Page 53 of The Familiar

“My love,” she said, and he perked like a dog readying for a run. “Tell me another of your mother’s recipes.”

“Savory or sweet, my sweet?” he asked, pleased with himself.

Quiteria sighed again. “Sweet,” she said, and set her pen to paper.

North of Madrid, in the massive monastery that was also a mausoleum that was also a library that was also a palace, Spain’s king woke early as he always did and began a letter to his envoy in Cologne. His fingers and his feet ached, swollen by the gout that filled his veins with fire. But it was essential he manage such communications himself, and he wanted the specifics of this mission to arrive in his own hand. A cache of relics had been spirited away from a Calvinist mob raiding churches in Germany. Teeth and bones and hair, a glorious jumble of saints, rescued from desecration. There was even a femur that belonged to San Lorenzo himself and that was said to have cried out when one of the heretics tried to crush it beneath his boot. He would bring them home to Spain and safety. They would join his collection and the monks would see to the making of the reliquaries under his supervision.

He knew soon he would have to turn his mind to the matter of Pérez. His spies had reported great workings at the torneo, but he would wait to hear what the vicar had to say. He would close no doors that God wanted left open.

Someone was tapping at Luzia’s door. Concha entered and mumbled, “The … Señor Santángel would have a word.” She was pale and shaking.

“He’s not so frightening as all that, is he?”

“No, señorita.”

“What is it you think he may do?”

The girl’s eyes widened and there was something in her look less fearful than thrilled. “Anything at all.”

The maid helped her dress in rust-colored silk, since she would not be performing as La Hermanita today. The high-necked bodice ended in a gold lace ruff, and the sleeves were slashed and pinked to show the rose silk beneath. Concha’s hands pulled and pinched Luzia’s hair into tight braids and tucked two combs of enamel flowers into the strands.

“Do you have no proper jewels, señorita? Your patron is rich, no?”

“I prefer simpler things,” Luzia lied.

Her aunt had convinced Don Víctor to place garnets in her hand, but there would be no pearls or diamonds, nothing that would give her too easy a means of escape.

Hualit entered as Concha was placing a fur-lined cape of faun velvet over Luzia’s shoulders, the satin bow set at a jaunty angle. Her face had none of the easy merriment Luzia was used to.

“I’ve come to take you to the gardens.”

“I’m to meet Santángel.”

“Now, Luzia,” Hualit commanded.

She looped her arm through Luzia’s and set a brisk pace down the hall, two footmen trailing closely behind.

“I’m glad to see you survived the night. Yes, Víctor told me what happened.” She glanced behind her. “Pérez insists it must have been an unfortunate accident but has offered guards to all the competitors.”

“Surely this can’t be a surprise to you,” Luzia murmured. “I took the place of a competitor who—”

“Hush.” Hualit halted abruptly. “Stay here,” she instructed the footmen. “I would have a private word with Señorita Cotado.” She led Luzia to the great window overlooking the gravel drive. “Listen to me, Luzia. Antonio Pérez’s position grows more perilous by the day. There are rumors the king will have him arrested if Pérez isn’t able to change his mood soon. You must be careful. You can trust no one here.”

“Even you?”

“You know exactly who I mean.”

“Santángel saved my life.” Twice.

“Did he? Or did he create a situation where he would make it seem so?”

“I don’t believe that.”

“This morning one of Gracia de Valera’s guards was found dead in the gardens. He suffocated on his own swollen tongue.”

“What does that have to do with Guillén Santángel?”

“Speak plainly, señora.” Santángel stood in the hallway where the footmen had been moments before. He wore boots and hunting clothes, and only now, seeing him without his long cloak, did Luzia understand how much he’d changed. It was hard to reconcile the man before her with the sickly creature she’d met in the courtyard of her aunt’s home only a few weeks ago. He was still lean, his face set at sharp angles, but now he looked strong and healthy, his back straight, his shoulders broad. It was irritating to realize how handsome he was. They’d been on more equal footing when he looked like he might collapse. “The good widow thinks someone put a scorpion in that poor man’s mouth.”