Page 58 of The Familiar

“Such a generous gift,” she ventured.

He gave an uneasy laugh and dropped his hand. “Yes. She is most generous, most kind.”

“Is it very important to her that you win?”

A ferocity came into his gaze. “It is important to me.” He dropped his chin and she wondered if he was going to start apologizing again. But he leaned closer. “You are really, truly a scullion?”

“Must I show you my hands as I did Pérez?”

“Perhaps your callouses are milagritos too.”

“I can tell you how to make a lye mixture from grape lees or how to iron a ruff to make a fine curve, if that will help you feel at ease.”

Fortún rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. “Forgive me. This is all …”

“I know.” Overwhelming, baffling, nothing like the existence that had come before.

“I’m a farmer’s son. My days were shaped by sunrise and sunset, by rainfall, fear of blight. When Doña Beatriz found me she gave me music, art, the finest food I’ve ever eaten. I should tell you I loved the simple life, that I long for home, but …” That brilliant smile appeared again, smaller this time, a kept secret. “I don’t! I don’t want my father’s life. I don’t want to work until my back breaks. I don’t want to clear fields of stones and harvest the fruit and work the presses. I like this easy life.”

Luzia couldn’t help but smile back. “You think a life at court will be easy?”

“Do I sound like a clay-brain?”

“You sound like someone who would rather sleep on a soft bed than a hard one. There are worse sins.”

“Sins,” he repeated. He plucked a few notes from the strings at the vihuela’s neck. “You must understand I … I belong to her. In every way. De Paredes does not … He isn’t …?”

Luzia knew she should be offended, but the suggestion was so absurd she couldn’t be. “Víctor de Paredes would sooner sell his beard than find himself in my bed.”

“Ah.” Fortún seemed almost disappointed.

“I’m flattered you think a rich man would want me for his mistress.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“Señor Donadei, if we are to be friends, don’t flatter me. It makes you look a fool and makes me feel like one.”

“I know you’re not a city beauty. But …” He shrugged. “You look like the girls from my town.”

Was this flirtation? Luzia didn’t know, but the Holy Child was right—he was charming.

Fortún plucked another series of notes, rising and falling. “You aren’t scandalized by my situation?”

Luzia realized she’d made a misstep. She should be scandalized, horrified, at a man addressing such things with her, at the idea of a woman violating her marriage vows to take a young musician as her lover. Men and women were brought before the Inquisition for fornication and lewd behavior often enough. But her time with Hualit had made her too ready to accept vice.

“I’m afraid I’ve revealed myself,” she said as lightly as she could. “I’m not one of your good country girls. I was raised in the city, and I’ve seen things I shouldn’t and heard things I never wished to.” It was the best excuse she could offer, and it wasn’t untrue. “Do you love her? Doña Beatriz.”

“I loathe her.” The words rumbled in his throat, like a pot brought to boil. “It’s why I must win. If the king makes me his champion, I will have money, and silks, and fine food, and I will not have to fuck her to get it. Maybe then I won’t hate myself so thoroughly.”

Now Luzia knew she should excuse herself with some loud declaration of disgust. A worthy woman would be scandalized at such language. But no one had heard. No one but her.

“You should be careful,” she said, her voice low.

“What?”

“I could turn around and tell Doña Beatriz what you’ve said. It would be that easy to ruin your chances and better mine.”

He stared at her, his hazel eyes startled. “But you wouldn’t.”