Page 43 of The Familiar

“Pay attention,” Santángel said. “You are entering the arena and it is time to meet your fellow gladiators.”

“I thought I was to perform later tonight. Why did no one tell me the first trial would begin when we arrived?”

“No one knew.”

“Pérez is giving us a reminder,” said Don Víctor. “It is his game we play.”

“Think of it this way,” said Hualit. “If you’re going to fail miserably, best to get it over with now.”

“But the glasses,” Luzia objected. “I need—”

“All was arranged on the stage for the trial tonight,” Hualit said, gesturing to the raised platform with its golden curtains. A silver medallion hung above the stage, stamped with the image of a centaur at the center of a labyrinth. Luzia remembered the same symbol from the broken wax seal on the invitation to La Casilla.

Santángel had told her that there would be three trials: the demonstration of proof, followed by the proof of purity, and finally, the purity of power.

“Only the first will be easy,” he had warned. “We’ll use your trick with the goblet but make it more of a performance. This is where you must earn your right to compete in the torneo. Failure is a humiliation Víctor will not forgive. Beyond that I know very little, only that Juan Baptista Neroni will attend the second trial to make sure your milagritos are holy.”

The Vicar of Madrid. She supposed she should be grateful she wouldn’t face the Inquisitor General.

“And the third trial?” she had asked, thinking of the bribed linajista, of Hualit’s letters to the rabbi in Salonika.

“The remaining competitors will be presented to the king at El Escorial.”

El Escorial—part mausoleum, part monastery. The king in his palace. The lion in his den. And the kitchen rat freed from the larder and dressed as a fine lady. But she didn’t feel like a rat anymore. The costly clothes helped, the first hot bath of her life, but mostly it was the pomegranate, a gift from Santángel, a thing of her own making. She had consumed it ravenously, watching his back in its black velvet cloak, barely recognizing herself as the linen in her hands soaked up red juice and her belly filled. She had made her choice to enter the torneo despite the risks, and whether it was in the choosing or the eating, she was changed now. She looked up at the stage and wondered if either the woman she had been or the woman she was becoming were up to the task.

“So you will perform your miracle a few hours early,” Hualit whispered in Luzia’s ear. “God will understand.” She reached into her sleeve. “I have a gift for you.”

She drew a rosary from the gray silk. The heavily carved beads were strung on a braided cord, alternating red and white, and trimmed in silver gilt. Real ivory and garnets? Or maybe just painted boxwood and bone. The string ended in a tassel and a scalloped shell carved with a cross.

“Here,” said Hualit. “I will fasten it around your waist.”

Again she wondered who her aunt truly was. If the garnets and ivory were real, this gift might be a sliver of safety to clutch in her hands. Money for a house or a voyage or something that could last beyond these gilded walls if she failed. But the warning was also clear: be careful and play your part well, no matter the cost. Luzia needed no reminder. She was a servant. She was Juana scrubbing blood from the floors. Servicio y silencio. For now.

Don Víctor watched them closely. “What does the little scullion think of La Casilla?”

Luzia had never seen so much gold or silver, so many gleaming windows framed by velvet, so many servants in matching livery. She knew nothing of art, but everywhere she looked she saw massive canvases, men waging war, gods making love. It was glorious, magnificent, ridiculous. If you are not the king, she thought, it is dangerous to pretend to be one.

But she said, “I have neither the taste nor the experience to judge my betters.”

Don Víctor looked satisfied. “You’re finally learning to manage your tongue.” He gave a bare nod to Hualit. “Come, I will be introduced to the other patrons, and I would have you there.” They moved off together, keeping a respectable distance apart. They hadn’t arrived in the same coach, and he wouldn’t offer her his arm in public. An agreement like theirs was common enough but not something to be flaunted.

“Are you wondering if she’s happy?” Santángel asked, as they moved closer to the stage.

“Does it matter? She is a servant just as we are.” She was surprised to hear herself say it. She had never thought of Hualit and herself as anything close to the same. Maybe now that she was in a palace, dressed in lace, sleeping in a bed every night, her vision was less cloudy.

“What do you really think of this place?”

Luzia gave a small snort. “What does a beetle think of the boot that crushes it? It is a very excellent boot with a most impressive sole and made of the finest leather.”

A small smile touched Santángel’s lips, and it pleased her. “Do you really care nothing for such splendor?”

“Of course I do. When was the last time you took a bath?”

“I … Has my person offended you?”

Luzia laughed. “Not lately. But I’ve never bathed in hot water before today.” She closed her eyes. “You cannot imagine such pleasure.”

“You should not speak of such things to a man.”