Page 57 of The Familiar

His bronzed cheeks flushed. “Have I made a fool of myself?”

“No, but I can offer no predictions. My angel is silent when my own fate is too bound up in the outcome.”

“I suppose that’s for the best,” he replied, looking around at the gardens, the glorious facade of the house. “That way we can all dream a little longer.”

At those words, Teoda’s merry grin faltered.

“Is something wrong?” Luzia asked.

Her small shoulders rose and fell. Her gaze was distant. “It’s this house. My dreams are troubled here. There’s too much silver, too much gold. All of it plunder. All of it stinking of death. At night the walls bleed.”

Fortún’s hand closed over the gold cross he wore, as if he were afraid she’d try to take it from him. “That treasure is Spain’s by right, as God has willed it.”

Teoda seemed to wake from her brooding. “Of course,” she said with a bright smile. “As God and our great king have willed it. Now, I’m getting restless.”

She gestured for one of her ladies to help her rise. Luzia hadn’t considered how difficult getting up might be and suddenly missed her stern performance dress with its meager verdugado.

“Signor Rossi,” Teoda called, “only God can master perfection. To pretend otherwise is blasphemy.”

The artist looked up, flustered, brow shining with sweat.

Gracia rose, a blossom gilded by the morning sun, and joined her own ladies, one of whom offered her a broad-brimmed hat trimmed in pale green ribbon. She drifted into the gardens, trailed by two of Pérez’s footmen. As if she were the one who needed protection.

“I don’t know what to make of Señorita Halcón,” said Fortún, his eyes on the girl as she took Gracia’s place in the golden chair, her feet dangling well off the ground. “That was … quite terrifying.”

Maybe she had wanted to scare them. But Luzia didn’t think so. “I suspect it’s much more frightening for her.”

“I hadn’t considered that,” he mused. “She’s meant to be an answer to the traitor Lucrecia de León. I don’t see how we can compete with such a talent.”

“You believe in the Holy Child’s visions?”

“What I believe doesn’t matter. If Pérez and the king believe in her … Well.” Again he reached for his vihuela and this time he lifted it, let it rest across his knees. “If I may say so, your performance last night was extraordinary. Though …”

Luzia waited.

Fortún glanced at the path down which Gracia had disappeared. “I wonder if it was the performance you originally intended?”

As much as Gracia de Valera deserved the blame, Fortún might simply be looking for gossip to repeat. “Opportunity is like porridge. It must be eaten hot.”

“And you really are a kitchen scullion?”

“I can’t pretend otherwise.”

“As a simple farmer’s son, I wouldn’t wish you to. I’m so glad you’re here.” Her face must have shown her surprise because he said hurriedly, “Have I said something wrong? I … I feel as if everyone here speaks the same language I’ve known my whole life, and yet I can’t understand a word.”

Luzia knew that feeling well. It was only that she was fairly sure no one had ever told her they were glad to see her. The closest was Águeda shouting, Finally! Go fetch more water.

“You said nothing wrong. I’m pleased to be here.”

He smiled, his teeth bright against his sun-browned skin. “What a pleasure to have a few hours of leisure. I feel as if we’re children left alone without our mothers.”

“We’re not alone,” Luzia said with a meaningful glance at the guards who stood at every doorway.

“No, I suppose not. I heard of your brush with death last night.”

“It wasn’t such a near thing, I assure you.” Luzia chose her words carefully. “Doña Beatriz is your patroness?”

“Yes.” Fortún’s hand returned to the gold cross, studded with hefty ovals of jade, a massive emerald at its center, the green dark and cool as a shaded wood. Luzia’s rosary looked shabby in comparison, but she suspected its weight was easier to bear.