Liberating Fight

by Melissa McShane

  Alone, Amaya and Edmund looked at one another. “This is not at all what I imagined,” Amaya said in English. “Señor Valencia, El Encendedor! Edmund, can you credit it?”

  “I cannot,” Edmund said grimly, all pleasantness vanished. “Almost I am persuaded to leave this place immediately.”

  “Why? He is not a danger, yes?”

  Edmund glanced at the front door, whose top half was open, but no one was there. “El Encendedor does not have the most savory reputation. He has burned whole villages merely on the suspicion that they harbor enemies of Spain. You should not let his demeanor and his attractive face sway you.”

  “He is correct, Miss Salazar,” Mrs. Paget said. “I have heard the most terrible things about him.”

  “He is a guerrilla fighter, and they must do terrible things to defend their country.” Amaya found her earlier assumptions about El Encendedor’s motives and honor less compelling now that she had seen him. She might not like Fernándo, but she did not believe him capable of giving respect to a villain.

  Edmund’s mouth tightened in a straight line briefly before he responded. “The Spanish guerrillas do not always limit themselves to fighting for their country. Far too many of them have made the war an excuse to loot and pillage their own people. Some have even destroyed churches and killed the innocents within.”

  “But we do not know this of Señor Valencia. And rumor may be false. I do not understand why you insist on him being a bad man.”

  Edmund sighed. “I suppose I simply do not like him imposing on your good nature. Very well. Let us ask your aunt where we are to sleep, and perhaps in the morning, Don Fernándo’s temper may have cooled.”

  Amaya did not believe that was likely, but she was willing to borrow Edmund’s optimism for once.

  The spacious room Graciela showed Amaya to felt cozy thanks to the fire in the fireplace that took up an entire corner of the room. When Graciela had gone, Amaya climbed up into the deep window ledge to look out at the overgrown garden. The room would be brighter if someone would trim back the encroaching hedges, but to her surprise Amaya found she liked the feeling of being enclosed in a dark green curtain.

  A knock at the door prompted her to jump down from her perch. She opened the door for a male servant, who had his hands full with Amaya’s small trunk. “Thank you,” she said. She had begun to wonder if Fernándo’s household was limited to himself and Graciela, though of course that was impossible.

  The servant, a man with brown hair that was silvery with age, nodded and smiled, but said nothing. He set her trunk down at the foot of the bed and bowed himself out. Amaya idly unfastened the trunk and looked inside, but found she did not wish to go to bed so early. The sun had not yet set, and if she were in Madrid, or in England with the Hanleys, she would be preparing for some diversion, a ball or a trip to the theatre. Here, she had no idea what would be expected of her.

  She left her room for the hallway, which was long and plastered white with small framed portraits hanging in the spaces between the many doors. This was the side wing of the main house, and she believed it was exclusively for housing guests, so the presence of the portraits intrigued her. The Incas did not render human images in paint, and Amaya found the European tradition fascinating.

  She stopped to examine one, which was set in an oval frame the length of her forearm. Surely this was a Salazar relation—but there was nothing to indicate the name of the painting’s subject, who was a stern-looking man with black hair slicked down to his head and an enormous black moustache. Amaya gazed at him; he gazed back. That was another aspect of European art, that ability to paint faces that seemed to watch you wherever you stood.

  A door farther down the hall opened, and Edmund emerged. “More paintings,” he said as he approached. “We must stop in Toledo before we return. The cathedral, and other of the public buildings, are home to rare works of art you will appreciate.”

  “I was wondering who this man was,” Amaya said, gesturing. “I find myself increasingly interested in knowing my Salazar relations.”

  “Despite Don Fernándo’s influence,” Edmund said in English with a wry smile.

  Amaya laughed. “He is not usual,” she said in the same language. “I do not understand him. He is—it is perhaps that he is old, and likes to make people obey him. But he treats my tía Graciela as if she is servant and not daughter, and I do not understand that either.”

