He smiled.
The corners of Eva’s vision went hot. “You’re my best friend. How can you leave?”
He squeezed her hands in return. His hands were large and warm. They draped over Eva’s like a blanket as he said, “I’m not leaving you. I’ll always be with you.” Then he pointed at her chest. “In your heart—like mi mamá says.”
She wanted to snarl at him.
“Besides, we’re just talking about it.” He shrugged. “It’s only talk.”
Eva wished she could be reassured, but she knew Néstor. He had a free spirit, yet he was also adamant. He shared her same Serrano stubbornness: to follow through with the ideas that enthralled them, no matter who got trampled along the way.
They returned to the hacienda right before suppertime. Past the gates, the long driveway leading into the hacienda was lined by cassia trees heavy with bunches of golden flowers. A two-story fa?ade of adobe walls covered in stucco and red clay roofs welcomed them. The rustic double doors were framed by two pink-flowering bougainvillea trees that wrapped in opposite directions. A servant saw the arriving carriage and darted through the open arched corridors to fetch them umbrellas.
Néstor and Eva climbed the soaked stone steps and entered a tall foyer where a large rosary was nailed to the adobe plaster across the entryway. The walls were decorated with lavish tapestries depicting folktales of the family history: a man overlooking the vast plantation granted to him by the Segolean king; his successor overseeing the establishment of the Galeno township in Venazia. Next to those tapestries were gilded trinkets, family portraits of majestic dark-skinned women in equally majestic ball gowns, and Pentimiento icons.
Eva rushed to change out of her muddied dress and into a white cotton one with short puffy sleeves for the family dinner. The dining hall’s arched entryway connected to the open corridors, where rain continued to soak the flagstones. A dark wood table stood at its very center, with enough chairs to seat Eva’s plethora of tías, tíos, primos, primas, and their wailing hijas e hijos. Several generations in one room, exactly how Do?a Antonia liked it. As dusk settled, the candelabra in the corners washed the room in orange firelight, bolstered by the candles arranged on the table, lighting the feast of rice and pulled capybara meat that they called pisillo.
The governor sat at the head of the table. He was a short man in comparison to Do?a Antonia, umber-skinned and potbellied. He wore a white shirt tucked underneath a mahogany-colored vest. Do?a Antonia sat at the opposite end of the table, her gown airy and patterned with flowers. Eva took a seat inconspicuously and nibbled the food. Her family broke into cliques to discuss the latest gossip of who was courting whom and who was bringing business or headaches to Don Mateo.
Décima, a cousin two years younger than Eva, sat by her side. Décima was quiet, which meant she was bored. And in no time at all, she turned to Eva with a mocking smile.
“Don Alberto came to call on you today, and you weren’t here.”
Eva didn’t lift her gaze from her pisillo, spearing a chunk of red bell pepper with her fork. “I was in town with Néstor. You know this.”
Décima leaned forward in a motion not unlike a slither. “Don Alberto’s a bore, but at least he’s interested in you. You should be a little more grateful. How else are you going to find someone who’ll take you off grandmother’s hands? That’s all she talks about now, you know.”
As the daughter of the governor’s first son, Décima was already betrothed to a man from the office of commerce. This was a fact she loved to bring up anytime Eva was around, especially as Eva was older than her and without a proper engagement.
“Mi abuela knows he’s going to propose any moment now,” Eva said dryly. A truth she wished she could sprint away from. Luckily for her, geomancia kept her too preoccupied to think about her future with Don Alberto.
“Aren’t you interested in making him fall in love with you? He’ll never propose at this pace. He’ll realize you’re as uninterested as you look. Why don’t you even try to love him back?”
Décima’s trap was obvious. She wanted Eva to agree so that she could follow up with some nasty comment about how Eva was afraid no one would want to fall in love with her to begin with.
But Décima needn’t any help saying what she’d wanted to from the beginning. “He’s probably the last well-bred person in this city with a fetish for bachacas,” she said, meaning the mixed-colored children born with dark skin and light hair, “or for horns.”
“They’re antlers. It’s different. Educate yourself, fool.”
Décima chewed on her food smugly. “Like you’re educating yourself with your visits to the Contadors’？”
Eva’s throat went dry. She washed down the food with her guarapo water made from pineapple peels. If only she could have some anise liqueur to spike it, then she’d be able to put up with Décima. “It’s important to learn what’s going on in the world” was all Eva could say, hoping she didn’t have to elaborate on her lies about the tutor.
Décima, too, took a deep sip from her goblet. But her smile was vulpine. “Oh, I definitely hear what’s going on in the world. The servants love to exchange gossip, and they’ve brought an interesting tale from the help at the Contadors’。 Something about our bastard fraternizing with their bastard.”
Eva faced her cousin, cheeks flushing. The desire to spear Décima’s hand with her fork ran through Eva’s mind like a blazing torch. Her grip vibrated with the impulse.
Décima’s smile only widened in victory. “You know, the criadas talk a lot,” she warned her, “and they take their gossip to every noble house in the city. If I were you, I would avoid this talk of you becoming Do?a Rosa’s successor in the social hierarchy. At least until Don Alberto weds you—then you can do whatever you want.”
Eva grabbed Décima’s wrist. “Stop it,” Eva hissed. She downed another sip of her guarapo, her gaze flitting to her grandmother for an instant. It would be disastrous if Do?a Antonia heard.
“Why? Because it’s true? I care about you, you know.”
Someone to Eva’s right gave the back of her arm a gentle, but painful, pinch. Eva turned, ready to defend herself with venom. But it was just Pura, taking her usual seat next to Eva. Her skin was several shades darker than Eva’s, her coily black hair styled in a braided updo more out of convenience than fashion. She, like Eva, had inherited Dulce’s brown-red eyes, but hers were circled by dark bags of exhaustion from the long nights with her newborn daughter. Pura’s husband sat across from her, but he only bothered with Don Mateo’s conversation.
“Stop fighting already,” Pura told both Eva and Décima with raised brows. “You don’t want Do?a Antonia’s anger tonight.”
“I’ll stop fighting Eva when she stops bringing the wrong sort of attention to our family.”
Eva straightened up in her chair and tried to put the memory of Décima’s taunt behind her.
“Where’s your little one?” Eva asked her half sister.