A Place in the World

by Amy Maroney

  She flicked her gaze back to Dotie. Did she imagine it, or was there a look of uncertainty on his face? He turned down the corners of his mouth in a prim frown.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said icily, drawing himself up to full height.

  “No, of course you don’t,” Zari agreed. She turned to the porter. “I’m ready to go. Will you see me out?”

  He looked a little befuddled, but smiled gamely. “I’d be pleased to.”

  Walking back into the main courtyard, Zari felt a laugh bubbling up within her like steam rising from a kettle. With tremendous effort, she fought it off.

  At the doors leading to the street, she thanked the porter and bade him farewell.

  Zari set off toward the train station. The gloom was vanishing, revealing an indigo sky. Patchy sunlight illuminated Oxford’s ancient lanes and alleyways, setting the worn stone buildings aglow. The entire city seemed burnished with gold. Oblivious to everything but her thoughts, Zari barely noticed the beauty all around her.

  She strode along savoring the heady feeling of victory she’d experienced seeing the portrait on a wall in a public space, marveling at the confidence she’d felt facing down Dotie and his courtiers. It no longer mattered to her if he got the position of dean or not, if he ascended the ranks of Fontbroke College honorably or through deceit. One day, his lack of integrity would catch up with him.

  Something huge was shifting in the landscape of Mira’s story now. The burden of responsibility Zari felt, tugging on those threads that spooled back five hundred years to Mira, was lifting. She’d always had a handful of supporters, people who believed her. But her meeting with John yesterday was pivotal. It somehow dissolved the worry that had dogged her for nearly two years.

  For the first time, Zari felt certain that Mira’s star would rise. That she would take her place in history. That her story would be known, and shared, and celebrated.

  It was time.

  82

  Autumn, 1506

  Bayonne, Gascony

  Arnaud

  Xabi, Elena, and Mira burst through the door. The baby began to wail.

  Arnaud roused himself groggily. After washing himself and changing his clothes, he’d climbed into bed for a rest and instantly fallen asleep.

  “What’s wrong?” he aked, scrambling to his feet.

  Elena hustled Mira to his side. Xabi strode to the hearth, tossed a log on the fire, and hoisted the iron water kettle into place. Alejandro hushed Tristan, whispering into his ear, his eyes glued to Mira.

  Wide awake now, Arnaud helped Mira into bed. She lay down gingerly, gasping with pain.

  He saw the fresh bloodstain on Mira’s skirts.

  “What happened?” he asked, pushing aside the layers of fabric. The sight of the wound on her thigh made him blanch.

  “It is not serious,” Mira assured him. She tried to smile.

  “I’ll fix it,” Elena vowed. “Xabi and I will.”

  “Who did this to you?” Arnaud’s heart was pumping furiously now. He smoothed the hair away from Mira’s face. She looked shaken, but her eyes held their customary light.

  “Amadina Sacazar,” Mira replied.

  “What?” Arnaud looked sidelong at Elena, bewildered. “Mira’s mind is addled. Do you have something for fever?”

  “She’s got no fever,” Elena asserted. “Amadina Sacazar was at the inn. Along with her manservant, who I swear is half bear. Or was. I think Xabi might’ve knocked the life out of him.”

  Xabi poked the fire until flames shot up, then fetched a small satchel from a peg on the wall and began searching through it. “The fellow’s not dead—well, not yet, anyway,” he declared. “Still, we won’t be hearing the end of this. The woman won’t rest until we’re all in chains.” He found what he was looking for—a slim iron needle—and tossed it into the kettle.

  Arnaud struggled to make sense of the news. “But she can’t be here. She was in Nay when I passed by those parts, not long ago. She dispatched her men to ambush the Belarac wool shipment. I went to the authorities in Pau and reported what she’d done.”

  “That may be, but she turned up here instead of paying for her crimes,” Elena said flatly. “Intent on murder.”

