“I was so sorry to hear of doña Magdalena’s death,” she said sweetly. “You have my condolences, and those of my family. We were so saddened to—”
“I don’t know you,” I interrupted, a bit too harshly. “And you didn’t know my mother.” I was suddenly angry at Luz for what I decided was feigned sympathy. Although the love and pity on her face seemed to be real, not even don Francisco had had a real relationship with my mother. And this young woman, despite her kindness, could not have known her at all.
Luz flushed, but her expression remained kind and sad. “No, I didn’t. But we all admired her so. And I know how awful it must be for you this morning, after what happened last night.” She lowered her voice on the last sentence, even though we were alone in the vast room.
Her words so startled me that I forgot my anger. “You know about my father?” I gasped.
She lowered her gaze and smiled sadly at me. Only then did I notice the crease between her brows as she struggled to keep her eyes fully open. She was exhausted, as if she’d slept little, and I realized suddenly that her mother had looked drawn as well.
“My grandfather knows everything that happens in Seville.” She paused, and her little grin faded. “I know you must feel very alone, Marisol. But you’re not. You’ve never been.”
She had no idea how I felt: Her mother hadn’t killed herself; her father hadn’t been arrested. But my efforts to hate her were failing. She was a conversa—like me marked by her hair, features, and dark eyes—and although she was gazing on me with pity now, it was only a matter of time before the Inquisition destroyed her family, too. I couldn’t let myself think how Torquemada would deal with her and her unborn child if I exchanged her life for my father’s.
As I looked at her, my gaze fell on the mirror. I saw myself, pale and desperate, and the back of Luz’s body and head, covered in a sheer veil. From her build, it could have been my mother sitting there against the backdrop of the opposite wall’s reflection. Her head was at the level of the wooden shelves, with their pantheon of ceramic saints. The front entrance, with its double wooden doors, was reflected as well; to their right, a small, special double shelf had been erected. On the very top sat a ceramic Madonna. She stood out from the other household saints not only because of her special post by the entry, or of the score of lit votives on the lower shelf, but because, of the dozens of figurines, she was the worst looking. The bright cherry-red paint missed part of the fullness of her lower lip and escaped the borders of her upper; the black dots that served as pupils for her flat blue eyes made the latter looked crossed. Her veil was a paler shade of the same blue, and behind it was a massive solar halo, with long gilded rays emanating from it. The child in her arms had been painted stark white and was overly fat.
I blinked several times, but the impossible apparition remained. It was a perfect copy of my mother’s ugly Madonna, the one that she was so fond of, the one that Máriam had insisted on bringing into the Hojeda house.
It was no doubt coincidence that an identical ugly statue resided in don Francisco’s home; I couldn’t afford to yield to emotion and trust him or anyone else, however badly I wanted to confide in this sweet girl. I closed my eyes and struggled for control while Luz waited patiently. When she reached out to pat my hand, I pulled it away.
“My parents and I have always been alone,” I said. “No one helped us when she died.”
“She is a hero,” Luz said vehemently. “Had it been safe for you and your father, we surely would have visited you after she passed.”
“Did you know her?” I asked.
“We never met.” Luz turned her face toward the windows. Rays of sunlight bathed her features, revealing a glaze of unshed tears over her brown eyes, flecked with gold; for the first time, I noticed that their rims were red, the lids puffed and swollen. In the mirror, her beautiful face appeared beside that of the homely Virgin. “But I knew of her, of course, just as she knew of us.”
“How—” I began, but was interrupted by the arrival of doña Alma.
“Don Francisco is thrilled that you are here,” Alma announced, glaring at Luz as if she had said too much. “Will you follow me, please, to his study?”
I obeyed. Unsmiling, I nodded a good-bye to Luz and followed Alma upstairs to a long corridor. We made our way to a closed door, where Alma knocked lightly, then opened the door, which swung inward, and turned to me.
