The Shores of Spain (41 page)

“Do you believe that?”

“It may have been true once, but not since ’ninety-eight. Spain has no taste for war now. Yet the old sirenas living in this prison, they tell the same lies to themselves over and over until
they
believe them.”

Marcos apparently didn’t consider himself a sirena like his mother and grandmother. And Leandra had said he was trustworthy, a relief to Joaquim, since he was having trouble keeping his eyes open now. “What happened to the men before me, the ones who didn’t last?”

“They disappear. I’ve no idea where they end up.”

Joaquim knew he should be concerned by that, but at the moment he was just too tired.

CHAPTER 37

                   T
ERRASSA                   

M
arina picked the best spot to climb up the embankment back to the road, and waited as Alejandro made his way after her. Once on the roadside again, she first checked her skirt for dust and then Alejandro’s trousers, earning an embarrassed scowl from the boy. When she determined they were both presentable, she turned back to the big house. She only hoped her eyes weren’t red from crying.

A man stood near the wrought-iron gate. His black cassock proclaimed him a priest, and he watched patiently as they approached. His graying hair indicated age, but Marina wasn’t sure how old he was. He had a young face, a pleasant face.

Then she saw that he held their book in his hands.

Alejandro must have dropped the thing when he came to her aid, and Marina wasn’t going to let anyone take something Alejandro enjoyed that much. She marched staunchly up to the priest and held out one hand, her palm angry and red. “Please, Father, that’s my son’s book.”

“Of course,” the priest said, handing it to her. His dark eyebrows drew together when he saw the condition of her palm. “Are you hurt, madam?”

“A man hit my mother,” Alejandro said, managing to sound as
if he were even younger than seven. He stood halfway behind her, hiding behind her skirts. Now that
was
acting.

“I’m fine, Father,” she mumbled. “Just a blow to my jaw. I was more startled than hurt. I’m not accustomed to ruffians.”

The priest gazed at her sympathetically. “I am sorry you were ill-used, madam. Tell me, why are you here on the road?”

“I must speak with the marquesa,” Marina said, hope flaring suddenly. “Alejandro and I have been waiting here all afternoon, but she refused to see me.”

The priest set his hands on his hips. “What is this about?”

She was angry enough with the old woman that she relished the idea of provoking this man to share her anger. “A family member of hers,” Marina said. “Her great-grandson needs her help, and she would not even hear me out.”

“Her great-grandson?” The priest’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t know she had grandchildren.”

“A schism in the family,” Marina said. “Her daughter married without her permission, and she does not forgive. Neither her daughter nor her daughter’s descendants.”

The priest seemed troubled, as well he might be over such a sign of hardness in a member of his flock. “Perhaps we could go speak to her together, Mrs. . . .?”

“Tavares,” Marina said. “My husband’s father is Portuguese.”

“Ah, I see.”

“This is my son, Alejandro.”

“So this would be the marquesa’s great-great-grandson?” the priest asked.

Do I look old enough to have a child Alejandro’s age?
She was only twenty-three. With Alejandro being nearly eight, that would have made her a
very
young mother. “He’s our foster son,” she clarified, setting a hand on Alejandro’s shoulder.

“Ah,” the priest said. “I am Father Escarrá. Come, let’s speak with the marquesa.”

Marina was impressed with his surety that the woman would see him on a moment’s notice, but a priest often held great influence in the countryside. “Thank you, Father.”

When they reached the gate of the house, the priest waited patiently for the old butler to come tottering out again. He very calmly stated that he wished to see the lady, and when the old man mumbled a protest, the priest overrode that by simply striding past. Marina followed, Alejandro jogging along behind her.

The portly butler bade them wait for the lady to join them, asking them to remain in the hallway. He went into the sitting room, giving Marina the barest glimpse inside before he shut the door. He slipped out a moment later and gestured for them to wait for the lady within. The priest let Marina enter first. Not wanting to keep him standing, she sat, bidding Alejandro to sit on the sofa at her side. She set her bag at her feet. “Take off your cap,” she whispered to him.

He snatched it off and held it in his lap.

