Page 63 of The Familiar

Luzia nodded, but her face was damp with perspiration.

“Something to drink?” Marius offered. “What is all this fretting? Has Santángel failed to prepare you?”

Luzia didn’t know how to answer. Santángel had met with her that morning and they’d practiced in the gardens, far from prying eyes. He’d been able to learn of the puppet show and they’d strategized on how she could be most ready. But it was clear he was eager to be gone from her presence. Only last night, he had spoken to her, alone in her room, as if they were lovers, tall and white as a phantom, and yet seeming to grow stronger and more beautiful with every day that passed. He had looked at her in the mirror and again she’d had the sense of rising out of her body. She had remembered the dream of the orange grove and she knew that if she did lose her tether and somehow drifted up into the night sky and over the city, he would find a way to meet her there. She’d been certain of it.

Then he’d snarled at her and left, as if she were just another task to be seen to on his master’s behalf.

What else would you be? The trust they’d built between them was a temporary thing, a pact made at Don Víctor’s request and nothing more. But she found herself wanting to ask what would happen if she did somehow manage to win. Would her lessons continue? Would his luck remain hers? And which of her secrets had he shared with Víctor de Paredes?

There were other fears she hadn’t considered until last night. She’d dreamed of being raised high in the court, of having a position of security and even authority, valued, respected. But she would not just be an advisor or courtier—the king would make her his weapon. It was one thing to be wielded against the English or the Dutch. But would she be used to put down rebellions, to murder heretics and indios and Jews and any other enemy of Philip’s God? Would she be covered in the blood Teoda Halcón had seen in her dreams?

As if she had summoned him with her worry, Santángel appeared and said, “You must be led before the vicar. Don Marius, Doña Valentina, you will introduce her.”

“I see,” said Don Marius with a glance to where Víctor de Paredes was seated.

Santángel gave a single nod of acknowledgment. “I will take Luzia to Don Víctor when the blessing is over.”

Luzia let herself be steered toward the dais. More guests had arrived in capes and cloaks, dressed for the cool night. Luzia knew that she should focus on the competition, on the church deputies who sat on the raised platform, three of them in a row, all in their robes and hats, pristine in white and red and black. She couldn’t help but think it was like an auto de fe in miniature. The torneo’s competitors brought before them as penitents, dressed in fine clothes instead of sanbenitos.

The autumn sun was long gone, and yet she was sweating in her prim gown. Concha had cleaned and starched the collar and cuffs so that they glowed white, and Luzia was grateful that they’d kept her face free of paint, afraid the vicar’s sensibilities would be more offended by artifice than by her freckled brown skin.

I have been baptized, she reminded herself. She went dutifully to mass. She knew her Pater Noster, the Ave Maria and Salve Regina, her psalms and commandments. She would happily eat ham and mend a dress after sundown on the Sabbath. And yet she felt her magic like a damning thread, binding her to the past, and to every Jew in every synagogue who still bent their head in prayer. Hualit had slipped away. She might sip from a drink that called for the killing of Jews and do it with a wink, but she would not place herself before the Vicar of Madrid.

CHAPTER 30

Luzia’s fellow competitors had already gathered for the introductions. The Beauty was dressed in cream velvet tonight, embellished with pearls and diamonds and braided silver thread so that she gleamed like the first frost. Fortún Donadei wore green and gold again, and Teoda Halcón had a cross of silver embroidered on her red gown, as if she were a tiny soldier.

“La Hermanita has arrived,” she said with a smile. “What do you make of all of this merry show?”

“It’s odd, isn’t it?” Luzia murmured. “I don’t know if we’re meant to behave as if we’re at a party or at church.”

Teoda’s smile curled and she whispered, “Depending on the church, it can be hard to tell the difference.” In a more normal voice she added, “Gracia, I don’t know if you’ve met Luzia, though you seem most familiar with her milagritos.”

If Gracia was bothered by the jibe she didn’t show it. She merely curtsied. “A pleasure.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Luzia replied.

“That is Pedro del Valle,” said Fortún, bobbing his chin toward the man to the vicar’s right. “It was he who warned Lucrecia de León to cease her treason.”

“Before she was taken to Toledo?” asked Luzia.

Teoda shuddered. “He took her head between his palms and said, I have undone many prophets with these hands.”

“But she didn’t stop, did she?” Gracia observed. “Why bring such misery on yourself?”

“Perhaps her dreams demanded it,” Teoda said quietly.

Luzia was weary of waiting. She was eager to have these trials done and her future decided. But she suspected she would be sorry when it was all over. She’d had little opportunity to make friends, and even if they were all rivals, they were united in their fears and wants. She liked Teoda and Fortún, and if Gracia hadn’t tried to have her murdered, she would probably like her too.

“Who sits to the vicar’s left?” Luzia asked.

“Fray Diego de Chaves,” Fortún replied, holding tight to his golden cross. “The royal confessor.”

Pérez’s red-bearded courtier was waving them over, grouping them with their patrons so that they could be brought forward. When they had all made their curtsies and bows and their names had been read aloud, Pérez himself climbed the dais and bowed deeply.

“May this night’s work please you and God,” he said humbly.

Fray Diego ignored him and leaned forward to address the gathered hopefuls. He had a long face, made longer by drooping jowls, and he gripped the arms of his chair as if he were trying to resist launching himself off the stage.