Page 46 of The Familiar

“Bold to invoke Don Juan’s name,” murmured Víctor.

“Why?” Luzia whispered.

When Santángel lowered his lips to her ear, the sweet green scent of orange blossoms overwhelmed him. Did she have a lover? And why did the thought make him want to find this mysterious suitor and bury a knife in his heart?

“Bold because the hero of Lepanto was no match for the Dutch,” he whispered back to her. “He was trounced and forced to retreat. And Pérez had the man’s secretary murdered. It’s why he lost the king’s favor. You must stop wearing scent if you are to play La Hermanita. No nun is importing perfume from Paris.”

Luzia frowned. “I don’t wear scent.”

He wasn’t going to argue the point. “Go take your place in the wings. You will follow the Beauty.”

She nodded, jaw set. He almost expected her to roll up her sleeves as if she were about to attack a stubborn stain.

“Why must she march off that way?” grumbled Víctor. “Where has all her training gone?”

“There’s a certain charm to it,” the widow protested. “Perhaps her determination will distinguish her.”

Pérez placed himself at the exact center of the room, where a few chairs had been set. He had no need for a throne or dais. The crowd had opened a path before him, so that his sightline would not be obscured.

Gracia de Valera floated up the stairs and onto the stage, her heavily ornamented gown glittering like a night sky.

“Exquisite,” said Víctor sourly. “Have we miscalculated?”

“The dress is not what matters here.” And such ornament didn’t suit Luzia. Her power would shine more brightly than any bauble or jewel. Though Santángel was beginning to believe her will was the greater gift. She was stubborn as a well-built wall, as decided in her course as an avalanche.

He wondered why the Beauty had chosen to walk to the stage instead of appearing from behind the curtain. She curtsied deeply, as if to the king himself, her movement slow and perfectly controlled, then lifted one delicate hand. The curtain rose, revealing a tower of glass goblets.

Luzia’s glasses.

Víctor released a grunt, as if he’d been struck. The widow pressed a hand to her mouth. Marius just looked flummoxed, and Valentina’s head bobbed on her neck, up and down, left and right, as if she could adjust the angle on this situation and somehow make it less of a debacle.

Now Santángel understood why Gracia de Valera had asked to perform first.

He searched the crowd for Luzia, but she had already gone. Was she seeing this now from her place in the wings? What would she do? There might be time to fetch candles, but he didn’t like the idea of the fire trick. Not so soon, not when they were trying to avoid even a hint of the diabolical. Perhaps the grapevines? He looked around the room, but he could see no arrangements of flowers. He watched in growing fear as Gracia smashed the goblets. She did it coyly, elegantly, drifting past the table and extending a single slender finger to tip each glass off the edge, sharing a shy smile with the audience as she did so.

“Oh, she’s very good,” said the widow.

She was. Her glance was demure and at the same time mischievous, her walk graceful without seeming practiced. When the goblets lay in a sparkling heap of shards she stepped behind the table, made the sign of the cross, and extended her arms. Her sleeves had been cleverly beaded so that they looked like angel’s wings, and she tilted her face upward, the light catching her perfect features.

“Is she experiencing a vision?” asked the woman beside him.

“A visitation?” queried her companion.

“Something certainly,” murmured the widow when Gracia released a moan.

The Beauty threw her hands skyward as if conducting an invisible orchestra. A sound like a choir singing filled the room, the voices high and heavenly, nearly inhuman in their purity. Clouds appeared at her slippered feet, billowing up and engulfing her and the stage.

The crowd gasped. The mist cleared.

Gracia de Valera appeared with head humbly bowed as if in prayer.

The goblets stood in a line, all of them perfect.

“Now, that’s a performance,” said Don Marius.

“Horseshit,” said Santángel, and Doña Valentina gasped.

It was all fakery. Very good fakery, no doubt concocted with some of the best set dressers and players from the Corral de la Cruz. But an illusion nonetheless.