  “I knew she disliked me,” Mira said. “But even delirious with fever I could not imagine a tale this strange.” She fished the chain bearing Mother Béatrice’s ring from her bodice and held it out to Arnaud. “Amadina tried to strangle me with this. She had Mother Béatrice killed, Arnaud. And when Deedit was attacked in Toulouse—it was me the man was after, not her. Just as she tried to tell us. Amadina killed her brother, too. She murdered Carlo.”

  Arnaud stared at the glimmering tangle in Mira’s palm. His shoulders sagged.

  “Forgive me, Mira.”

  She rested her hand on his. “Why do you ask my forgiveness?”

  “You always feared the woman. I’m ashamed to admit how many times I brushed aside your worries. I should have stopped her long ago.”

  “How could you know she would venture all this way?” Mira winced while Elena poured wine from a leather gourd over her wound. “There is no accounting for the actions of a madwoman.”

  Elena busied herself laying out herbs and ceramic jars of salve on the table. Then she folded a length of linen over Mira’s thigh.

  “Press down on this,” she instructed Arnaud. She put the wine gourd to Mira’s lips. “Drink deeply. It’ll help with the pain once Xabi starts sewing.”

  “Where is Amadina now?” Arnaud struggled to keep his thoughts organized.

  “There’s a fire burning at the inn,” Xabi said. “Someone left a candle burning in one of the chambers. Amadina was trying to get back upstairs when we left. The fool.”

  Elena turned to Arnaud. “She’d be dead now if I had my way. But Mira said we had to leave her alive.”

  Arnaud threw Mira a hard look. “By the sun and stars, why?”

  “The first thing Amadina did when she arrived in Bayonne was grease the palms of the clergy at the tribute feast. She is favored by the bishop now.” Mira grimaced, trying to find a more comfortable position. “I wanted my revenge, Arnaud. I nearly slit her throat myself. But we have Tristan and Alejandro to consider. If we are jailed—or worse—what good are we to them?”

  Arnaud gestured to Xabi. “You press down on the wound,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’m going back to the inn.”

  Mira put a restraining hand on his arm. “No,” she begged. “You are too angry at this moment. Wait until you are calm, for all our sakes.”

  He faced her, his heart full of ice. “She will not stop until she ruins us. I won’t allow that, Mira. I can’t.”

  Arnaud tugged his arm free of her grasp and made for the door.

  His anger did not diminish as he jogged over the cobblestones. When he neared the inn, he saw people jostling ahead of him, shouting excitedly. A thin haze of smoke hung in the air.

  He was not fifty paces away when he heard the clatter of breaking glass. A cry went up.

  Moving closer, Arnaud saw one of the inn’s second-floor windows had shattered. A figure in black stood there, looking down at the crowd.

  He pushed through the throng, his gaze never leaving the woman at the window. She was staring intently at the ground, at a wood-and-iron box surrounded by shards of broken glass. Her mouth moved rapidly, perhaps in prayer.

  Arnaud bent down and retrieved the box. From the weight of it, from the jangle of metal inside, he knew what it contained. He hefted it in the air, held it up over his head as if it were an offering.

  “Your gold, Amadina,” he shouted in Aragónese. “Never fear, it is in safe hands now.”

  “Thief!” Amadina shrieked. “That gold belongs to me!”

  She vanished from view. Then came a scream of abject fear. In the next i
nstant, Amadina clambered up on the sill and launched herself into flight. The crowd quieted as she went airborne, skirts aflame. Her body shot down to the earth in a swirl of fire and thumped unceremoniously onto the cobblestones. She writhed, screaming for help in a panicked stream of Aragónese.

  Instantly people crowded around her, attempting to stamp out the blaze. But just as swiftly they retreated, fearful of catching fire themselves. The crowd watched in horror as she burned.

  “Couldn’t be parted from her gold, not even by fire,” Arnaud whispered.

  Had his heart ever pounded this fiercely before? His gaze dropped to the metal box in his hands. One of the hinges had broken off in the fall.

