Page 25 of The Familiar

“Will gossip no longer.”

“And the scullion? Is she hopeless?”

“Very much so.”

“What a tragedy for you.” Víctor did not look up from his writing.

Santángel had forgotten emotion long ago. He had no humors to balance, no bile, no spleen, no desire. And yet as he watched Víctor scratch away at his correspondence, he felt the old rage stir. Once he had craved revenge almost as much as freedom. It had driven him through the sameness of his days and given him purpose. But in time, even his fury had waned, extinguished by the truth of his curse, by the relentless march of years. How strange to discover it within him still, an underground spring that might feed a great river.

CHAPTER 14

Luzia’s new room had no lock, and even if it had she wouldn’t have dared to use it. But she put her single chair up against the door, for reasons she couldn’t explain. She didn’t think Valentina was going to come whip her with a reed in the night, and she had never feared advances from Don Marius. He had beaten her more than once and often at Valentina’s request, when she felt her arm too feeble for the discipline required. But Luzia had never worried about him cornering her in a dark hallway. The man’s only passion was expensive horseflesh. Besides, she wasn’t a stranger in this house. She knew the smell of this room, the linen that she had herself washed in cold water. What would it be like to lie beneath the roof of the De Paredes house? Or at La Casilla? Would a palace have the same smells? Did Guillén Santángel sleep in fine quarters, or was he shoved into some attic, left to roost like a bat?

He was cold and snide, but she couldn’t deny his knowledge. She would gladly endure his contempt if he could help her win the torneo and keep her from the Inquisition’s notice. She had heard the words in her head, just as he’d instructed, and she’d seen them too, forming in the darkness as if written in golden ink, dancing when they found her tune. Scullions didn’t read or write, and she had no interest in inviting more questions about her background. She could work her milagritos and keep the refranes from her aunt’s letters all to herself. Here was the chance she had prayed for.

Luzia thought briefly of the hams and the garlic bulbs strung like decorations for a party in the larder. She’d heard of soldiers who returned from long sieges and chose to sleep on hard floors because they couldn’t tolerate the luxury of a soft mattress. But maybe Luzia was not of a military bent, or perhaps one dark room is very much like another, because she fell asleep instantly and dreamed of rows of orange trees, the paths between them tidy with white gravel, the sky blue and cloudless overhead. She could hear the splashing of a fountain, music playing somewhere, a song she knew plucked from the strings of an unfamiliar instrument. She was walking hand in hand with someone, but she couldn’t tell who.

She woke famished and dressed slowly, unable to shake the pleasure of the dream. The languor of it had seeped into her limbs and made her movements feel like steps in a dance she was still learning. Corset, stockings, skirts. She hummed along to each task, her mind grabbing at that song from the dream, trying to place where she’d heard it before.

Luzia descended to the kitchen to stoke the fire and start the bread. There was still work to be done, no matter where she slept; Valentina was right about that. At the market she dared to spend a little money on an empanadilla stuffed with pork and sweet raisins. Águeda made hers with quince-bud wine and Luzia could admit they were better, but she sat down in the sun and ate it with relish anyway, letting the feeling she’d had in the orange grove overtake her, the peace of it, the delight of that hand in hers. She’d once helped Hualit choose silks for gowns and they’d run like cool water through her fingers. This had been a similar kind of pleasure. She tried humming that song again, felt it spark beneath her tongue. It wanted to be something, if only she could think of the words.

When she returned to Casa Ordoño, she tied on a fresh apron and tucked her hair tightly under her cap. She considered her reflection in the bulge of a tin pitcher. She had tried to make sure there was no dirt left on her neck, but she could do nothing about the sheen of sweat on her brow, the ruddiness of her cheeks acquired in the heat of the kitchen, the freckles that hovered like clouds of pollen on her skin.

Águeda burst out laughing. “Is the fine lady preparing to receive visitors? You can look as long as you like, it won’t make you any prettier.”

Luzia set down the pitcher with a clang. “Perhaps I should take up bathing nude in the moonlight. Quiteria Escárcega says it works wonders for the complexion.”

But Águeda only huffed. “It will take more than that, tonta.”

“May you lose two teeth for every one you have,” Luzia muttered.

“Who do you hope to impress? Is Don Víctor come to grace us with his presence again? No doubt he’ll bring that cursed creature with him.”

For a moment Luzia pictured Víctor de Paredes with a bird on his shoulder or a panther at the end of a jeweled leash. She knew who Águeda meant, but she asked anyway. “Creature?”

“El Alacrán.” She crossed herself and spat over her shoulder. “Don Víctor’s servant, though who’s to know what he actually does in that house.”

El Alacrán. The scorpion. Her mother had told her that they were more dangerous than snakes because when you chased them off, they didn’t have the sense to stay away. They hid until they were ready to strike.

“Why call him that?” Luzia asked.

“It’s what he calls himself.”

“He dresses like a gentleman and speaks like one too.”

“Don’t be fooled by his fine manners. And never look directly into his eyes. That’s how he steals souls.” Águeda lowered her voice. “He made a bargain with the devil for eternal life.”

Luzia couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “Then he should get his money back. He seems to be on death’s door.”

“But he never steps through it, does he?” Águeda snatched up a stalk of rosemary, dragging her hand along it to remove the fragrant leaves. “You’d best watch yourself, Luzia Cotado. People who cross paths with that man come to bad ends. Don’t think I haven’t heard the gossip about your little tricks. That’s the devil’s work, I’ll swear it.”

Luzia yanked the rosemary from Águeda’s hand and tossed it into the fire. “Say those words again and I’ll toss your cap in next.”

“You have no—”

Luzia grabbed the cap from Águeda’s head and threw it into the flames.

Águeda shrieked. “You’ve gone mad!”