Page 56 of The Familiar

“Only once,” Luzia admitted. Hualit had arranged for it at her home. A gift from Víctor. Luzia and her father had met there and they’d watched Ana stir the pot, smelling the cinnamon and cloves, and that strange, bitter, wonderful smell. It was one of the last times she could remember her father being clear in his thoughts. He’d made up silly rhymes for them and told the story of when he’d first met Luzia’s mother. Luzia had thought, If this is what life can be, it is enough.

Teoda signaled to one of her women. “Bring La Hermanita a cup of chocolate.”

“I prefer Luzia.”

“Luzia, then.” She bobbed her head toward the artist. “My father had a miniature made of me on my sixth birthday. This seems a far more elaborate affair. I’ve been told only the winner will be painted in oils. The artist is Italian, brought from Venice at great expense. He’s been laboring over Gracia’s sketches for over an hour.”

“You can hardly blame him.”

“She is very beautiful. Like a lady in a ballad. She should enjoy the attention while she can.”

“You don’t think she can win?” Luzia asked carefully.

Teoda met Luzia’s gaze over her cup. “You’re the one who specializes in miracles.” She glanced toward the palace, shading her eyes. “Oh good, the farmer has arrived.”

Fortún Donadei emerged into the autumn sunshine, pulling at the lace of his collar, the golden cross resting against his chest. He smiled cautiously when he saw them and waved as if from a country road, then dropped his hand, catching himself in the blunder. He had some kind of stringed instrument slung over his back.

“And what do you think of his prospects?”

The Holy Child made a humming noise. “Well, his manners need work, but he’s certainly not a fraud. We should be so lucky. No, his power is real, but probably not the most valuable of his gifts.” She cocked her head to the side. “He is so very beautiful. So many white teeth, such marvelous curls. And funded by Doña Beatriz Hortolano, who will happily have you murdered in your bed should you look at him with too much interest.”

It was strange to hear such words from the mouth of a child, but Luzia supposed Teoda Halcón was no ordinary child. She had seen the future, the past, into the hearts and minds of men. One of her ladies arrived with a cup of chocolate set on a delicate saucer.

Luzia took it and thanked her but then paused.

“You do not drink,” Teoda observed.

“It’s very hot still.”

The girl grinned, a dimple appearing in her cheek. “Here,” she said, handing Luzia her half-full cup. “Take mine and I will drink from yours.”

“I feel foolish.”

“Don’t. I heard someone slipped a scorpion beneath your pillow. You’re right to be cautious.”

Luzia shrugged and they traded cups. They lifted them in a toast and drank. She hadn’t expected to like the Holy Child, but she did.

Fortún approached and bowed to them. “Señoritas, may I join you?”

“We would be honored,” said Teoda. She gestured for him to sit and he settled on a chair a respectful distance away. “Have you come to play for us?”

“Only if you wish it,” he said, setting the vihuela at his feet. “I’m more at ease with an instrument in my hands. For a farmer’s son, conversation is more frightening than a bit of music.”

“We were speaking of Señorita de Valera.”

“She was most impressive last night.”

Teoda’s dimple appeared again. “Was she?”

He ducked his head and stammered out, “Per—perhaps not so much as her patron expected.”

“Very diplomatic.”

Fortún reached for the neck of his vihuela, then thought better of it. “I … May I ask you something, Señorita Halcón?”

Luzia was surprised by the girl’s giddy laugh.

“I wondered if you would come right out and ask,” Teoda said. “Luzia has not quite worked up the courage. Usually people want to know if they will find true love or make a great fortune, but I think I can guess your question. You wish to know which of us will win the torneo?”