  “I have known far too many families in which the parents see their children as little better than drudges,” Edmund said. He offered Amaya his arm. “Shall we walk in the garden? Perhaps it is less of a horror in the evening.”

  “I believe it will be more of one in shadow, but I am willing to see this experiment.”

  The guest wing attached to the main house near the dining room, which still smelled deliciously of supper. Amaya did not realize Edmund was taking them the long way around until she heard the murmur of two male voices, and saw they were near the drawing room in which they had conversed with Fernándo. She slowed her steps and found Edmund had done the same. “It is Don Fernándo and Mr. Valencia,” she whispered in Spanish.

  “Yes, I know,” Edmund said. “I wish to eavesdrop.”

  Amaya frowned. “That is a terrible habit, Edmund. And I do not believe you can hear them at this distance.”

  “No, but you can.” Edmund’s expression was so serious she knew him to be suppressing amusement.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself, making use of my talent for your own purposes.” But Amaya Shaped her inner ears to catch the faintest sound and bent her attention to the drawing room and its unseen occupants. The sound of the flickering fire made it difficult to make out words, so she closed her eyes to shut out distractions, and listened.

  “…for a few days only.” That was Valencia. “I am, as always, grateful for your hospitality.”

  “It is I who am grateful,” Fernándo said. “Where will you go next?”

  “Aranjuez, to start. There are towns in that area in need of my attention.”

  “Take care.” Glass clinked against glass, and she heard the very faint sound of liquid sloshing.

  “I will return in a week or more.” Valencia’s voice became quieter, and Amaya strained to hear him. “She will be here?”

  A click, as of a glass being set on a table. “She believes not, but I will compel her obedience,” Fernándo said. “And then she—”

  “Are you in need?” A new voice, very close and very loud, interrupted Amaya’s eavesdropping in a painful way. Amaya winced and swiftly altered her ears, which alteration hurt worse than the loud words had. Any Shaping done too quickly was painful, but continued exposure to that loud voice would be even more so.

  She blinked back tears and realized it was Graciela who had spoken. The small woman regarded her curiously, but without the suspicion that would have suggested she knew what Amaya was doing. “Oh, Aunt Graciela,” Amaya said. “We were—”

  “I was admiring this room before taking a walk in the garden,” Edmund said, smoothly inserting himself into their conversation. “Spanish architecture is an interest of mine.”

  Graciela’s tired eyes narrowed. “The garden? It is nothing of interest.”

  “Oh, but it is so quiet and peaceful,” Amaya said. “Or perhaps that is inappropriate, if it was your mother’s and you wish it to remain undisturbed.” She examined Graciela closely, but her aunt still did not seem suspicious of Amaya’s motives.

  “It is not inappropriate. Just ugly.” Graciela’s lips turned up at the corners in a faint, unexpected smile. “It is Father who wishes it to remain a memorial. Perhaps you will change his mind.”

  “I?”

  Graciela shrugged. Unlike Fernándo, her shrug conveyed a nearly fatalistic sense of inevitability. “You are his heir, and his beloved Ernesto’s child. I think there is very little he would not permit you.” She gestured down the hall that ran past the drawing room. “I will take you to the garden door. We do not lock up a
t night, so do not fear being caught outdoors.”

  Amaya exchanged glances with Edmund. She wished Graciela had not come upon them, because she suspected the “she” Fernándo and Valencia spoke of was herself. But they could do nothing but follow Graciela to the side door that let out on the garden, and bid her goodnight once they were outside.

  “I suppose that was to be expected,” Edmund said in English when the door shut. “You did not learn anything exciting, such as Señor Valencia’s plans to take over Toledo and burn the opposition to the ground?”

  “No, it is not so exciting. That is only in novels, that someone listens in just in time for a secret about them.” Amaya told Edmund what little she had heard, including her guess, and concluded, “But I do not guess it is me they speak of, because that is unlikely. I suppose it is that I wish this to be a novel.”

