Page 15 of The Familiar

Luzia knew the price of fish and how to tell when an orange was at its sweetest. She knew how to get the stains out of linen and wipe the streaks from glass. She knew nothing of politics or influence. “These waters are too deep, Hualit.”

“You must get used to calling me Catalina. Or better yet Señora de Castro de Oro.”

Luzia gave an exaggerated bow. “My apologies, señora. But changing your name doesn’t change our circumstance. It can’t shake the Jews from the boughs of our family tree.”

“Let me see to that.”

She had calculation in her eyes once again, and at last, Luzia understood.

“You knew,” said Luzia. “You knew Don Víctor would take an interest. You told me to stop my milagritos because you were certain I would disobey you. Did you know Antonio Pérez’s spy would be at Casa Ordoño?”

Hualit gave a small shrug. “It was for you to decide what disaster you might court.”

Luzia rose and felt the wine pulling at her balance. Hualit had set the trap. She’d provoked her and it had been Luzia’s own stubborn pride that she’d relied upon, her belief that her gifts must count for something.

“You know the same refranes,” Luzia said. “You’re the one who taught me the words. Why can’t you be the one to court Pérez and the king?”

“You have no talent for politics. I have no talent for magic.” Hualit said it lightly, but Luzia didn’t think she imagined the bitterness in those words. How had she never grasped this? Hualit couldn’t work the refranes, not the way Luzia did. She couldn’t hear the music of them, or she gladly would have seized this opportunity for herself. “Think for a moment, Luzia. Consider what Víctor is offering you. How do you think I transformed myself into Catalina de Castro de Oro? Consider the cost of becoming a widow suitable for more than an hour’s rutting from a man like Víctor de Paredes. You cannot imagine the degradation it required to make a new name and a new history for myself, to prune our family tree just so.”

A stillness descended in the courtyard, as if something powerful might be listening. Fate or God, or more dangerous yet, a curious neighbor. The grapes Luzia had created hung heavy from the arbor, strange to her now, as if someone else had made them bloom and ripen. She had the uneasy sensation that if she held one of those grapes in her hand, she would feel it tremble in her palm, as if it were an egg, something waiting to be born beneath its thin red shell. What might it become? What might she? Could Víctor de Paredes rewrite her history so easily?

“He can give me a name?” A real name. An Old Christian name, free from doubt or taint or suspicion. She could seek employment in better households. She might marry and have children without fear. She might be free to speak, to read, to be seen.

“He must. If he is to present you to Pérez.”

Impossible. Dangerous. They were all mad to consider it.

“Your ambition is clouding your judgment,” Luzia said, angry at the hunger in her voice, the longing, the greedy thing inside her that couldn’t turn away from this chance. “I can’t play this game.”

“You leave the game to me,” said Hualit. “I can play with the best of them.”

Not far from that quiet courtyard, Víctor de Paredes’s coach clattered over the cobbles of one of the capital’s newly paved streets, and Santángel watched the city slide past, the crooked mess of brick and sloping adobe walls, the occasional stone facade, all crowded together. He thought of the winding streets of Toledo, the hills of Granada. Madrid bored him. He was sick of the smell of horseshit and filth, the nattering of people. He was sick of everything.

“Are you listening, Santángel?”

He nodded, though he wasn’t.

“It’s late to secure an invitation to La Casilla,” Víctor continued. “Pérez’s little contest is only a few weeks away, but I will find a path.”

“I have no doubt you’ll try.” Nothing was out of reach for Víctor de Paredes. There was no limit to his influence or his aspirations. Or his good fortune, of course. “But Pérez’s other hopefuls have been preparing for months. The girl will be at an impossible disadvantage.”

“She will manage,” Víctor said. “Or she won’t.”

His easy tone didn’t fool Santángel. Certainly Víctor had hoped to build himself a menagerie before, a casa de fieras. His other prospects had proved too risky, and presenting an illiterate scullion to Antonio Pérez might prove more perilous still. If Víctor could have taken his family name out and polished it to a high shine every night, he would have. So if he really intended to back this girl in this very public endeavor, she’d have no choice but to succeed.

“You’re so sure Pérez will allow it?” Santángel asked. “He doesn’t like you.” Bribes would be of no use. Pérez was the only man in Madrid with more money than Víctor de Paredes.

“He will. He’s too desperate to regain the king’s favor to bar the door to her potential.”

“And what will he find when he opens that door?”

Víctor sighed. “I do wish she presented a more appealing candidate. But you saw what she can do.”

“A bit of household magic.”

“I know, I know. You’ve seen wonders. But try to remember that the court has not witnessed the miracles you have.”

“You should remember that as well. What that sad, shuffling shadow of a girl managed has nothing to do with God or His angels.”