Page 66 of The Familiar

Luzia was surprised at the scene: a starry night and in the distance, a manger. As they watched, the silhouettes of three magi marionettes appeared atop a hill and descended to give their gifts to the savior. Dawn seemed to rise, glowing golden against the false hills, and around Mary and Joseph and Jesus. A group of animals appeared, the donkey braying, the calf lowing, and even tiny chickens that seemed to hop and peck. Luzia had anticipated fear, even horror, not this dainty enchantment.

Then a new character appeared, dressed in olive green velvet and carrying a tiny vihuela. The guests broke into laughter and applause.

“Fortún,” Gracia said with a smile, “you’ve never looked so well.”

“It’s me!” he exclaimed.

From the dais, Fray Diego intoned, “Fortún Donadei, how will you greet the Lamb of God?”

Beside Luzia, Fortún picked up his real vihuela. He played a long chord, then plucked the strings carefully, solemnly, the tune nothing like the lively song he’d played at the first trial. Now it almost seemed he held a different instrument, resonant and miraculous, one that had been crafted only to give glory to God. He touched his hand to the golden cross at his chest and lifted his handsome face to the sky. In the dark woods beside the stage, the leaves began to rustle. Then, from between the branches, stepped a small glowing lamb.

The crowd gasped. Someone cried out in astonishment. The lamb made no sound. Its little hooves barely seemed to touch the ground. It offered a tiny bow to the holy men on the dais and then vanished back into the trees. Only then did the guests burst into cheers.

“Look!” a man’s voice shouted.

On the stage, a new marionette appeared from behind the mountain, a monstrous dragon that roared with the sound of horns and drums, its gruesome head swaying back and forth on its long neck.

“A tarasca!” Gracia said.

Luzia knew that word, a monster that had been bested by a saint. She had seen them in the Corpus Christi parades, sometimes ridden by a woman her father had told her was meant to symbolize vice.

The dragon reared back and gouts of flame sprayed from its mouth, long cords of red and orange silk.

Atop the hill a beautiful girl appeared in a sparkling white gown. The Beauty.

“Gracia de Valera,” Fray Diego demanded, “how will you protect the Christ Child?”

Gracia stepped forward and raised her hands to the heavens, as if beseeching them for help. Her face shone as if she were the very star that had led the magi through the desert. How could anyone refuse such a supplicant? A cold wind began to blow and against the backdrop of the woods, tiny white snowflakes started to fall, glimmering against the dark trees, the air suddenly chill and damp as the torches by the side of the stage were extinguished.

The crowd thundered mighty approval and the dragon sank to its belly.

“It’s done with a magic lantern,” Teoda whispered, rolling her eyes. “Some ice, a bellows.”

“How do you know?” Luzia asked.

“Because we prepared a magic lantern too! Special lenses imported from Sweden. I have no talent for miracles or illusions, only for long sight.” She winked. “But that makes me an excellent planner.”

Now the dragon reared up again, and this time, it had a woman on its back. She was naked, her pale body wrought from wood, small legs and arms jointed with pegs. She had bright red hair and a miniature crown on her head.

Elizabeth. England’s queen.

Below her, a figure in black with a long white beard capered at the monster’s feet. This must be her sorcerer, John Dee.

There on the hilltop, a puppet Luzia stood, dressed in black, a sturdy, stern little figure.

“Luzia Calderón Cotado, how will you defend Our Lord?”

Luzia’s mind had been racing as she’d watched the others, opting quickly for the second refrán she and Santángel had prepared, seeking the forms of the old, reliable words that felt so right for this moment, the shape of rosica blooming in her mind.

Luzia didn’t lift her arms or raise her voice. Instead, she fell to her knees, her rosary clutched in her hands. “Ave, Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedíctus fructus ventris tui, Iesus.” She spoke the words by rote, the way she was meant to have learned them, a peasant making the sounds of prayer, the only Latin she was supposed to know. But in her head, in her ears, another language, a new music. Were the two pleas really so different? Hear me. Save me. Grant me comfort. Let me be held in the arms of a mother once more.

Over the walls of the stage, a flood of roses cascaded, pure white, drawn from the garden, blooming as the grapevines had, as Hualit’s iris had so long ago. To the manger the roses turned their glorious faces. But before the heretic queen and her monsters, they formed a wall of long, dangerous thorns.

The applause felt like a benediction. She had survived another trial, and before the prophet killer too.

“Astonishing!” someone shouted.

“Miraculous!”