  Arnaud marshaled the last of his anger. With a mighty surge of energy, he thrust the box aloft once more and smashed it on the ground. Glittering gold coins spewed everywhere. The crowd’s attention shifted from Amadina to the treasure raining down on the gritty cobblestones. As one they set upon the windfall, scrambling to fill their pockets with Sacazar gold.

  Without a backward glance, Arnaud staggered away, his entire body shaking.

  All that mattered now was Mira.

  83

  July, 2017

  Erkodun, Spain

  Zari

  Zari stepped over the threshold into what had once been the main room of the house. The foundation and the doorway had survived the ravages of time. A few exterior walls were still partially intact. Grass grew between the stones scattered throughout the remains of the structure. Yellow and blue wildflowers bloomed in clusters, trembling in the breeze that rushed down from the green hills sloping away from the clearing.

  She rotated in a slow circle, imagining the house full of people, trying to conjure up the faces and voices of her ancestors. The ruins of an enormous fireplace dominated the space. Its chimney had crumbled long ago, forming uneven piles of rubble. But the outline of the broad hearth remained, the blackened evidence of fires baked into the stone.

  Portia entered the doorway, stepping carefully past a wild rose bush. Pale pink blooms frothed on its delicate branches, petals unfurled to reveal golden pollen at their centers.

  “The door faced west,” she remarked. “I wonder if they sat on their front stoop and watched the sunset every night.”

  Zari came to join her, looking out over the meadow. The sun dipped lower in the sky, illuminating the remains of a low stone wall that protruded from the outer perimeter of the house. There was an opening where a gate must have been.

  “Maybe that was a kitchen garden,” she said, pointing. “Southern exposure.”

  Portia nodded, then gestured to another ragged wall extending beyond the first one. “Maybe they penned animals there. They had sheep?”

  “And goats. They made cheese, harvested the wool and sold it. Some families still live that way in these hills. Their traditions haven’t changed much.”

  Zari stepped back a few paces. Outlined against the sun, the doorway was in shadow. But she could see a pattern of light and dark on the stone. She turned on her mobile’s flashlight, then aimed it upward.

  “Mom! Look at this.”

  Portia gasped. “It’s the Mendieta mark,” she said. “Exactly like Lena Mendieta drew it on those papers she gave you.”

  A thrill ran through Zari. “Our people made this mark, who knows how many centuries ago. Bayonne’s not far away. That means Mira’s people and our people walked these lands at the same time.” She felt a shiver of anticipation. “I can’t wait to tell Señora Beramendi. She’ll love this.”

  “You’ve grown attached to her, haven’t you?”

  Zari nodded. “It’s because of her that Mira’s self-portrait is in good hands. Señora Beramendi convinced the owners to sell it to an art collector in Madrid. It’s being cleaned and restored now.”

  “And Mira signed this one, right?” Portia asked.

  “Not exactly. She concealed her name in two places on the painting, though.”

  “What about the words you found under Arnaud de Luz’s mark on the back?”

  “The conservator was only able to identify a few letters,” Zari said. “But technology’s always improving. One day there may be a way to unlock that mystery as well.”

  “So the bottom line is, you finally have a properly attributed painting,” Portia said.

  “Yes. And the new owner has agreed to lend it to museums when the day comes for a public exhibition.”

  “You won’t rest until she gets her place in history.” Portia smiled approvingly. “What does this mean for Dotie Butterfield-Swinton?”

  Zari flicked off the light and stuffed her mobile into her pocket. “To be honest, I don’t really care. My focus now is to keep polishing Mira’s star.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Portia said. “Why waste any more of your precious time worrying about him? Mira’s lucky to have you in her corner.”

  Zari smiled. “I think with my research project in Amsterdam and the work other scholars are doing to bring Mira’s story to life, it will happen. Just not as soon as I’d like.”

  “So much has changed since you started this journey.” Portia regarded Zari with tenderness. “For one thing, you’ve gone from being completely disinterested in your roots to being entranced by them.”

  “Weird, huh?” Zari felt a twinge of remorse. “I had to go seven thousand miles from home to appreciate my family history.”

