The Shores of Spain (43 page)

He suspected that Piedad
was
more predictable. “It’s fortunate the Spanish embassy on the islands went along with that plan.”

Miss Prieto shot a glance at Marcos.

“The ambassador is my father,” the young man reminded him. “He never had any choice.”

Joaquim shook his head.
Poor Marcos.
If there was any way to help get these people out of here, he was going to do it. “Aren’t you concerned that the sirenas are listening to you?”

“Not at all,” Miss Prieto said, tying off his bandage. “They see no need to. It’s God’s will, after all, that we live out our lives as their servants.”

History was filled with those who thought they knew God’s will, only to learn they were wrong. Joaquim hoped this was one of those times.

CHAPTER 39

                   F
RIDAY
,
1
M
AY
1903
; L
LEIDA                   

J
oaquim had spent most of the early-morning hours unable to sleep. His face actually felt worse than it had the previous day, his arm throbbed, and he was worried about the idiocy of a plan that relied on him to do something he’d never done before. About whether the man in chains could deliver on his promise to free these people. About Marina and Alejandro. They felt
closer
than Barcelona. What were they doing?

To distract himself, he’d talked with Marcos instead. Joaquim couldn’t blame the young man for his bitterness. Of a more idealistic bent than Joaquim himself, Marcos had spent his youth among other wealthy boys with few cares to trouble them. Despite being only half human, he’d felt his father’s status as a diplomat would protect him from imprisonment. And he was violently in love with this woman, Safira, yet feared that should they both ever be free, she might reject him for what he perceived as his faithlessness, even though he’d only done as ordered to protect
her
.

Considering that he’d spent the better part of three years in this place with nothing to do—there were no books, no paper, not
even a deck of playing cards—Joaquim was impressed the young man was still sane.

When the morning’s first light crept through his high window, Marcos gestured for Joaquim to come over to look outside. Following the young man’s lead, he stepped onto Marcos’ bed and stood on his toes to peer out the window, being careful not to touch his swollen nose to the glass. His second-floor window looked out onto a small courtyard surrounded by walls on two sides and fences on the other.

“We’re in the back of the prison,” Marcos said. “You can see the outer fence from here. This courtyard is only for the ladies and the children. Not prisoners. There’s one on the opposite side for them.”

Joaquim could see the stone outer fence, which looked twice as tall as any man. Plus, there were guard posts at the corners, although he couldn’t see a guard at the moment. “That’s not much space.”

“No, they don’t let the prisoners out often. Once a day. The part we’re in is newer, a cross arm like the transept of a church, and the chapel is in the lower floor straight across . . . um, the apse, I suppose. That’s where you go to get down to the bottom.”

Joaquim peered in the direction he was pointing. “Bottom?”

“Where the Vilaró is. There’s some way to get down there from the chapel. I’ve never been inside the chapel.”

“Are you not allowed to go to Mass?”

Marcos laughed bitterly. “No. I refuse to give my word not to attempt escape.”

He hadn’t been able to tell how far they’d come from the first prison, the Morra, but it couldn’t have been far. “Where are we in relation to the town?”

“Near the middle of it, actually. The prison is old and the town grew around it.”

Joaquim eyed the fence again. Beyond that the land looked unused, not even for farming. It was an open field, where prisoners fleeing would be easy to see. “I don’t see the town.”

“We’re looking in the one direction in which the town doesn’t lie. Believe me, there’s a plaza right in front of the prison, and streets on either side.”

He supposed that was possible. After all, the prison in the Golden City was in the middle of the city as well, not far from his own flat. “If the Vilaró can break this prison, and you escape, what then?”

Marcos’ lips pressed together. “What do you mean?”

“What’s to stop the guards from simply catching everyone and bringing them back?”

Marcos frowned. “He has a plan.”

Joaquim climbed down off the bed. Either the Vilaró hadn’t told them his plan, or no one had told Marcos, for fear he would talk. Or none of them had a plan. “How many are planning to escape?”

“Only a few know,” Marcos said. “Most will have to decide when the time comes.”

