Page 115 of The Familiar

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.