Page 35 of The Familiar

“We will find a way, I assure you.”

“It’s your future at stake here as well as mine, Santángel.”

“That is not something I will forget.”

That seemed to appease Víctor, and he turned to the Ordoños and the widow to discuss their plans, while Santángel was left to contemplate the truth of what had split Luzia’s tongue and the uglier truth of his own nature.

The sun was already setting when Luzia woke. For a moment, she wasn’t sure where she was, but then she recognized Valentina’s chambers. The bedroom was made blue in the twilight, as if seen underwater. Her tongue still throbbed, a dull ache now, warm in her mouth. She pushed herself up, poured water from the pitcher beside the bed, took a careful sip, felt it slide cool and fresh down her throat. It had been flavored with honey.

She remembered the taste of blood and struggled not to gag. How much of it had she swallowed?

Luzia stood, then had to reach for the bedpost as a wave of dizziness overtook her. She was still in her bloody dress. She would never be able to get the stains out and she had the distressing urge to cry. They can’t make you go out in stained clothes, she reminded herself. It would be a shame to the family. But they could make her pay for something new, take the money from her wages. She wasn’t thinking clearly.

Slowly, Luzia pushed her feet into her shoes and made her way down the hall to her bedroom. She could hear voices in the chambers below.

There was no sign of the violence that had come before. The floor was clean, the smell of vinegar sharp in the air. She went to the window. Across the street, the music room was dark, the dim shape of the harp like the prow of a ghost ship.

At the basin, Luzia sponged dried blood from her neck, then lit a candle and leaned closer to the mirror. She opened her mouth, examining her tongue in the glass. It looked a little red but there was no sign of what had happened, no horrible scar.

She touched her finger to the wet pink flesh and pressed. There. There was pain. Proof of what had gone so wrong. But why had it? And had she killed a man in this room?

The writing table had been replaced, and here and there she could see scratches on the floor. Santángel’s satchel was shoved against the wall, the bag from which he’d produced the pomegranate seeds. She shut her door and knelt down, her hand hovering over the satchel as if she were about to offer a blessing. These were his private things. But when would she have an opportunity like this again?

She slipped the laces free and peered inside. A book in French, which she couldn’t decipher, a collection of letters, some with his seal—the scorpion, its tail curled and ready to sting—awaiting a servant to carry them from Madrid. Who did he write to? Princes? Politicians? Spies? Was there a woman somewhere hoping for news from her beloved? There was a letter in Castilian from a scholar at the university in Sevilla, and a letter in Latin too. Her eyes scanned the page. She’d had little cause to use the Latin her mother had taught her, but she hadn’t forgotten, and the occasional treatise or manual borrowed from Hualit had helped. Her eyes caught on a name: Pérez.

Luzia paused, listening to the murmur of voices in the salon, then read on, trying to glean as much as she could. It all seemed to be about astrology—the sign Pérez had been born under and the meaning he had taken from this reading, a long mention of the king’s own stars, and the fact that, when Philip was still a young prince, John Dee himself had read his chart.

John Dee. The protestant queen’s sorcerer. He was said to speak to angels as the Holy Child did. But if his God was not Catholic, whose voice did he hear? Was it the same devil who had spoken in this room? Who had moved through Luzia to tear a man in two?

She heard footsteps and hurriedly placed the letters back in the satchel, retied the laces, and lay down on her bed.

“You’re awake,” Hualit murmured as she entered and closed the door. “You could have remained in Valentina’s room.”

She sat down and smoothed Luzia’s hair back from her face. In the evening gloom she looked like Luzia’s mother. Or what Luzia remembered of her mother. She had a sudden memory of Blanca Cotado telling her that scorpion oil could be used to heal all kinds of ailments. But you have to catch them and fry them up first, mi tesoro. Is the danger worth it?

Yes, mama, she’d said. A good remedy is worth some pain. Blanca had laughed and called her daughter bold.

“I brought rue,” Hualit said. “And rosemary. For protection. Does it hurt?”

“Not so much.” The words sounded too thick, their shape swollen along with Luzia’s tongue. “I have only one dress and it’s covered in blood.” And she had killed a man.

“I’ll give you one of mine.”

“I look forward to tripping on the hem.”

A smile tugged at Hualit’s mouth. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“Are you asking for yourself or your patron?”

“Your patron.”

“He is a monster, Hualit.”

Hualit looked over her shoulder as if she expected to see Don Víctor standing there or the devil in his place. “Not that name. Not in this house.”

“He broke Santángel’s fingers. Or had Álvaro break them.”

“Did you mean to kill Álvaro?”