Page 45 of The Familiar

“He looks terribly sad.” And frightened too, his mouth slightly agape as he took in the luxury of the room. That’s what I must look like, Luzia thought with sudden shame. A clumsy peasant ill at ease in her finery, gawking at every new thing.

“I don’t see why he would be. He has a wealthy patroness who is said to be unabashedly in love with him. The story is that he was tending his olive groves and sat down to play his lute in the shade of a tree when she happened upon him playing.”

“So his power is in song too?”

“Yes. He can play any instrument and is said to have materialized a miniature of the marquesa’s childhood pony in the olive trees.”

“I cannot make something from nothing.”

“No one can,” Santángel said. “Not even God.”

“You think he’s a fraud?”

“Fortún Donadei or God?”

Luzia couldn’t hide her shock. “You caution me on my tongue,” she whispered, “but you could be tortured for such blasphemy.”

“I might say this party is torture enough. But you’re not wrong. I’ll be more cautious.”

“You don’t fear the Inquisition at all?”

“Why would I?”

Because you aren’t natural. Because you know things a good Christian shouldn’t. Because there’s no sign a man broke three of your fingers only a week ago. His strange eyes studied her, almost amused, daring her to give voice to any of it.

At that moment a hush fell over the room, as if they’d all taken a breath at once. The crowd turned like flowers in a field seeking the sun, necks craning. Luzia didn’t even know what she was looking for, but she found herself doing the same.

A woman had entered the ballroom. Her hair was smooth and so black it shone nearly blue. Her milky skin seemed to catch the candlelight so that she glowed like a captured star. Her staid gown was black velvet and covered her completely, but it was so heavily embroidered with diamonds and metallic thread that it no longer looked black, but like quicksilver, sparking beneath the chandeliers.

“Who is that?” asked Luzia.

“That is Gracia de Valera. The Beauty.”

“She’s something more than beautiful.”

“She is said to perform milagritos herself, and I’m told that she can speak to the spirits of the dead. She has asked to perform first.”

Luzia watched Gracia drifting through the crowd like a petal borne aloft on a breeze. She had never felt more sturdy, more earthbound, a knob of coal in her dour dress, her coronet of braids with its modest pearls and shells.

“I fear we will all disappoint after such a visitation.”

But Santángel’s eyes were still on her, not trailing Gracia de Valera through the crowd. “If the king wanted a pretty woman to look at, there are plenty of those in Spain. Do just as we practiced and no one can match you.”

A child. A farmer. A scullion. And a young woman who looked like the Virgin herself had stepped from the frame of one of Pérez’s many paintings. Luzia could taste the pomegranate in her mouth, the flavor of her own ambition, her appetite for more. She eyed the golden curtains of the stage and knew she would prove Santángel right. She was done going hungry.

CHAPTER 23

Santángel sensed when Antonio Pérez entered the room. It was like standing in the sea and feeling the tide shift, pulling at your ankles, the sand sliding away as the ocean breathed. Everybody turned as he made his way around the room, acknowledging some, ignoring others.

Beside him Víctor stiffened as Pérez passed without a nod in his direction. The slight pleased Santángel at the same time that it intrigued him. He still didn’t fully understand the limits of his own influence. But he did know Pérez had best hope to regain the king’s ear. The insult was not one Víctor would soon forgive.

Even in disgrace, Pérez showed no sign of doubt or worry. He was a tidy little man, precise in his gestures, his clothing as lavish as his home, each fold and bit of padding impeccably tailored, as if he were a finely made marionette. He was a man who took pleasure in attention the way only the fearless could.

He raised his glass and the room fell silent.

“There is no greater empire than this one and no greater king than ours. It is Spain that must see to the soul of the world, and this heavy burden rests upon our blessed ruler’s shoulders, placed there by God Himself. As the brave Don Juan bested the barbarians at Lepanto, so we take up musket and cross to subdue the Flemish traitors and the heretic wretch Elizabeth. If then our mighty king would have miracles, I will provide them. There is no holier man, no holier country, no holier cause.”

The musicians struck a dramatic chord, as if they really were at the theater and someone were about to begin a song.