the rest of us.
“I’m to play the ignorant outlander, yes?” he says.
A grin sneaks onto my face before I can stop it.
“I suppose I have no choice but to indulge in a flagon of wine. To complete the part.”
“I’m glad you’re willing to make such sacrifices for your king,” I say, and he nods solemnly.
“Fernando?”
He jumps as if he’s been shot with an arrow.
Perhaps Fernando is still not over killing a man. If so, I need to distract him. “We must be prepared,” I say. “You’ve proven yourself an able guard, so I need you to stick with me or Miria, watch our backs at all times. Can you do that?”
I’m not sure it’s the right thing to do, but during the summer I crewed on my brother’s ship, Felix’s response every time I showed even a hint of nervousness or hesitation was to keep me busy.
“Yeah, I can do that,” Fernando says. The deep breath he takes seems like his first in many long days.
“You don’t care if something happens to me ?” Lucio says.
I open my mouth to say something scathing, but wisdom, for once, wins out. “I think that, of all of us, you are most able to take care of yourself.”
“Oh.” Anger plays across his features, warring with acceptance. Acceptance wins. He puts a hand to the dagger at his belt, and his features harden with determination.
Miria’s expression is harder to read, but I feel as if she’s watching, judging. She’ll report back every tiny detail of this trip. It might even be the real reason she is here. But I can’t think about that too much, not until after we find Isadora.
The serving girl returns and apologizes, explaining that it’s not the right season for mint, but the cook will be out in a moment to personally offer Miria her choice of spices. “Your rooms will be ready soon after,” she assures us.
“Thank you,” I say.
“How long do you think you’ll be in Puerto Verde?” she asks with a twitchy smile. I can’t tell if her artlessness is meant to suss out information or if it’s a genuine attempt at conversation.
“As long as it takes,” I say with a forced smile of my own.
“Oh. But what if the lady never responds? You can’t stay here forever! I mean, you could I suppose, but . . .”
“As long as it takes,” Lucio repeats, his voice firm, and the girl’s mouth slams closed.
11
O N the afternoon of our second day, the four of us squeeze into my room. It’s a tiny chamber with threadbare furnishings and a single window overlooking the sea. Though the day is too warm, a fire roars in the small hearth. I hope the crackle and spit of wood will confound eavesdroppers—as well as make it unbearably warm for anyone hiding near the chimney, where the wall is thick enough to conceal a listening cubby.
“How go your inquiries?” I ask Miria, keeping my voice low.
“Not well,” she admits. “I think I’ve spoken with every cook, scullery maid, manservant, and washing woman in the house, and they are all too afraid to say anything directly.” She pauses. “There is something odd, though. . . .”
“Yes?”
“All of Isadora’s personal servants were released from service.”
I frown. When my grandmother died, her personal attendants were reassigned rather than released. Mamá said that as long we could afford to keep them, there was no reason to lose skilled, loyal help. “Do you think Isadora is . . . dead?”
She shakes her head. “The servants speak of her as though she lives, though they refuse to give details. And another thing: Have you seen the boy in the kitchen who is missing a couple fingers?”
I nod. “Not an unusual injury for the kitchens.”
“It was no accident,” Miria says. “Lord Solvaño caught him stealing a piece of cake during a Deliverance Day feast. He grabbed the cake knife and cut off the boy’s fingers right there.”
Fernando gasps.
“That’s . . . excessive,” I say.
“Solvaño said he would have cut off his whole hand to mark him as
“I’m to play the ignorant outlander, yes?” he says.
A grin sneaks onto my face before I can stop it.
“I suppose I have no choice but to indulge in a flagon of wine. To complete the part.”
“I’m glad you’re willing to make such sacrifices for your king,” I say, and he nods solemnly.
“Fernando?”
He jumps as if he’s been shot with an arrow.
Perhaps Fernando is still not over killing a man. If so, I need to distract him. “We must be prepared,” I say. “You’ve proven yourself an able guard, so I need you to stick with me or Miria, watch our backs at all times. Can you do that?”
I’m not sure it’s the right thing to do, but during the summer I crewed on my brother’s ship, Felix’s response every time I showed even a hint of nervousness or hesitation was to keep me busy.
“Yeah, I can do that,” Fernando says. The deep breath he takes seems like his first in many long days.
“You don’t care if something happens to me ?” Lucio says.
I open my mouth to say something scathing, but wisdom, for once, wins out. “I think that, of all of us, you are most able to take care of yourself.”
“Oh.” Anger plays across his features, warring with acceptance. Acceptance wins. He puts a hand to the dagger at his belt, and his features harden with determination.
Miria’s expression is harder to read, but I feel as if she’s watching, judging. She’ll report back every tiny detail of this trip. It might even be the real reason she is here. But I can’t think about that too much, not until after we find Isadora.
The serving girl returns and apologizes, explaining that it’s not the right season for mint, but the cook will be out in a moment to personally offer Miria her choice of spices. “Your rooms will be ready soon after,” she assures us.
“Thank you,” I say.
“How long do you think you’ll be in Puerto Verde?” she asks with a twitchy smile. I can’t tell if her artlessness is meant to suss out information or if it’s a genuine attempt at conversation.
“As long as it takes,” I say with a forced smile of my own.
“Oh. But what if the lady never responds? You can’t stay here forever! I mean, you could I suppose, but . . .”
“As long as it takes,” Lucio repeats, his voice firm, and the girl’s mouth slams closed.
11
O N the afternoon of our second day, the four of us squeeze into my room. It’s a tiny chamber with threadbare furnishings and a single window overlooking the sea. Though the day is too warm, a fire roars in the small hearth. I hope the crackle and spit of wood will confound eavesdroppers—as well as make it unbearably warm for anyone hiding near the chimney, where the wall is thick enough to conceal a listening cubby.
“How go your inquiries?” I ask Miria, keeping my voice low.
“Not well,” she admits. “I think I’ve spoken with every cook, scullery maid, manservant, and washing woman in the house, and they are all too afraid to say anything directly.” She pauses. “There is something odd, though. . . .”
“Yes?”
“All of Isadora’s personal servants were released from service.”
I frown. When my grandmother died, her personal attendants were reassigned rather than released. Mamá said that as long we could afford to keep them, there was no reason to lose skilled, loyal help. “Do you think Isadora is . . . dead?”
She shakes her head. “The servants speak of her as though she lives, though they refuse to give details. And another thing: Have you seen the boy in the kitchen who is missing a couple fingers?”
I nod. “Not an unusual injury for the kitchens.”
“It was no accident,” Miria says. “Lord Solvaño caught him stealing a piece of cake during a Deliverance Day feast. He grabbed the cake knife and cut off the boy’s fingers right there.”
Fernando gasps.
“That’s . . . excessive,” I say.
“Solvaño said he would have cut off his whole hand to mark him as
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