Page 62 of The Familiar

Last night he’d told of a man being thrown from his horse, a near deadly thing.

“Well,” she’d said without thinking, “I had to spend the afternoon with Señora Galves, so I’m lucky I didn’t expire from boredom.”

When he’d burst out laughing, she’d nearly toppled from her chair in surprise. Had she ever made her husband laugh?

“Isn’t she the one with the son who writes poetry?” he asked.

“Yes. She recited some of his verses for us.”

“Please tell me you remember them.”

“Only the very worst lines,” she confessed. They had spent the rest of the night making up awful couplets and getting very drunk, and as the hour grew late, the talking turned to kissing, but still they laughed when they stopped to catch their breath. She hadn’t known such a thing was possible or permitted, and though she’d woken with a headache, she felt the price of discovery was well worth it.

Now he said, “Shall we go meet the vicar?” and offered her his arm.

Luzia followed them into the gardens and the blue dusk. Valentina knew this was a holy occasion, a test of purity for the hopefuls, another demonstration of their gifts. She should be solemn in the presence of the vicar and the other church deputies, seated on a raised platform, a blue tent salted with golden stars above them like heaven itself. But the gardens were lit with lanterns and torches, and musicians played from somewhere in the trees. It was hard not to think that she was simply at a party, the most wonderful party she’d ever attended.

Chairs were arranged on one of the lawns and a pretty little stage had been erected, festooned with red and white ribbons, the fabric of the curtain shining gold.

“A puppet show?”

“Yes,” said Catalina de Castro de Oro, approaching with a glass in her hand. “Pérez has brought the puppeteer all the way from Umbria.”

“Italian painters, Italian puppets,” grumbled Marius. “Is nothing Spanish good enough for him?”

The widow lifted a shoulder. “It’s the fashion.”

“Is that wine?” Valentina asked.

“Wine and lemonade. A mixture from León they drink during Holy Week. They call it matar judíos.”

“How clever,” said Luzia softly. “I’ll have to try it.”

The widow lifted her glass in a toast but her smile was sour. The reason soon became clear.

Víctor de Paredes had already taken his seat for the performance. Next to his wife.

Valentina was desperate for a good look at her. She was spoken of as one of Don Víctor’s greatest successes, a woman of beauty and fortune from one of Spain’s oldest families, a testimony to his luck. Did the widow care because she loved him? Or because her place had been usurped? And why had Don Víctor chosen his mistress to see to Luzia’s care rather than his wife? Was such a thing beneath her in a way it was not beneath Valentina?

“All the luminaries of Madrid are here tonight,” said the widow. “Poets and singers. Even that lady playwright.”

“Quiteria Escárcega?” asked Valentina.

“You know her work?”

Valentina exchanged a look with Luzia, and for once they were the ones who knew more than Catalina. “I’ve certainly heard talk of her.”

“Well, there she is in a very peculiar jacket.”

It was odd indeed, rendered in deep crimson velvet and banded with pearls. It made her gown look almost like a military uniform. Her hair was deep brown, her eyes the warm color of the chocolate Valentina had consumed so greedily.

“That woman is a plague,” grumbled Marius. “It’s said she has an apartment in Toledo where men come and go at all hours.”

“Women too,” said the widow.

As if sensing her interest, the playwright turned and met Valentina’s gaze, then lifted her glass, the gesture curiously bold, as if she were raising a sword at the start of a duel. Valentina felt suddenly warm.

“Are you ready?” she asked Luzia, seeking distraction.