  “I do not know that it is so outlandish for them to speak of you,” Edmund said. “Señor Valencia seemed intent on you in a way I do not like.” His usual good humor had vanished, replaced by a serious expression that made Amaya feel not quite comfortable.

  “Do you think he means me harm?” she asked. “He seemed more to look at me as if I am someone he wish to know better.” She felt uncomfortable, again, admitting to that flustered feeling Valencia had caused, as if there were something shameful about being admired.

  Edmund did not answer, but drew her along after him along the stone path into the garden. Amaya had been correct; the garden in twilight was not romantic or beautiful, but depressing, the weeds moving lightly in the night breeze, the hedge looming over the neglected beds like a monstrous creature with too many thin, grasping limbs. The gazebo was little more than a hulking, pale shape in the gloom, and although it benefited from the darkness in that its peeling paint was invisible, it was so enveloped by overgrowth it appeared caught in the clutches of some dire creature.

  “Perhaps it is nothing,” Edmund finally said, when the silence had stretched nearly to the breaking point. “And yet I am certain he knew who you were before Don Fernándo introduced you. That suggests his interest is more than simply that of a man who finds a woman attractive.”

  Amaya blushed. “Then you see it, too.”

  “I did.” Edmund spoke with such finality it confused her.

  “Do you disapprove?” she asked.

  Edmund’s eyes widened. “Disapprove? Of what?”

  Amaya stopped and turned to face him. “Then you think it is wrong that a man see me as to want me.”

  One of Edmund’s eyebrows climbed nearly to his hairline. “I did not realize,” he drawled, “that you found Valencia so attractive as to desire his attentions.”

  Amaya’s imperfect grasp of English could not interpret his whole meaning, but it was clear Edmund was angry and trying not to show it. “I do not wish,” she began, stopped, then tried again. “You are not my brother, and you are not my father,” she said, “so it is I do not understand why you should approve or not.”

  Edmund’s lips compressed into a tight line as if he were holding words back like water battering a dam. “Señor Valencia is dangerous,” he finally said, “and you and I both know you lack an understanding of European society to recognize his motives. I wish only for your happiness.”

  His eyes were fixed on her, his body tense, and Amaya suddenly found herself at a loss for how to respond. She did not understand European customs, it was true, and perhaps Edmund did understand Valencia’s attentions better than she, but that did not explain this terrible tension between herself and Edmund, as if the conversation they were having was the wrong one.

  Then the moment passed, and the intensity left Edmund’s stance. When he spoke next, it was as casually as if they were discussing the terrible garden. “If you are correct, and he and Don Fernándo spoke of you, then Señor Valencia has a plan that includes you, and I dislike secrets that involve my friends. We will simply have to leave before he returns, and then you will be well out of it.” He looked away toward the entrance to the hedge maze, then turned back to face her. “Forgive me,” he said. “I should not make your decisions for you.”

  Amaya rarely saw Edmund as grave and serious as he was now. It made him seem a different person, and yet his face was so familiar, his eyes steady on her, that a shiver ran through her she could not explain. Her hand closed tightly on his sleeve. “I say you are right,” she managed. “Señor Valencia is a romantic figure as El Encendedor, but he does things I cannot like, and I do not wish to be his tool, if that is what he intends.”

  Edmund looked down at where her hand rested on his arm. “Amaya,” he began, then fell silent, his eyes searching her face for she knew not what. Then he smiled, dispelling the somber expression, and put his hand over hers. “I am yours to command, Miss Salazar,” he said with a wry laugh. “We will remain here three days, and then, well, who knows what might happen in three days?”

  Being free of that strange, serious moment relieved Amaya. “Very likely nothing,” she said, “but I expect nothing and everything.”

  Chapter 10

  In which Amaya receives an unexpected proposal

  Amaya woke to a servant entering her room with a tray filled to overflowing with a variety of meats and breads, far more than she could eat. She hoped Graciela was not responsible for the excessive nature of her breakfast.