“I realize that it’s inappropriate,” Alma said in a low voice, “but I’m afraid don Francisco has forbidden me to come inside during his discussion with you. But I’ll be right outside the door.” She put a tentative, reassuring hand on my shoulder and managed a wan smile; her eyes, too, were red, as though she had been weeping all night.
I stepped over the threshold and heard the door close behind me with a click. Now that the sun was climbing, the day was turning warm, but the fire in the study hearth was still blazing, and the room smelled of smoke. I breathed in a lungful of overheated air and immediately began to sweat.
The small, low-ceilinged room held little furniture. There was a pair of padded chairs with arms, a writing desk with inkwell and quill and a stool, and a velvet chaise longue with a sleeping pillow and rumpled blanket lying on it. The pillow still bore the imprint of don Francisco’s head. Near the desk, a massive tome sat open on a reading pedestal. Wooden bookcases that spanned floor to ceiling held more books than I’d ever seen collected in one place, books in Castilian, Aragonese, French, Italian, Latin, Arabic, and Greek. Some were leather bound, some scrolls, others unbound stacks of paper or parchment. My eyes widened at the sight of them all, and then don Francisco stepped into view.
The old man was bleary-eyed and stiff; he straightened with a faint groan, but greeted me warmly. “Doña Marisol. I’m so glad you could come.” His eyes were not as red as Luz’s or Alma’s, but he seemed to have aged a good deal overnight. His manner was grave, his tone hushed. “I’d hoped to have far better news for you this morning. We hoped to warn your father in time so you could both escape, but unfortunately, we couldn’t stop the arrest—nor the wagon that took him to the prison.”
“Yes,” I answered quickly, without really hearing what he’d said. “You know then, that he’s there. Can you help him?”
Don Francisco tilted his head to one side and let go one of the longest, weariest sighs I’d ever heard—the sigh of Atlas, bearing the weight of the world. “Doña, I know how you loved your mother and how you love your father. For this reason alone, I’ve told you as much as I dare. But I first must know: What did your mother tell you about me?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing at all?” He lifted a disbelieving brow.
I shook my head; interestingly, he seemed relieved.
“But can you help my father?” I persisted.
“It will be far more difficult now, if not impossible.” His tone switched from apologetic to stern. “I’d meant for you and your father to leave Seville together last night. I’m sorry I could give you no warning; you won’t be able to take anything with you. But it’s imperative you leave Seville. Now.”
“Leave Seville?” I gasped. “Where would I go?”
“I can’t tell you that.” The old man shifted his weight uneasily; I realized that standing was hard for him and I immediately sat down in a chair so that he could do the same. “The carriage waits now,” he continued. “You’ll be well provided for; money won’t be an issue. You’ll go where there are people who will care for you.”
“There’s no one I know outside of Seville,” I answered, “and even if there were, I wouldn’t leave the city without my father.”
“Doña Marisol, I trust you enough to tell you that if you leave, your father won’t be deserted. But if you stay, you might well be captured yourself.”
I shook my head, vehement. “Let me make it clear, don Francisco. I know the danger and I don’t care. I’m not leaving Seville without my father.”
He watched me carefully throughout our exch
ange. His forehead grew furrowed as I spoke; my last words seemed to resonate with him. His watery eyes narrowed with pride.
“I had expected nothing less than courage from you,” he murmured. “You are indeed Magdalena’s daughter.” I flushed at the compliment as he continued. “I’m afraid that danger to you and others has required me to be oblique up to now, so let me be completely clear. Had it been possible, I would have had both you and your father escaping today.”
“You would have rescued us both today? Why?” I asked. “Why would you do something so dangerous? Why would you risk everything for us?”
“Because I love your mother,” he said.
I thought suddenly of my father’s behavior around don Francisco—polite, but doggedly distant. I thought of how my mother would smile shyly at Francisco in public without greeting him, and immediately lower her eyes.
“I’m afraid that’s all I can say at this moment,” the elderly patriarch added. “If you’re not leaving Seville now, it’s better that you know as little as possible. I urge you to go home and stay there or find someplace to hide. We can provide a place for you here if you like.”
