’d come to die. She’d recklessly ventured into that house not with the hope for retribution, but with the desire for oblivion. Now the woman denied her this. Instead she looked at Alba with composed, steady eyes. She had the stillness of a painted icon; Alba sensed no menace, no darkness.
Alba slowly lowered the pistol and set it on the table, close enough to her hand that she’d have no trouble shooting if it became necessary.
“If it wasn’t you, then who cursed us? Where is the witch?”
“I thought you’d know by now, with your gifts. You have them, same as him. I can tell. They’ve always had them, the Quirogas, and maybe his family also carries the gift.”
“Who?”
The woman shifted her head and the silver of her temples caught the light. She was not old, not truly; perhaps she was the age of Alba’s mother, though the two lines bracketing her mouth were severely etched. “When he was little, he used to come to town with that friend of his. Wealthy boys wanting to buy amulets, wanting to woo a village girl and steal a few kisses, they always make their way to Los Pinos. Bored boys, stupid boys. We sold them trinkets. And he was clever, and he asked smart questions. Many, many smart questions.”
“Who?” she asked again. Her fingers slid upon the pistol, not grasping it, merely touching the metal of the barrel, reassuring her that it was there.
“He came to Los Pinos with that Desoto boy.”
Alba’s mouth had gone dry. The words were croaked, not spoken. “Who?”
“Arturo Velarde. He’s the warlock you seek.”
She grabbed the pistol and pointed it straight at the woman’s face. “My uncle is no warlock, you liar.”
“You don’t believe me? Set a test for him. Place a flower against his lips while he sleeps, watch it wilt.”
“If it’s true, then it’s all your fault. You cursed him and made him into an evil creature, that’s what you did.”
“I didn’t put that ambition in his blood. He made his own path.”
“Liar!”
“I warned your brother. I warned my daughter. If you want to pull that trigger, do it. But I’m no liar. You know it. You feel it. He killed my Elena.”
The name—it was the one she had tried to guess, and she recalled how upset Arturo had been at the guess. Alba stared at Perpetua and slowly lowered the pistol. The woman remained still—her lips moved, but her body was that of a statue. Her face was serene.
“She was a year older than him. They played together. He knew a few tricks, she knew others. I’d taught her, and she shared my teachings with him. He’d come with his coins and ask me questions, he’d fetch ingredients, he’d listen and write in a notebook. So I taught him too, some things I knew. Others he found himself.”
“You taught him black magic.”
The woman chuckled; a flicker of emotion rippled across her perfect stillness. “There’s no such thing. People pick their path. Some heal bones, others break them. That boy was amusing. You don’t see many wealthy kids coming around here for that learning.”
“He’s not a wealthy man.”
“Wealthier than us, with a coin in his pocket to spare.”
“And you sold him dangerous spells.”
“I had a child to feed and there was little danger in it. They’ve taught you spells, I’m sure of it. Your father believed, same as the others before him.”
She thought of her father, of when he spoke to the crops and of the superstitions that her mother disliked because they were the mark of uneducated country folk. Alba knew snatches of folk magic, spells for securing a sweetheart or attracting good luck. But she’d never thought that meant anything of importance.
“What happened then?” she asked.
“He turned fourteen and your father sent him away. Off hewent, and when he came back to visit, he was a young man. He must have honed himself in that time, because as soon as I saw him, I felt his power, and I was afraid because his heart was full of spite. I said,You don’t come back to bother us, you go away.The trouble was, my Elena was not afraid. All she saw was the pretty mister, and even though I told her,Don’t you go crossing that man’s path,she didn’t listen.”
The wax from the candle had dripped down onto the table, tracing slow, pale rivulets. Alba touched the hardening wax with the edge of her fingernail.