  After eating moderately and dressing, she set out to explore the house. Curiosity had supplanted her sense of European manners, and she investigated any number of well-appointed, moderately shabby rooms without feeling embarrassed at her nosiness. There was a part of her, also, that remembered what Fernándo had said about her inheriting the estate, and while she did not wish to be his heir, she could not help considering herself to have some right to investigate.

  Every room she entered was empty of people, leading her to believe she was the only early riser. Though Graciela likely was awake too. This realization stirred in Amaya a desire to seek out her reticent aunt and learn more of why she behaved as she did.

  She opened one more door, looked inside, and was startled to see someone within. It was so unexpected she exclaimed in Spanish, “I beg your pardon, I should not interrupt,” her heart beating faster as if she had come upon an enemy.

  “It is no interruption,” the man said, turning, and she realized it was Valencia. “Please, come in.”

  Amaya hesitated. Valencia’s gaze upon her was direct and searching, not admiring as it had been the previous night, but every bit as intent. She told Heart to stop hammering at her—Valencia was no immediate threat—and entered the room. It was a library, or a study, perhaps. Bookcases lined all four walls of the small, windowless room, their wood stained dark and made darker with age. A lamp on a table in the center of the room illuminated it imperfectly; the room was so poorly lit reading would be uncomfortable, despite the two armchairs flanking the table that looked much newer than the rest of the furniture.

  She was reminded of the study in the Hanleys’ Wimpole Street house, which was as small and dim as this room. But unlike the Hanleys’ study, the shelves here were not packed full of books. Large gaps in the rows showed where books had been removed, and some shelves were so bare the books lay flat on their faces rather than standing upright with the spines facing out. Amaya knew little of books aside from the novels she read, but she recognized that most of the remaining titles were old, their leather worn, the gilding on their spines faded into illegibility. It was not a library someone loved and cared for, and it saddened Amaya that it should have fallen into this state.

  “I see you feel as I do that this library is sadly neglected,” Valencia said with a smile. “I know Don Fernándo has been forced by circumstance to sell many of the more valuable volumes. But he is no reader, so perhaps to him it is not such a loss.” He gestured at the chairs. “Please, sit. I wish to know more of Fernándo’s granddaughter.”

  Amaya took a seat, and Valencia sat opposite her. The lamp flared brighter, making a hissing sound, and Amaya lo
oked at it reflexively. Valencia smiled. “Fire is a magnificent thing,” he said. “So alive, and so bright. I take great joy in my talent—as I imagine you do in yours.”

  Amaya nodded. She wondered what she would do if Valencia turned his talent on her, whether she would be able to tear his throat out before she burned to death. Valencia was lean and moved like someone familiar with violence, almost as well as a jaguar warrior, but she was certain he was no match for her physically. That made sense for an Extraordinary Scorcher, who would naturally depend on his talent before his body. It would be a matter of speed, and of reflexes. She would need to act first.

  Then she remembered that it was unlikely she would fight Valencia, and she should behave with civility. Civility, yes, and honor, but it never hurt to have a plan to defeat a powerful potential opponent.

  Valencia raised a hand, and the lamp’s flame flickered brighter for a moment before dwindling to cast his features into shadow. Another fire kindled along the length of his fingers, glowing pale yellow and shedding enough heat that Amaya could feel it from where she sat. “For me, it is as if the fire and I are one. I know its moods and its changeability. And when I touch fire, it is like nothing else in the world.”

  He paused, and in his pause Amaya heard an invitation to speak. “I am always conscious of my own body,” she said, “and when I touch another, that person’s self speaks to me. It is a beautiful thing to sense the human body working smoothly. So my experience is similar to yours.”

  “There is a connection between Extraordinaries that other talents lack—have you noticed?” Valencia leaned forward and closed his hand over the fire limning it, extinguishing it. “That purity of sensation, the deep knowledge of one’s talent, is something common to all of us.”

  Amaya remembered how quickly she and Elinor had become friends. “I had not realized, but I believe you are right.”