“From where are you visiting?” Father Escarrá asked politely.

“The Golden City,” Marina said.

“Ah,” he said. “I have visited Lisboa but have never reached Northern Portugal.”

“Travel is not always convenient,” she said vaguely.

“Yes. I hope you’re finding Catalonia to your liking.”

To my liking? When Joaquim has been taken prisoner?
When I’ve been struck by a man for no good reason?
But it would be impolitic to say that to a man who was helping her. And it was unfair to judge the country or its people by her current circumstances. “It has not turned out exactly as we’d hoped, but it is beautiful here.”

“Oh, damnation.” The marquesa leaned heavily on her cane, scowling at her visitors. “What sort of trouble has he fallen into? Has he started begging on the street?”

Marina rose, her hands balling into fists. The woman had spoken in Catalan, but Marina caught the gist of her accusations. “Your pardon, Marquesa, but I do not speak Catalan well.”

“Learn.” The old woman tottered over to her favored chair and sat down, glaring at Marina balefully. “Now, what do you want?”

“I need your help, Marquesa.” She could say that much in Catalan, at least. “My husband was . . . taken by the Mossos.”

The marquesa groaned. “Just speak Spanish, girl. Better that than listening to your wretched pronunciation. You butcher my language.”

Marina felt her cheeks go warm. Most Catalans so far had appreciated it when she’d tried. She supposed it was too much to expect this woman to be tolerant about anything. “Pardon me,” she said in Spanish, sitting again. “My husband was taken yesterday morning, to a prison. I believe you can help me get him out.”

“Go to your consulate,” the old woman snapped, pushing her twisted hands down on her cane to rise again. “Let
them
get him out.”

Marina rose with her, but gestured for Alejandro to remain seated. She was not going to let this bitter old woman slip away. “Shall I tell you why he was taken? Or shall we discuss what your servant came in here to do before he let Father Escarrá in?”

The marquesa glared at Marina, but she simply returned the woman’s gaze. Marina had glimpsed the servant turning the statue of the Virgin around so that it no longer faced the wall, something she’d seen in her childhood. She’d originally meant to threaten this woman with the knowledge that she had to be a witch, a desperate ploy since it was
possible
the marquesa wasn’t even aware of her gift. But what she’d seen the butler do hinted at a far better threat.

The marquesa turned to the priest. “Wait outside in the hall, please, Father,” she said, far more politely than she’d spoken to Marina. “This is a family matter.”

The priest seemed ready to protest, but nodded once and left the room, drawing the door closed behind him.

The old woman’s head snapped toward Marina. “I don’t know what you think you’re up to, girl, but you have no place disagreeing with me.”

“What do I have to lose? My husband is in a prison, not having committed any crime. You are my best hope for getting him out.”

The old woman sank down in her chair again. “Why should I do anything to help him? He has no claim on this family.”

Marina sat down. “Because the Mossos have every right to take you and put you in that prison as well.”

The old woman slammed her cane to the floor. “How dare you threaten me in my own house? You think you’re better than us just because your people rule here?”

Marina licked her lips. Joaquim would know just how to turn the woman’s words around to get at what he wanted to know. He would know how to make her admit . . . something.

“What does she mean by
your people
?” Alejandro asked in Portuguese, eyes wide.

Marina took his hand in hers. Alejandro’s confused look was a fake. At least she
thought
it was. He’d pointed out the marquesa’s misstep. If there was anything in this world Alejandro would understand, it would be a threat.

The marquesa hadn’t been commenting on the Spanish.
Your people
referred to the Church’s power in Spain, the very power represented by Father Escarrá. And that verified what Marina thought she’d seen. The statue of the Virgin
had
been facing the wall.

Marina glanced at Alejandro again. “Some people hide their true faith,” she said to him in Portuguese. “Their neighbors might be upset if they learn they’re different.”

Supposedly that had ended in Spain—and in Portugal—with the end of the Inquisition during the past century. But people were often suspicious of
anything
different. Enough so to make this woman send the priest out into the hallway.

