Page 21 of The Familiar

“Very,” he conceded. “My job is to prepare you and to make sure your miracles don’t doom you.”

“You can keep me from damnation?”

“I can at least try to ensure you don’t bring it to your door.”

“Or to Don Víctor’s.”

“Correct. There are certain places your miracles must not go. Resurrection, transformation. Only God in His glory can turn one thing into another.”

“Like turning water into wine.”

“Just so.”

“But don’t alchemists strive to turn lead into gold?”

“That is science, not a miracle.”

“That makes no sense,” Luzia protested, even as she told herself to stay silent. Be humble. Be grateful.

“Take it up with the Inquisition. Illusions belong to the devil. Miracles belong to God.”

“And my milagritos?”

“Are the way God speaks through you. At least that is what you will say when asked.”

“Why would God choose me?”

“Because God loves the wretched,” he snapped. “I’ve answered enough of your questions, so here is one of mine: Have you heard of Lucrecia de León?”

“The girl who had visions.”

“Prophetic dreams. Hundreds of them. She predicted the defeat of our king’s armada.”

“Then she was no liar.”

“Maybe not, but now she dreams in a cell in Toledo, imprisoned by the Inquisition. She will be tried and found guilty of fraud and heresy, maybe witchcraft, maybe more.”

“Will they burn her?” Luzia didn’t want to show her fear.

“Another possibility. If she’s fortunate she will be reconciled, whipped, and exiled. Did she predict the defeat of the armada, or did she somehow bring it about? There is a fine line between a saint and a witch, and I wonder if you are prepared to walk it.”

“Have I been offered a choice?”

He seemed to consider this. “You could choose not to enter the torneo. It would spare us all the humiliation of defeat.”

Here it was: a new invitation, a chance to choose wisdom over her own pride.

“And if I try to win?” she asked, unable to help herself.

“Then I will help you and we will strive to make the best of all our bad decisions. That means practicing, not spending your afternoon stirring the soup. Víctor de Paredes’s commands must be followed.”

Maybe so. But they’d reached the end of this dance. She could risk nothing before this stranger.

Luzia shrugged and took pleasure in turning her back to him. “And yet the soup must be stirred.”

CHAPTER 12

Had she really just turned her back on him? This lump of a servant who hung her head like a donkey but spoke as if she were bantering at the mentidero? She wasn’t stupid, that much had been obvious in the way she had grasped Víctor’s ruthlessness—no, his master hadn’t sent someone to assassinate the monk on the bridge, but he could have.