Page 51 of The Familiar

“I don’t know how to answer that.”

“Where did you learn it?”

“That is not for me to say.”

“Do you think Father Neroni won’t ask? Do you think you can mumble and shrug and that will be enough for him?”

She picked up the silver hairbrush. “I will tell them my gift is from God.”

“Did He appear to you in a vision? Did He pierce your heart with an arrow of light? Best get your story straight now. Tell me the truth and I can protect you. I can help you. What text did you study? What language do you use?”

She didn’t know how to answer. Her refranes were Spanish and Hebrew and Turkish and Greek. They were none of those things. They changed depending on what part of the world the letter came from. They were words battered and blown to all corners of the map, then returned to her, as the people who spoke them could never return.

“No language,” she snapped in frustration. “Every language.”

She slammed the silver brush down on the table, then hissed as a black shape leapt from its pale bristles.

“Be still,” said Santángel.

The scorpion sat poised before Luzia, mere inches from her hand, its shiny black body crooked like a finger.

She thought of the symbol on Santángel’s seal. Was this his revenge on her? Had he always intended to see her killed? Had he known the Beauty would sabotage her performance and sent Luzia up there to face ridicule, expecting her to fail only to be thwarted? She hadn’t seen him during the banquet. He could have been here, in her rooms, setting a trap for her.

He was moving slowly toward her. She was afraid to look away from the scorpion but she could sense him drawing nearer. He had said he was a killer. Why hadn’t she feared him then?

“Don’t,” she whispered, ashamed of the pleading in her voice.

Her mind sought words of protection, something to keep the monster at bay. Which was the greater danger, the scorpion or Santángel?

“Luzia, do not move.” He was behind her now.

She could see him in the mirror, white skin, white hair, a creature carved from ice.

She would scream. She would run.

“Hello, friend,” he said softly. “Nen chu mem senuwak.” He set his long-fingered hand on the table and the scorpion crept onto it.

He lifted it and stepped away.

“Clever,” he said, “to place it in the brush. A sting so near the head or heart could be fatal. If nothing else, you would no longer be a threat.”

Luzia watched the scorpion resting on his hand like part of a rosary, her heart beating a jagged rhythm in her chest. If Santángel had set the trap, then why not let it spring shut? Why not let her die? And hadn’t he been given countless opportunities to harm her in the past weeks? He could have let her bleed to death when she’d split her tongue.

“How?” she managed. “Who did this?”

“It could have been any of the hopefuls. Bold to act this soon. You should be flattered that you’re so worth killing.”

“The dream of every young woman.” She hesitated. She still couldn’t quite catch her breath. “Why doesn’t it sting you?”

“We understand each other.” He gestured to a jar of powder meant to whiten the teeth. “Empty it.”

Luzia shook out the fine dust of coral and alunite, and Santángel took the jar with his free hand. He slid the scorpion inside and closed the lid. Luzia tried not to show her relief.

“It’s your symbol, your seal,” she said. “El Alacrán.” Not the nearly harmless yellow scorpion but the deadlier variety.

“So you must have noted when you were reading my private letters. At least you have the manners to look ashamed.”

Luzia was. A bit. “Why choose that for your impresa?”