Page 55 of The Familiar

“Yes,” she admitted, wondering if he would chastise her for her pride. “I liked being on that stage.”

He studied her. The light shining through the windows made his eyes translucent, shards of gray glass. “It suited you.”

Something new had been born between them, something with a shape she couldn’t quite determine. Álvaro’s death, the pomegranate, now the scorpion, each moment taking on its own alchemy. But was she changing, or was Santángel?

“I want to know what comes next,” she said, unsure if she meant the torneo or the wider world or just this hallway. “The anticipation … I feel it may unravel me.”

“Anticipation,” he repeated. His fingers flexed as if testing the weight of the word. “Not fear?”

“That too. The longer this goes on, the greater chance I’ll be poisoned or take a mysterious fall down the stairs. And you said the next trial would be a proof of faith. You can’t ask me not to dread an audience with the Vicar of Madrid.”

“He will be looking for signs of heresy and of treason. You will give him neither.”

“Looking for signs in us or in Pérez?”

“How quickly you learn the game. Both, I suspect.”

“The widow says his position grows more precarious.”

“You remember Don Juan’s secretary?” he asked. “The one who was murdered on the streets of Madrid? Escobedo’s widow went to see a cleric who read in the stars that her husband had been killed by his best friend.”

“That was Pérez?”

“Debatable. But Pérez’s role in the murder is not.” He kept his voice low when he said, “Pérez had Escobedo killed. It’s possible the king ordered the assassination and it’s possible he’s afraid that fact will come to light. Don Juan resisted Philip’s strategies in the Netherlands and Pérez whispered to the king that the great war hero might be trying to take power for himself, that Escobedo was helping him turn traitor.” He shook his head. “It was all badly done. Pérez has overstepped too many times, failed too many times. And he knows far too much. His father’s motto was ‘in silentio,’ but when Pérez had his new impresa remade he omitted those words in favor of ‘usque adhuc.’”

Luzia touched her tongue to the top of her mouth, then let the translation slip free. She didn’t have to hide anymore. Not this at least. “Until now. It’s a warning, isn’t it?”

“It is,” said Santángel. “A warning to the king that Pérez knows all of his secrets.” His strange eyes looked less so now, their color steady.

Now we know each other. What would it mean to be known?

“Pérez believes he can still repair the rift?” she asked.

“He is the son of a politician. He has been swimming in these waters a long time. Now, go. And try not to be the fish who gets eaten.”

CHAPTER 27

It was still cold on the eastern terrace and Luzia was grateful for her cape and her wool stockings. Gracia de Valera sat upon a golden chair, her luminous face shaded by two servants holding a fringed canopy. She wore a gown of coral velvet, the bodice embroidered with tiny buds and flowers, the sleeves and ruff thick with seed pearls. Her large blue eyes slid once to Luzia, then back at whatever dream of glory lay in the middle distance.

An artist was laboring over an easel, his hands dirty with charcoal, the table beside him piled with sketches. He seemed to be working in a kind of frenzy, as if his hands couldn’t move fast enough to capture the perfection of Gracia’s features.

Another long table had been laid with platters of fruit and breads baked into the shapes of birds. Teoda Halcón sat on a raised cushion beneath an apple tree, her red-gold hair braided with ribbons, her dress a cascade of white ruffles. Two of her ladies stood at a distance whispering to each other.

Luzia wondered if she should worry about poison, but unless someone had decided to kill them all, it seemed safe to pile her plate with bread and fruit.

Learn from them, Santángel had said. Very well. If she hoped to survive in Philip’s court she would need to become a spy for herself.

She made her way to Teoda and sat down on the other tuffet, trying to arrange her skirts.

“We were not introduced last night,” the little girl said in her high, sweet chirp.

“No. But I saw you once. At Perucho’s warehouse with your father.”

“Perucho is the best of tailors. I had hoped he might make me something a little more interesting, but my father says the king prefers traditional styles.” She took a sip from her tiny white cup.

“Is that chocolate?”

“Yes, and it’s very good. Have you had it before?”