That meant some of the sereia might choose to stay here instead of going home, a strange thought. But people held in captivity for a long time often feared leaving it. After Moses had led them out of Egypt, hadn’t many of the Israelites wanted to return to slavery rather than face an unknown wilderness? “And there are children?”

The young man nodded. “That’s my job, mine and Miss Prieto’s.”

“How many?”

“Nine.”

An escape with nine children in tow?
Joaquim felt his stomach sink.

“Eight,” Marcos corrected. “I included Alejandro.”

Eight wasn’t any better. “And you believe you’ll be able to get them all out safely?”

Marcos took a deep breath. “Alejandro said so. I have to believe the Vilaró can create enough chaos to aid us.”

Joaquim hoped the young man’s faith wasn’t misplaced. But so far, Alejandro’s insights had been correct, hadn’t they? By volunteering to take Alejandro all the way to the islands to steal a book of
unknown value, his mother had managed to bring a finder here to the prison. That told Joaquim that Alejandro’s gift
had
to be stronger than his own, and likely stronger than Duilio’s. He didn’t think Duilio could have predicted the turns his path would take to end up here.

They talked on, discussing the numbers of sereia from the islands in the prison. Marcos lumped them in three groups: those who capitulated and served the navy; those who’d resisted and were still in the prison, forced to serve as wardens like Leandra and his Safira; and those who resisted too much and simply disappeared. Far more sereia had been dragged here than Joaquim had realized before.

“What do—”

The ground rumbled and, right before his eyes, the stones tiles of the floor buckled upward, only an inch or so, the movement flowing across the cell like a wave. A second later there was silence.

Joaquim swallowed.
An earthquake?
“What just happened?”

“The Vilaró,” Marcos said. “He likes to remind La Reyna that while she controls the guards, it’s him in whom the prisoners believe.”

“He made the stone floor move?” Joaquim asked, disbelieving.

“Yes. Even in chains in the bottom of the prison, he has that much power. That is why they fear him so. And because the prisoners believe in him, he grows stronger.”

“Because of their belief?”

“Yes,” Marcos said with a short laugh. “La Reyna cannot kill him. She’s tried. Her mother before her tried. Yet every day he grows stronger because the prisoners believe.”

“Then why does he need help to escape at all?”

“In time he’ll be strong enough to defeat the iron holding him, but that may be a hundred years from now, and Leandra will be dead. That’s why he wants to help us escape. She is his favorite, and he wants to save her.”

There was no saving her from the sickness that had already taken her gills. Joaquim said as much to Marcos.

“The Vilaró means to take her away to somewhere where she won’t be sick any longer. She might live forever there, he says.” Marcos crossed himself. “It’s wrong to want to escape heaven, but she’s a pagan anyway.”

*   *   *

T
ERRASSA

M
arina felt far better when she woke. She’d actually gotten a decent night’s sleep. The mirror in the bathroom showed her that the blow to her jaw had produced only a yellowish bruising. It wasn’t noticeable if one wasn’t looking for it. She pinned up her hair and faced her reflection squarely. Even though yesterday had been a failure from one end to the other, she felt hopeful about today.

So I don’t have the ruthlessness to be a blackmailer. I don’t have the physical strength to fight off attackers without resorting to my
call
, meager though it is. I don’t have the pragmatism to do things I don’t agree with.

She pinched her cheeks to get back some of her color.

What I do have is persistence. I will keep asking for help until I have my husband back. As long as it takes.

Today she would send another telegraph and ask for Lady Ferreira’s help. Then she would go to the Portuguese consulate in Barcelona and ask for their help. And then she would go to the Americans again. And if she must, she would go to Lleida itself and start over there. She couldn’t afford to be arrested—that would leave Alejandro alone—but anything she could do short of that, she would.

Marina headed back down the quiet hall to the room where Alejandro was still sleeping. She lightly touched his shoulder. His eyes opened wide and he tensed.

Will he ever get over that?
“It’s me,” she reminded him.