  “It’s not weird, honey. You had every reason to feel alienated. Your father and I—well, our best years together were before you were born. It was an ugly divorce. And then there was Gus. I always felt I let you down when he was going through his difficult times. You were the reason he survived those years of addiction, Zari.”

  “Mom, you were working your tail off to support us. You couldn’t monitor your son’s well-being every second.”

  Zari tilted her head, watched a hawk glide silently over the ruined house.

  “Honestly, living in Europe has given me new respect for you, for our family, for Gus,” she went on. “To know you’re loved unconditionally is a rare gift. Especially when you’re a stranger in a strange land. An outsider. I even introduced myself to people here in Basque country as Izar, hoping they would warm to me. I haven’t spoken aloud my birth name since I was a kid. It felt odd, like I was an imposter, but I don’t feel that way anymore. Not after seeing this place. Something’s shifted now.”

  She held a hand out to Portia, helped her stand up. A man appeared at the far side of the meadow, his long, loping strides covering the ground quickly. He raised one arm in greeting.

  Portia squeezed Zari’s hand. “Wil loves you the way you deserve to be loved. And you light up around him. I hope your father and I didn’t put you off marriage for good, Zari. If you and Wil are committed to each other...”

  Zari laughed. “Easy, now, one step at a time. And maybe not in the order you’d prefer.”

  “Meaning what?” her mother asked.

  “Meaning you might be a grandmother again in the not too distant future.”

  “What?” Portia put a hand to her mouth.

  “I’m not pregnant,” Zari said. “Not yet. But Wil and I both want kids. And as Gus says, I’m not getting any younger. So we’re working on it.”

  Portia enveloped Zari in a bear hug. “My girl,” she whispered. “You’ll be a wonderful mother.” She pulled away a little. “But maybe this is all the more reason to get married? For the baby’s sake.”

  “Don’t worry, when it’s time for us to get married, the universe will let us know.”

  Portia rolled her eyes. “That’s my line.”

  “I’m just preparing for the day when I dispense New Age pearls of wisdom to my own kids,” Zari said innocently.

  Portia’s shoulders shook with laughter, and Zari saw she was on the verge of tears.

  Wil held up his ba
ckpack like a prize, his mop of curls a wild halo around his head. “Chocolate!” he whooped. “And fruit. And cheese. And bread. Who’s ready for a feast?”

  Zari and Portia walked hand in hand to greet him, the scent of crushed grass rising under their feet.

  The hawk spiraled in the sky, a silent witness to their joy, riding invisible currents higher and higher until it was a black dot in a vast sea of blue.

  84

  Summer, 1507

  Basque Country, Spain

  Mira

  Mira shaded her eyes, watching the swaybacked oxen plod forward on the dusty road. They had accepted Sebastian’s invitation to ride south from Bayonne together for the wedding, although it felt strange to be traveling in such luxury. He insisted, said it was his parting gift to them all, as he would return to Flanders in the autumn.

  The rented oxcart had an alder canopy fitted with velvet drapes, its floor softened by feather-stuffed cushions. Mira gazed around the snug space. The boys lolled in one corner playing with a wooden wolf. Arnaud napped beside her. For his part, Sebastian sat up front with the driver so he could regard the beauty of the mountains and the sea.

  Mira retrieved Pelegrín’s letter from a pocket and held it gently between her hands. The linen paper was soft as rose petals, worn and polished from her touch. The mere thought of her brother once incited her to the edge of panic. Ever since this letter arrived, things had changed.

  She closed her eyes, imagining the lines of script. She had them nearly memorized now.

  Her twin was safe and well. He survived the outbreak of fever at the castle, though many others were not so fortunate.

  Pelegrín had been summoned to Barcelona in the spring, to appear before the royal treasurer and pay tribute to King Ferdinand. When he arrived in Barcelona he learned the royal treasurer had traveled to Valencia. Not wanting to prolong the matter any more than necessary, Pelegrín followed the man south.