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“Santa Muerte,” Lupe said.

Ellie managed to translate the words—Saint Death.

“Santa Muerte,” she echoed.

The girls smiled with approval.

As she washed up at the basin that the two young women had brought her, Ellie thought back to the rest of her evening in the village. After being separated from Adam, she had been shuttled into the kitchen, where Feliciana’s daughter Cruzita and the girls had been busy pressing out tortillas.

Feliciana had deposited Ellie there, pointing her to a stool in the corner, and then left. Ellie had managed to sit quietly and watch the other women work for about five minutes before—with a great deal of hand waving and pointing—she convinced them to give her a try at patting out the little circles of maize.

Her abject failures had resulted in a general hilarity.

After the men had been fed, the women took over the table for a leisurely and social meal. Feliciana had rejoined them. She had towed along the skinny ten-year-old Ellie had seen yesterday by the milpa. He turned out to be Héctor, another of Feliciana’s grandsons. Feliciana plopped him down on the ground beside Ellie’s stool and charged with translating.

Héctor had been learning both English and Spanish from the priest, Kuyoc. Though his skills were still a bit rough, they were sufficient to allow the women of the household to mercilessly interrogate Ellie.

They had beenverycurious to know the nature of her relationship with Adam. Was he her husband? Her brother? Her lover? (The latter query had been delivered only after a great deal of protesting by Héctor and another outburst of laughter from the women.)

“We are colleagues,” Ellie had asserted neatly.

The women had made a smattering response to that in Mopan.

“They say that is too bad for you,” Héctor had automatically translated, and then immediately turned pink with a blush.

After dinner, Feliciana had rolled herself narrow cigarettes while she reclined in a low slung hammock. The other women took out their spinning and weaving. The projects were simply a way to keep their hands busy as they continued gossiping.

Impertinent questions aside, it had been a lovely evening. Ellie had even been treated to the local version of a hot chocolate—a piping hot, bitter concoction generously spiced with chili.

It was possible she had consumed three cups of it.

Lupe and Itza waved at Ellie from their doorway as she crossed the garden. Back at Feliciana’s house, she found Adam waiting outside beside Padre Kuyoc. Her traveling companion already had his rucksack and the Wincester slung over his shoulders.

Feliciana stood regally in the doorway.

Ellie mustered up a bit of Spanish as she approached the older woman.

“Adios, na’chiin,” she said. She tried to infuse the awkward words with as much significance as she could. “Gracias por todos.”

“De nada, mija.” Feliciana’s voice was warm with a hint of genuine affection.

Apparently, Ellie’s failed attempts at making tortillas and her indulgence of the women’s gossip the night before had earned her a little approval from the matriarch.

“And did you enjoy your stay with us?” Kuyoc prompted.

“Very much so,” Ellie returned. “The village is beautiful, and you have a wonderful community here. I’m very grateful to you for sharing it with us.”

“Did it live up to what you read in your books?” the priest pressed as his eyes twinkled mischievously.

Ellie’s cheeks flushed a little.

“I should say that the books were rather incomplete,” she carefully returned.

“That is not surprising,” Kuyoc replied. “I am sure they were written by self-important Englishmen.”

“American men, actually,” Ellie blurted in response—not that it sounded much better.

“Americans, English… Do not feel too bad about it,” the priest easily assured her. “They write all of the books.”