“No,” I said. “I need to help my father. Is there anything else you can do for him?”
Don Francisco glanced up and to the right, at something invisible and ugly. He fingered the curl of his moustache absently as regret crossed his features, only to be replaced by faint hardness. “Not today, I fear. Not while the sun shines.”
“Then I’ll go to Queen Isabel and beg her for mercy. She told me last night she liked my performance and would grant me a favor.”
He shook his head. “The queen is good at making pretty speeches. But she’s a ruthless decision maker. I’ve known her for years, Marisol.”
The back of my throat tightened until it ached. “I’ll get Antonio’s help then. Maybe he can speak to his superior, Fray Morillo.”
“Hmm,” don Francisco said. “Do you think it’s wise to get don Antonio involved? Do you trust him?”
I hesitated. “No,” I said. “He deserted me. We were supposed to marry, but…” I glanced away at the flames snapping in the hearth. “He stopped writing to me. I suppose he found another girl in Salamanca. We pretend that we’re still friends, but—” I broke off. The world I knew had just changed. Perhaps it was all an act, but I trusted this man and these women who spoke so kindly of my mother. And even though I was still desperate to save my father, I felt a wild rush of hope. “Torquemada questioned me last night. About you.”
Don Francisco managed a faint grin. “Did he?”
“He wants me to get to know you so that I can inform on you. The Inquisition wants your property and wealth.”
He let go a feeble chuckle. “You’re not telling me anything I haven’t known for some time, my dear.” For a long moment he studied me intently, then spoke again, his tone sharper. “Marisol, the Inquisition will come for you next. Considering that the queen is disposed to listen to Fray Tomás de Torquemada over Fray Alonso…”
“I want to help you,” I said, with half a heart. Yet at the same time, I didn’t know these people very well, and I knew I lacked the resolve to keep their secrets if it meant my father had to die. “But I have to do what’s necessary to free my father. So I don’t think we should meet again, don Francisco. I shouldn’t have come here.”
All trace of humor fled the old man’s features. For a long time, he gazed on me solemnly, sizing me up; I knew he sensed my lack of determination. Finally he answered, “Perhaps not. But I would ask one favor of you.”
I lifted my brows questioningly.
“Honor your mother by finishing her work. See that no statue remains unfinished.”
“Why?” I demanded.
He remained silent.
“But her work is locked up in my father’s house; I can’t get to it.”
A longer pause followed. At last he said, “You’re intelligent enough to figure out a way. And stay on good terms with don Antonio. I’ll make sure he does you no harm.” He paused again. “You alone can finish the work she began for us. But I must know that you are sincere.… You and she never spoke of me or my family?”
“Never,” I said, with a bit of shame. “I … judged her harshly for being a conversa. It was cruel of me to do so.”
“I see,” he replied sternly.
Before he could utter the next sentence, I interrupted. “You speak as though my mother’s work were somehow important.”
Don Francisco frowned. “I’ve already told you too much. Any more would put you and us at higher risk. Go home. And if by chance you decide to share this conversation with Torquemada—be aware it’s grounds for your arrest, as well. Don’t worry about your father. Just remember … my offer to help you escape still stands.”
I nodded but inwardly had every intention of going to see Her Majesty as soon as I could to beg for my father’s life … and of figuring out the secret that my mother and don Francisco had kept.
Fifteen
On my return from don Francisco’s house, the driver let me out of the unmarked carriage on San Pablo Street a good walk from my house. I was glad he did; the instant I turned the corner onto the Hojeda cul-de-sac, I saw another black carriage waiting in front of Gabriel’s house, this one bearing the standard of the Inquisition—a wooden cross flanked on its right by an olive branch, on its left by a double-edged sword, the whole set beneath the Crown of Spain.
The sight made me quail. I was tempted to turn around and run from it—but the thought that my father waited at the other end of the ride made me steady myself and walk up to it.
