Page 30 of The Familiar

“What are you doing?”

“Sitting.”

“And?”

“Sitting is a great pleasure for a servant.”

“Doña Valentina was meant to hire another scullion.”

“Juana is your doing?”

“My master’s. He wants your time and strength devoted to practice and prayer.”

Her eyes opened, large and dark, thickly fringed. He understood why she had hidden that gaze, constantly keeping her eyes on her hands or the ground or her clumsy feet. It was too wise, too watchful, and it told him that she knew he was lying.

Santángel had suggested hiring the new scullion when Víctor complained that Luzia stank of the kitchen. “What is the point of dressing her up in velvet if she smells like onions and bacon grease?”

Santángel had been tempted to correct him. He had been close enough to Luzia to know she smelled of orange blossoms and had considered advising her that women of good families didn’t wear scent. How was she affording it anyway? Did she have a lover? The thought disturbed him, but only because she could afford no indiscretions. “Then take her out of the kitchen,” he’d told Víctor, echoing Luzia’s own words. “Pay for a scullion. It will give you another set of ears in the household.”

“How eager you are to spend my money,” Víctor had grumbled.

“Only because I know how much of it you have.”

Santángel considered Luzia, returning her gaze. “You’re not pleased to have another pair of hands at work?”

“She’s young,” Luzia said, “and built like a piece of straw when we need a whole broom.”

“That isn’t your problem any longer. Your goal is to win. Or to perform well enough that the king will claim more than one champion.”

“Is that possible?”

Santángel looked out the window to where El Peñaco leaned against Víctor’s coach, awaiting orders. Why would the king settle for a single holy soldier when he could have an army?

“If he can be sure that your power is angelic, it’s possible the king will want to hoard milagreros as he hoards relics. But Philip hates court. He is happiest alone with his books or poring over work that should be beneath him. If he chooses more than one champion, he’ll only be setting the stage for a grand rivalry. That can be perilous for everyone.”

“How do I know …” Luzia hesitated, eyes on the heavy crucifix that hung over the door. “How do I know if my power is angelic?”

Santángel sat down on the bed across from her. “That’s a dangerous question. More dangerous than being a conversa in the king’s court.”

When she flinched, Santángel knew his guess had been a good one. The conversos had been the start of the Inquisition, the fear that the Jews who had accepted baptism to save their lives and homes, and then to remain in Spain, were not true believers at all, but frauds who practiced their religion in secret, who might corrupt the very soul of Spain. The priests and their henchmen had done their work well, and these days, there were few secret Jews to hunt, so they’d turned their attention to heretics and fornicators and blasphemers. But any taint of Jewish blood, no matter how many generations old, could not be tied to someone who hoped to rise in status, to join a military order, or to study at university, certainly not to someone who could work miracles.

If Luzia entered the king’s service, every element of her life would be scrutinized. Her baptism, the time she spent at mass, when she did or didn’t take communion, if she observed feast days or fasted during Lent, or didn’t eat from a dish made with pork. She would be challenged to swear faith in the Trinity—easy enough. But then she might have to explain it—something even few viejos could do. Winning the Torneo Secreto would be only the beginning.

“Víctor de Paredes makes no move without understanding the game he is playing,” Santángel said. “He has already met with a linajista to attest to the purity of your blood and write up a clean history for you.”

“As if I am to be married.”

“Into any family of fortune or reputation, yes.”

“A scullion doesn’t have such concerns.”

“No. No one looks too closely at a woman in rags.”

“They should,” said Luzia. “Who has more power in a house than the woman who stirs the soup and makes the bread and scrubs the floors, who fills the foot warmer with hot coals, and arranges your letters, and nurses your children?”

Her anger radiated from her like heat from a stone left in the sun. She was right, of course. These were the ways women entered the body, through the kitchen, through the nursery, their hands in your bed, your clothes, your hair. There was danger in such trust, and a wise man learned to respect the women who tended to his home and heirs.

“Do you not wonder where this power comes from?” she demanded. “Do you not fear it?”