Page 19 of The Familiar

“Oh yes. And over many generations. The De Paredes family is well known for their good luck.” She tapped her cheekbone, recalling that bit of birdshot that had done Don Víctor no real harm. “But this time it is our ship that has landed on the right shore.”

There was ferocity in her eyes, a kind of fire Luzia had never seen there before. Don Víctor would buy them both gowns and perhaps provide the family with a carriage. Valentina must know there would be a price, just as Luzia did. But none of them could guess at it.

“Go on,” Valentina said, gesturing to the empty room. Then, as if remembering herself, she added, “Just so you understand, your station hasn’t changed. No matter where you rest your head at night.”

Luzia didn’t bother with a reply. They both knew it wasn’t true.

CHAPTER 11

When Valentina had gone, Luzia let herself walk to the bed. She sat tentatively at its edge, afraid to place her full weight on it. She never came into this room except to gather quilts and bath sheets when they were needed, and to dust when Valentina reminded her to. Twice a year they took the heavy blankets and cloaks from the trunks and beat them in the alley to free them of spiders and vermin. Once they’d opened the trunk and discovered a massive rat lying on her side, nursing the squirming bodies of her babies. Valentina had screamed. Águeda had gathered them up without a word, taken the wriggling bundle of bedsheets down to the kitchen, and drowned them in a bucket of water. Luzia had felt bad for the rats, and then she’d felt bad for herself because she’d had to walk to the fountain a second time that day and lug two more pails full of water back with her.

This was to be her bed now. She looked out the window. On the street below she saw Don Víctor speaking with Don Marius. An enormous footman stood beside the glossy De Paredes coach, dressed in mustard-colored livery.

Across the street, she could see into the second-floor windows of a room with blue draperies where a woman stood beside a harp. She laid her hand on its wooden frame, as if taking its measure, and Luzia hoped she might play. The woman looked up, her gaze barely registering Luzia, and moved on to some other task. What was there to look at or take note of? Luzia was just a servant who had come in to straighten up the room.

I sleep here now, she wanted to shout. A roof over her head instead of an entire house weighing down on her. A window she could open at any time of day and hear the hooves of horses, the rattle of carriage wheels, birdsong if she was lucky. There might be more, said that hungry voice inside her, so much more. You might look from the windows of a palace. You might make the acquaintance of a king.

She walked to the basin. There was no water in the pitcher. In the mirror she saw her sallow face, her cap tight against her braided hair. Something moved behind her and she jumped.

A piece of shadow seemed to detach itself from the corner and Luzia had to bite back a shriek as Santángel emerged from the gloom. He wore the same dark clothes, his blond head bright as a cut jewel.

“How long have you been standing there?” she asked, trying to steady her voice. A man should not be in her room, but Guillén Santángel was somehow something other than a man. “You shouldn’t be in here. With me. Alone. In my bedchamber.”

She sounded like a hiccupping ninny.

“This is not your bedchamber.”

“Of course it is, señor.”

Santángel opened the wardrobe. “Not a single gown.”

“This is my only dress, señor.”

“Nor any clean linen.”

“You’ve been looking through my trunk?”

“There is no trunk of clothes to look through.” His pale brow lifted. “Not a single sign of occupation. No icon of your patron saint, no candle or dried flower or memento to be seen.”

“I am a servant, señor. I have no use for such things.”

“Even a servant is permitted a soul, Señorita Cotado.”

“Can I be of service to you?” Luzia’s cheeks pinked. She hadn’t meant the words to sound vulgar, but they’d emerged that way.

Santángel studied her, his eyes glittering. “I highly doubt it,” he said at last. His gaze traveled from the top of her covered head to her battered shoes. “You have a scullion’s hands.”

“Because I’m a scullion, señor.”

“And there is dirt on your neck.”

“Because I sleep in the dirt.”

“So it is not your room.”

“It is not,” she admitted. Why did she care what he thought of her? Why protect Valentina and Marius? “I sleep on the floor in the larder. Like a common pig in the pen. If you don’t wish for me to look like a common pig perhaps you will see to it that I have hot water and a bit of soap. Then I may at least look like a more worthy pig.”

So much for curbing her tongue.