Blanca, her eyes starkly wide, stood out in front of the house walls beside Máriam. Her pale features conveyed suspicion. “How can there be two carriages for you in one day? And what am I to tell don Gabriel if he returns home and you’re not here?”
I shrugged. “What will you tell the queen, the Inquisition, if I don’t go?”
Máriam stepped up to me and put a tentative hand on my elbow, a bold move for her. “I won’t leave you, doña Marisol.”
“You will,” I said shortly, and not at all nicely, despite her show of loyalty; it was the only way to show her I was serious.
I waited as the driver climbed down and opened the coach door for me. As he helped me inside, I started at the sight of Antonio Vargas, again dressed all in black. The color leached away the ruddiness of his flesh, but not the intensity of his red-gold hair.
“The world is determined to put us together,” he quipped wryly at my dismay, twisting one corner of his mouth to reveal a dimple. He reminded me so much of the old Antonio that I gave a short, humorless laugh despite myself.
But when he offered a hand to steady me as I settled on the seat beside him, I pulled away coldly. “Who sends you?” I demanded.
The light left his eyes. “Fray Tomás de Torquemada,” he answered. “He wishes to question you himself.” He cleared his throat. “My superior, Fray Morillo, has given me leave to attend to Fray Tomás while he is visiting. You’re a person of particular interest to him.”
“Only because don Francisco took a liking to me last night. Torquemada wants his hands on the money.” Anger welled up in me. “I swear to you, he’ll never get his hands on anything belonging to my father.”
Antonio turned his face sharply toward the window. “Ahh, innocent Marisol. Did they not tell you?” He glanced back at me, his lids half lowered with an emotion I decided was shame. “Your father’s property and money has already been seized by the Crown. Even if he’s found innocent, it’s unlikely he’ll see any of it returned.”
The Inquisition had no right to ruin my father’s life forever over a baseless charge. Even the most feared Inquisition in France, a century earlier, respected the accused’s rights. “But that’s impossible! Illegal! Surely Queen Isabel—”
“Isabel knows what is going on,” he said. “She and the king are deeply involved in the workings of the Inquisition.” He focused his eyes on the sigh
ts outside the window.
“How can you know that?” I demanded. “The queen is a very pious Christian: She came all the way to Seville in secret to make sure the Inquisition was carried out properly.”
He shrugged. “Believe what you wish, doña.”
“I believe you’re jaded from listening to the Inquisitors. And I believe the queen is a good person who would be scandalized by the greediness surrounding her.”
Antonio shrugged again. We both fell quiet as he again directed his attention outside. I didn’t speak until our carriage pulled alongside the Church of San Pablo.
“So,” I said coldly, “you’ve betrayed me twice.”
He quickly drew his attention back from the scene beyond the window. “I never betrayed you,” he said evenly. “You abandoned me.”
“Liar!” I snapped. “You’re—”
He interrupted. “You never answered my letters. Not one of them—”
I talked over him. “You never sent me any letters. I sent you dozens!”
“—and I returned to Seville to discover you were marrying Gabriel Hojeda. What was I to think, Marisol?” He stopped abruptly as my words registered.
“I told you,” I said heatedly, lowering my voice. “I wrote you and never heard back. So one of us is lying.”
His expression was perplexed. “Or neither.”
That gave me pause. It didn’t matter, I told myself bitterly. I could never love a man who served as Torquemada’s lackey.
We didn’t speak as we rode past the church and through the monastery walls, up to the three-story dormitory near the outbuilding where the Inquisitors worked and where I had met Antonio and the queen. The dormitory windows were still all shuttered, holding in the day’s warmth but not the wafting stench of human waste. It seemed wrong that a building of such graceful design, with its rows of archways and slender turrets, should contain such misery.
Our carriage rolled to a stop in front of the main entrance; a guard hurried over to make sure of our identities and that I was not carrying a weapon. Antonio shouldered a satchel of papers before following me inside the building; I felt both oddly reassured and unsettled that he was accompanying me.