Page 65 of The Familiar

“Come, my love,” Don Víctor said, pulling his wife away. “Luzia must prepare.” His gaze met Santángel’s, who directed Luzia toward where the other hopefuls were reassembling by the puppet stage.

“I’ve felt frightened of discovery,” Luzia whispered. “Angry for the need to dissemble. But this is the first time I’ve felt ashamed of our lies.”

“Doña María is kind and gentle, and being eaten alive by her own longing. An astróloga read her chart and told her that she wouldn’t conceive until the Dutch were brought back under Catholic control.”

“And that’s why she prays so fervently?”

“No, she was always devout. But that charlatan has made her desperate. I’ve tried to reassure her, but she won’t hear me. She thinks God has found her faith wanting.”

“But you can’t promise her a child.”

“Of course I can. It’s why Víctor’s devotion to her has never wavered. He knows a child will come when it best suits his interests.”

“You’re so sure of your own influence?”

“Every De Paredes wife has born a son and every son has survived birth, and childhood, and the follies of youth to make my life miserable until he dies contented in his own bed. My confidence is well earned.”

“What are you talking about? And why are you snarling at me as if I’d tried to pick your pocket?”

“I did not snarl.”

“You might as well have bared your teeth while you did it.”

He grabbed her arm and pulled her into a pool of shadow by the stage. “I’m trying to protect us, Luzia. To protect you.”

She dipped into a curtsy. “Thank you, señor. Your rudeness is a mighty shield.”

“You asked why I’m able to eat, to rest, to ride, why I have regained my health.” He glanced back at the crowd and lowered his voice to the barest whisper. “Can you not guess it? It’s not the cook who tempts me back to appetite. It is yet another miracle to your credit.”

Luzia nearly laughed. “I didn’t restore you. I wouldn’t know how!”

“Every time you use your gift, every time you use me, you let me take a bit of your power for myself. Just as I make you stronger, you do the same for me. You make the blood flow in my veins once more. You remind my heart to beat.”

“A heart cannot forget to beat,” she scoffed.

His face shuttered. “All things can be forgotten given enough time. Now cease your complaining and fix your mind on the task ahead.”

He strode away and she had to resist the urge not to let a little song slip free and trip him with a tree root. But with or without Santángel she had a real battle to fight. Her rivals were waiting at the front of the stage.

CHAPTER 31

Santángel had been able to discover that there would be some kind of play about the life of Christ, possibly Satan’s effort to tempt him. Each of the competitors would be called upon by the vicar and his companions during the course of the performance, and that was where their practice came in, because Luzia would have to pray aloud, even as she drew upon the words of the refrán in her head. She wasn’t worried. This was a skill she’d learned at her mother’s knee and practiced her entire life. She had always been two people with two faiths, neither of them whole.

She had prepared a couple of different refranes—one that would allow her to bathe the savior in holy light, another that used the miracle of the vines. Thankfully none of the hopefuls knew the order in which they would be called to perform, so Luzia didn’t have to worry about more tricks from Gracia.

“Have you ever seen one of these theatricals?” asked Fortún as Luzia joined the others. “We had a puppeteer come through Jaén. It was marvelous!”

“No,” said Teoda. “But don’t expect too exciting a performance. The Inquisition tried Federigo Commandino for necromancy when his little wooden men proved too spectacular for sanctity.”

“I heard Gaspar del Águila sculpted a statue of the Virgin with two heads,” said Fortún. “One happy and smiling, and one for more solemn occasions.”

“My father told me that there was a Christ of Burgos made with real hair and eyelashes,” said Gracia. “It even had a hidden receptacle for blood. But it’s long since been destroyed.”

Teoda arched a blond brow. “It’s amazing what theatrics may be accomplished with a bit of ingenuity.”

Luzia had nothing to add. She had lived in books when she could and in the dark of the kitchen the rest of the time. She had never been to the theater or inside any church grander than San Ginés. She knew Madrid and its crooked streets and the heat of its long summers. He is in an untenable position, she’d told Santángel, her heart full of pity for Fortún Donadei and his glorious curls. He might very well loathe his mistress, but he was still a man, free to seek his fortune, free to go see puppet shows and play his songs in the sun.

She was grateful when the drummers flanking the stage found their rhythm. The flutes were next, then a sprightly horn, and the curtain rose.