Page 20 of The Familiar

He frowned. “You cannot be this person, not if you hope to survive.”

“And yet here I am.” She should be careful with this creature who vanished into shadows and made her aunt tremble in terror. But keeping her mouth shut was proving harder than expected. Maybe it had only been easy when no one bothered to speak to her.

“The weed flourishes until it is yanked out by the root,” said Santángel, grim as a priest. “The Torneo Secreto isn’t just a game. It is not polite entertainment where your party tricks will impress. Pérez believes that he can regain the king’s favor by bringing him a holy magic user. His life and his fortune are at stake.”

“Some of us have no fortune to wager.”

“And your life? Do you hold it in such low esteem?” Luzia couldn’t help but feel he was asking her a different question, that if she could simply listen more closely she would hear his true meaning. He took a step toward her and she had to will herself not to back away. “Do you know why you’re being allowed to join the tournament?”

“Because Pérez is desperate?”

At that, he paused and she knew she was right. “One of the competitors was killed,” he said. “Good. I see you’re listening now. A young monk from Huesca.”

“He … did Don Víctor …”

Santángel’s peculiar eyes narrowed. But he didn’t exclaim, Of course not or How could you think such a thing? Instead he said, “No, the monk drowned over a week ago. Long before Víctor had heard of your gifts.”

“An accident, then?”

“What a hopeful disposition you have. Men have been known to fall off of bridges. Or jump. Or be pushed.”

“If not Don Víctor …” Luzia sat down. “There are other competitors in this torneo?”

“Three.”

“So, one of these hopefuls had the monk killed?”

“More likely one of their patrons, but yes. Or maybe the monk was drunk on brandy and leaned over the bridge to get a better look at his reflection.”

“I should go see to the soup.”

“The soup,” he repeated flatly.

“Águeda gets distracted and lets it cook too long. It will be too salty to eat.”

It was all she could come up with to say. She needed time to think. She wanted money, a chance at a life that didn’t end in a paupers’ hospital or on a street where people would step over her body until someone had the courtesy to roll it out of the way. But she wasn’t sure getting thrown into a river or poisoned by a rival sounded much better.

Santángel drew a velvet pouch from his pocket and upended it over the writing desk that sat beneath the window. It landed with a clatter.

“A bean?” she asked. “Do you wish for me to add it to the soup?”

“I wish for you to show me the talent you displayed in the courtyard.”

She couldn’t do that. Not in the quiet of this room. Not without some way to hide her words. “Then you’re done trying to scare me?”

“If I wanted you frightened, you would be. I want you to recognize the danger you will face.”

“Yes, señor. I understand. I will most likely be murdered in my bed.”

“You may. But you may also see this through and win.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I have lived long enough to believe all things are possible.”

He didn’t look very old. Ill and headed to an early grave, but not old.

“Possible,” she said. “But unlikely.”