Page 12 of The Familiar

“You try, Luzia.”

The words had tickled Luzia’s tongue, gathering in her mouth as if they wanted to be said.

Whoever doesn’t laugh, doesn’t bloom. The words emerged in a singsong, and new buds burst into life on the iris stalks, their petals unfurling, their yellow mouths springing open, a chorus ready to join the song.

Hualit had seized her chin and there had been wonder in her eyes, but Luzia had seen fear there too. “Where did you learn that melody?” she demanded.

Luzia had no answer.

“Cuidado, querida,” Hualit had said. “You must be careful.”

Luzia didn’t want to go to Hualit now, didn’t want to admit she’d been a fool or risk painting her aunt’s door with tainted blood. But Luzia had no father or husband to protect her, and if she had any hope of getting out of Madrid, she needed help. She had to laugh at the way she’d waved away Hualit’s warnings. Had she thought fear made life interesting? Well, she hadn’t really known fear, had she? She had tasted spice and found it pleasing. Now she was chewing the pepper, seeds and all.

She was sure that at any moment she’d see the man with the red beard, or one of the inquisitors, a priest, or an enforcer dressed in black, the white cross on his chest. Maybe a mob would form. Maybe she’d die as her great-great-grandfather had, though now there was no Talmud to destroy alongside her. Maybe she would never see trial and simply be hauled into the street and beaten to death.

But tangled up with that fear was there a thread of anticipation too? Was there some small pleasure in the drama of whispering to herself, This is the last time I will leave Calle de Dos Santos. This is the last time I will pass through the back door and along the streets that lead me to my aunt’s house. I will go to Pamplona. I will see a new city. I will survive by my wits. As her father had gotten older and his mind had slid away like a wet hillside, he’d told only the sad and terrible stories. But before that there had been tales of girls who bested kings, and orphans who lured djinn into rash bargains. Now she held tight to those stories. They would keep her alive, not the dread chasing her over the cobblestones.

Her aunt opened the door before Luzia could knock twice and swept her inside. Her dark eyes were so wide the whites seemed to glow.

“Just be silent and do as you’re bid,” Hualit whispered, gripping Luzia’s arm. “You’ve fucked us now, querida.”

In the courtyard, she could hear the voices of men and the heavy sounds of boots on stone.

I should have stopped to pray at San Ginés, Luzia thought, her fear eclipsing every tale and parable. They’re already here.

CHAPTER 8

But there were no soldiers standing in the courtyard beneath the cloudy autumn sky. Instead, Luzia saw a man she recognized, clad head to toe in darkest blue velvet, the sleeves slashed with cream satin, a fur-lined cloak tossed over his shoulder. This was Víctor de Paredes, Hualit’s lover, the man whose money had bought this house and the very clothes on her aunt’s back. His dark hair was short, his forehead high and white, his eyes cold, wet, and green as a mossy stone.

It was said Víctor de Paredes was the luckiest man in Madrid, maybe all of Spain. His ships passed through every storm unscathed. The men he sent looking for gold and silver always found it. Blight never struck his crops and his roof never leaked unless he was thirsty and in need of a drink. No one could account for the fact that he had achieved the rank of caballero and was accepted in the best circles—despite continuing to engage in trade. He had a scar shaped like a crescent moon on his cheekbone, the result of a piece of stray birdshot during a hunt, a testament to his good fortune. That bit of lead and iron would have taken the eye of a less lucky man. When people said his name, they tapped their own fingers to their cheekbones, as if the gesture might bring them luck too. But Luzia had to wonder, if he was so lucky, why the birdshot had hit him at all.

De Paredes had a tidy beard and close-cropped mustache. Everything about him seemed precise and he stood at an angle, as if he were posing for a portrait. Luzia saw that he had removed his hat. Then he’d been here for a while, waiting.

“Go on,” said Hualit. “Make your curtsy.”

Luzia did her best, trying to remember her servant’s stance of deference and to keep from staring at Don Víctor. But he didn’t seem quite real to her. She had been visiting her aunt’s house since she was a child, and she had only glimpsed Víctor de Paredes twice—first that time on the street and then once, when he’d arrived early, and Hualit had shooed Luzia into the kitchen with Ana, who hadn’t looked up from the pot she was stirring. Luzia had waited for them to leave the courtyard and then scurried out to the street, doing her best to ignore the sounds of her aunt’s sighs and laughter.

Now he had appeared like a man in costume, an actor in a play, but she had no idea what role he’d come to perform. She wondered where Ana was. Had Hualit sent her away, or was she hiding somewhere in the house? Was Víctor de Paredes here to warn them of the inquiry? Or—and Luzia knew not to hope it—had he come to offer some kind of rescue? For all her thoughts of brave orphans and wily queens, didn’t they also have help from kindly mentors? Beneficent kings?

Don Víctor looked her up and down. A crease appeared between his brows and his long face lost its dignified stillness. He looked like an infant about to pass gas.

“When you described her …” His displeasure was obvious, a man who had ordered something at a high price only to be disappointed upon delivery.

“She is smart and obedient,” said Hualit. “Far more valuable qualities in a young woman.”

“But for what we intend …”

“Another challenge,” conceded Hualit.

“A mighty one.”

A woman could bear only so much. “If you wish to say I am plainer than expected, I ask only that you address your insult to me rather than talking around me as if I were a candelabra.”

De Paredes stared at her as if she actually were a candlestick that had begun speaking.

Hualit laughed lightly but pinched Luzia’s arm. “There, you see? A bit of spirit is just what’s needed.”

For what? Luzia wanted to ask, but Hualit’s nails were digging into her arm through her sleeve, pressing her demand for silence into Luzia’s skin.