Marina looked up to find the marquesa’s hard eyes on her. The woman
knew
she had an advantage. She could threaten to expose the woman’s secret to her priest, to her neighbors. They might turn on the old woman, or shun her. It would be just recompense for the
woman’s unpleasantness not only to Joaquim, but to his mother and grandmother as well, wouldn’t it?

Marina closed her eyes. She’d lived under her aunt’s roof for years, hiding her own faith. A Christian on Quitos was as much a rarity as . . .

Would the marquesa be a Jew? Would the Mossos take this fragile old woman and throw her in that prison as well? Merely because she’d turned around the statue of the Virgin?

As unpleasant as the woman was, Marina wouldn’t wish that on her. Out of respect for an elder, if nothing else, she wouldn’t do that. She
couldn’t
.

Jaw clenched, Marina rose from her seat.

“Where do you think you’re going?” the old woman snapped.

“I had thought I could threaten you to force you to help my husband,” Marina said, her throat tight. “But I can’t. I know what it’s like to have to hide who I am. I know what it’s like to fear exposure. I won’t do that to someone else, not even to save my husband. He would be so disappointed in me.” Her lips began to quiver and she took a shaky breath. “And I won’t set that example for my son. We’ll find some other way to get my husband free.”

I have to get out of here before I break into tears.

Leaving Alejandro to follow, Marina rushed out into the hallway, covering her mouth with one hand to hold in her sobs. Then she ran to the front door, right past the startled-looking priest. Without waiting for the butler, Marina threw the door open and stumbled down the steps.

She stopped on the stone pathway, bent over and clutching at her belly, trying to hold down the anguish that made her want to cast up her meager lunch.

She had ruined her best chance to free Joaquim.

CHAPTER 38

A
fter a moment, the nausea passed, leaving Marina with clammy skin and a pounding in her temples. She drew a few deep breaths, sternly reminding herself she couldn’t behave like a child. There was no one here to take care of her, and
she
had to take care of Alejandro.

Calmed by that thought, she turned back and saw he’d followed her. She was glad she didn’t have to walk back in there to get him. He clutched her bag in his hands—it must be heavy for him—and regarded her with a worried line between his eyebrows. “Why did you do that?”

Alejandro had grown up with threats. He’d clearly recognized what she’d intended. But she hadn’t been able to go through with it. She was weak, just as her aunts had always said.

She wiped her cheeks with her scraped palm, ignoring the sting of the salt tears on her raw skin. “There are some things I can’t do, Alejandro.” She sniffed. “I just . . . can’t. It would be wrong.” She took another deep breath. “Why don’t you give me that bag? It’s a long way back to town.”

Alejandro walked along with her, silent as always, his eyes on the rows of vines marching up the hills. When they passed the house’s gate, he glanced back. “I thought grandmothers were supposed to be nice.”

That made her chuckle. Of course, he’d likely never met a real
grandmother, much less his own. “My grandmother is. It was her house you came to out on the islands.”

“Oh,” Alejandro said, mouth pursing.

“She understands why you stole the book,” Marina reminded him.

He shrugged, which sent her looking about for another topic.

“Joaquim’s mother passed away when he was your age, but his foster mother is very nice. You’ll like her.” If she could ever get Alejandro to the Golden City, he would adore Lady Ferreira. And she would like him. She liked clever people.

Marina shifted the bag to her other hand. With her aching palms, it was going to get heavy quickly. The sky was already darkening. They definitely weren’t going to reach the town before full dark.

Marina paused when Alejandro grabbed her arm. She looked down to see him pointing back toward the house. A one-horse gig headed toward them along the path. As it came closer, she saw the priest was driving. She drew Alejandro to the side of the road, but the priest pulled the horse to a stop next to them, dust settling about the wheels.

“May I give you a ride back to the town?” he asked in a civil voice.

At least she hadn’t shamed herself so thoroughly that the priest shunned her. “Yes, Father,” she said quickly. “It’s later than I thought.”

“There’s almost no moon, and I wouldn’t want you and your son walking into town in the dark,” the priest said. “Particularly not after your earlier difficulties.”