His shoulders sagged. His straight hair was disordered. “I’m awake.”

“I’m going to go down to the church,” she said. “I won’t be long. Would you prefer to stay here?”

He shoved the blanket away. “No. Don’t go without me.”

Was that because he had some allegiance to the Church? If she asked him, he would probably say yes, whether or not it was true. Or did he simply not want to be left alone? “Why don’t you go down to the water closet and then get dressed? I’ll wait for you in the kitchen.”

Rubbing at his eyes, Alejandro tumbled out of his bed and headed barefoot down the hall.

In the kitchen Marina found her industrious hostess preparing bread for the day. She asked for instructions on how to get to the church, and Mrs. Sala offered her son as a guide.

When Alejandro appeared a moment later, clothes donned hastily enough that he’d not tucked in the tails of his shirt, Marina took a moment to straighten his hair and then they both followed the tall young man to the church. Along the way he described every building they passed, keeping up a constant stream of good-natured chatter, a stark contrast to Alejandro’s guarded silence.

The old church turned out to be three churches built close together, two ancient and plain in golden stone, and the third more modern, but still old. It was to that one that the boy led them. Since early Mass was to begin shortly, Marina quickly made her way over to the stand of votive candles that waited under a statue of the Virgin. She lit a candle and knelt to pray for the Virgin’s intercession in securing Joaquim’s freedom. She added Alejandro’s mother and sister to that prayer, and then rose, surprised to find Alejandro kneeling next to her. He rose with her and followed her silently from the church. The Sala boy ambled ahead of them.

There were others coming to early Mass, down the street while they walked up it, but Marina didn’t think they would overhear. “Did your mother take you to Mass at the prison?”

Alejandro shook his head. “The sirenas had Mass, but prisoners don’t go.”

Marina pursed her lips. It seemed harsh to exclude the prisoners, but it was a prison, after all. “Would she want to go if she could?”

Alejandro’s brow rumpled, and Marina wondered if his mother had ever discussed her religious leanings with him. Perhaps not, given how little time they’d spent together. He shrugged then, confirming that.

“What do you think of Mass?” she finally asked, hoping to get some idea of what was going on inside the boy’s head.

Instead of answering, Alejandro pointed ahead of them. Father Escarrá strolled in their direction. The priest waved when he saw them and stopped to greet them. “Mrs. Tavares,” he said, “I was coming to find you two.”

“To find us?” Marina took Alejandro’s hand. “Why?”

“The marquesa would like a word with you,” he said. “I’ve brought her to the house, and Mrs. Sala told me you’d gone down to the church.”

Marina groaned inwardly. She’d admitted to the priest that she’d been in the wrong. She supposed she could say it to the old lady’s face too. “Very well, Father.”

Along the way back up to the house, the priest asked whether she’d been satisfied with her accommodations the previous night, and she was happy to tell him of the wonderful meal the Sala family had shared with them. He glanced at Alejandro a few times to see if the boy agreed, but Alejandro kept his opinion to himself.

When they reached the house, they found the marquesa enthroned in the middle of the humble sitting room like a flustered black crow. She clutched an ebony cane in her hands this morning. Her dark eyes looked just as angry as they had yesterday, so Marina suspected this was going to be an unpleasant interview. Mrs. Sala stood to one side, her hands wrapped in her apron and her downturned features strained.

Marina opened her mouth to apologize, but the marquesa spoke before she could get a single word out. She thumped her cane on the wooden floor and snapped, “So, what has the boy done to get himself thrown in a prison?”

At least the woman is speaking Spanish this morning.
Marina shot a glance at the priest, who gestured that she should answer. “We came to Catalonia seeking a mother and son who were imprisoned for political reasons. The mother was imprisoned again the day before we arrived, but Alejandro was still free. The Mossos spotted him, and Joaquim tried to prevent them from taking him. They grabbed Joaquim in Alejandro’s place.”

The woman made a harrumphing sound. “Why would they take my great-grandson in this boy’s place?”

“I don’t know,” Marina confessed.

“And how do you know where they’ve taken him?”