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I turned my attention back to Renata, who clearly hadn’t been listening. She went for the safest option: agreement.
“It was horrible, and a lot of good people were lost to what seemed to be a senseless act.”
He nodded, satisfied, but then he pushed further. “You are a product of one of the most tragic strings of bombings in our history. Senseless violence. The question I’ve seen everyone asking is: What was it like?”
He let the ending of the question dangle in the air in front of her, but I leaned forward in my chair. I had been wondering something similar since the first time I’d laid eyes on her in person.
She paused, and then shifted, pulling slightly at that dress. It looked extremely heavy with all the jewels and embroidery. “What was… losing everything like?”
He nodded once, a gentle smile curling the corners of his lips.
I shouldn’t have been as interested in the answer as I was. But… I wasn’t good at speaking. Wasn’t good at unleashing my emotions, especially on Carmen. It was almost easier to watch her like this from afar. She couldn’t push me away or hurt me like this.
Carmen took a deep breath and tilted her head to the side. The connection to her was potent. The way she called to me felt like being sucked through that screen and shut up in a space where it was only her and I.
Her face softened, like it always did when she was going to say something beautifully, heartbreakingly honest. “Losing my family broke my soul in half.”
He nodded approvingly, but my brows furrowed. What I knew of her told me she had grown up in an orphanage. Other than her obvious royal lineage, I knew nothing about her family, did she? Had Martina found something?
“I understand, mija.” He reached his large, weathered hand across the space between them and patted her hand. “Are you competing for them? For your family?”
She looked at the hand, almost as if she were disgusted, and then took a deep breath and choked out, “Yes.”
He smiled sympathetically. Perhaps she wasn’t the best at crafting long, intricate answers to questions, but he seemed pleased at the emotions behind Carmen’s words. That was all her, not some mask. If it was working on him, then it would for the others as well. I could feel it.
I glanced at the scrawling pen across Alvaro’s pad and wondered if my instincts were wrong.
"Of course, your success is not entirely surprising," he went on. "After all, you were chosen to possess powers that haven’t existed in over fifty years."
She stiffened, and the back of the chair cut into my arms. I tried to adjust without hitting Alvaro.
"What do you mean?"
"Your gold blood, Renata," he said, his voice both light and dangerous. "It is a rare and powerful thing. And it just so happens that there are those who believe that it may be linked to the Familia Real."
A chill ran down my spine. He was doing this now? At every turn, he had been careful to subvert rumors and let the people know Carmen was some miraculous exception while denying people the opportunity to follow logical thought. Golden Blood Magic ran through her veins because she was the last living survivor of the Familia Real.
San Volcán, I hated Duarte.
"Of course, such talk is merely speculation," Canciller Duarte continued, leaning forward again. "And I am delighted to show you the results of an analysis on your blood, confirming the lack of connection."
He leaned forward and picked up a paper to show to the camera.
Carmen nodded, but she looked like she wanted to bolt. She was good at running. I followed her gaze to the windows. The door to the small room opened, and a Trabajador walked into the room where I was watching from.
“Disculpe joven, ¿puedes poner un ventilator ahi adentro?” I asked.
He at looked and me, and I saw him consider it. A fan would distract, but she looked like she was drowning. She needed something to help her finish the interview.
“Perdón Señor Castillas, no,” the man said.
Frustrated, I shoved my hand into my pocket and pulled out a thousand pesetas. “Very well. Get her a drink and a hand fan for when she finishes.”
The Trabajador stared at the money for only a second before shoving it into his pocket and nodding his acquiescence while ducking back out of the room.
I took another deep breath, then turned back to the screen. Canciller Duarte leaned forward, and the camera zoomed in to catch the title stamped at the top of the paper:
Estudios de Sangre
