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“Looks fade,” says the countess, who was clearly no great beauty. Her vision is failing now, giving her a permanent squint. “And that hair. ”

María looks to her husband, but he does not come to her defense.

“You must be weary, from the ride,” he says, guiding his parents to the stairs. “You should rest before the feast.”

By dusk, the house is full to bursting.

The whole estate has come alive, the rooms all lit by torches, a constant procession of horses pouring through the open gate.

Upstairs, Ysabel brushes María’s hair until it shines, spends the better part of an hour piling and pinning the copper mass above her head, before trapping it beneath a net of pearls.

More than once, María tries to make idle chat, but it is clear her maid’s mind is somewhere else.

Between the way her fingers tremble as she sets the pins, and the way she hardly answers, María might as well be talking to a pane of glass.

Not even the dress can lift her sinking mood.

It is extravagant, expensive, even laid out on the bed, a heap of lush green velvet beside a dozen lengths of white silk ribbon and a variety of jewels.

She is bound into it, layer by layer, weighed down with cloth and gem, despite the stifling summer heat.

Ysabel steadies her as she steps into her slippers, studies her from every angle and declares that she looks beautiful in a breathy tone that makes María flush.

And yet, when her husband meets her on the stairs, and says the same, the words stir nothing in her.

Andrés himself is dressed in the crest of his Order, the crimson cross trimmed in white fur, and she is reminded of the day she first saw him, mounted with the caravan, and thought, Yes, thought, That will do.

He takes María’s arm and guides her down, into the crowded hall, and as he leads her through the house, the heads all turn. They stare, outright, the many guests, expressions ranging from the curious to the appraising, the approving to the greedy.

And yet, she thinks darkly, I could not ride my horse.

But of course, she knows, this is different— he is there, her husband, his arm linked with hers as if they are two lengths of chain. She is beautiful, and bound to him, an object on display.

Andrés introduces her, but every time María tries to say hello, or thank you, or simply to make pleasant conversation, his grip tightens on her arm or waist, his meaning clear.

She is not there to speak. Only to be seen.

He does not even name her in the introductions, calls her only the viscountess, or my wife.

And María quickly comes to understand—the feast has not been thrown in her honor, but in his.

A tour of victory. A celebration of his conquest.

After that, she lets the names and faces roll over her like water. There is no point in catching hold.

Andrés leads her into the great hall, where tables have been set edge to edge to edge, so that they run like rivers down the length of the room, heaped with serving trays and carafes of wine. At their head a single table waits, raised upon a makeshift step.

There María takes her seat, and Andrés stands, his voice booming through the hall as he welcomes friends and subjects both into his home, invites them all to share this marriage feast.

The chairs scrape back, the guests all sit, and somewhere, musicians begin to play, the cheerful tune tangling with the sound of so many people in one place.

María finds her husband on one side, and his mother on the other.

Andrés takes her hand and lifts his glass, and she thinks he means to toast her, but he is only pausing to admire the color of the wine before he drinks.

The countess, meanwhile, picks at her food, and finds nothing to her liking.

She declares the pheasant overcooked, the sauce too rich.

She complains about the music, which is by turns too soft and then too loud, insists the instruments are out of tune.

María spears a piece of meat, and scans the hall.

The servants of the house have been given leave to stay and celebrate, so long as they sit with the vassals, not the lords. It takes her a moment to spot Ysabel, at the far end of the hall. She has changed into a finer dress, and María wonders who helped her close the clasps she couldn’t reach.

They share a look.

And then a bony hand clutches at María’s sleeve.

The countess has run out of other things to hate, and now those beady eyes narrow to slits as she squints not at María’s face, but at the copper hair piled so carefully atop her head, beneath its net of pearls.

“There was a cat that lived in the stable,” says the countess, “when Andrés was young.” She leans in close, too close, till María can see the flecks of food between the woman’s teeth.

“It was a decent-looking creature, white and brown, and my youngest son has always had a fondness for such things. So we left it be. Until one day, when it had ginger kittens. Such an awful shade.”

The countess pauses, and María thinks of leaning in, of lowering her voice, of telling the countess how her son cannot take his eyes off her hair, how he likes to wrap whole lengths around his hand every time he fucks her.

Instead she asks, “What did you do?”

“What must be done with wretched things. I put them in a sack, and drowned them.”

María knows the words are meant to make her feel small, knows that she should go ahead, pretend to shrink beneath them. But she doesn’t.

“Well then,” she says brightly, “good thing I am not with child yet.” She reaches for her wine. “And when I’m blessed with heirs, I’ll not ask you to bathe them.”

The countess recoils a little, and for the first time all night, María smiles down into her cup.

The next day, she rises late.

The room is dark, the curtains still drawn. How strange, that Ysabel has not come to fling them back and drag her mistress out of bed.

María rubs away the veil of sleep, and dresses in a simple shift and robe, her body sore from hours bound within the heavy dress.

Outside, the only sound is the tread of horses, the rattle of departing carts, and she marvels, as she moves through the house, that all evidence of the feast has been so quickly swept away. The floors have been washed, the windows and doors thrown wide, the house returned to its usual state.

She finds Andrés dining alone, last night’s good humor replaced by a hungover scowl, a tonic at his elbow and a parchment in his hand.

María takes her seat and looks around, relieved that the count and countess are not there. She asks after them, adding, “I do hope they have not fallen ill.”

“Not at all,” he assures her. His father has gone for a walk. His mother prefers to take meals in her room. But he has mistaken her question for concern.

“Rest assured,” he says, “you will see plenty more of them.”

María’s hand tightens on her cup. “Really?”

Andrés sets aside the paper. On it, she sees the red wax seal, the indented cross. “I have been called to action.”

“How long will you be gone?” she asks, her mood instantly improving.

Andrés tells her that he is not sure, and María nods, already dreaming of her independence, how she will command the house in his absence, how she will pass the days when there is no one to obey.

“Well, do not worry,” she assures him. “I will look after the estate.”

A sound tears through the room, as bright and vicious as a slap. It takes María a moment to understand that it is coming from Andrés himself.

He is laughing.

“You? Stay here?” His amusement bounces off the walls, even once he’s stopped. “Impossible.” He laces his hands in his lap. “You are a woman. A wife. You cannot live alone. ”

María feels her hopes go leaden. Her visions turn to stone.

“Where am I to go?” she asks.

He waves his hand, as if the question is a gnat. “To León, of course.”

To León. With the count and countess.

“If I must stay with your parents,” she says, annoyance spreading like cracks, “why can they not stay here ?”

Here, where there is space to breathe. Where there are quiet corners to be found. Where there are cherries growing hidden in the grove.

Andrés only shakes his head. “My mother has always enjoyed the city more.”

Having met the countess, it’s hard to imagine her enjoying anything. María’s mind is still fighting to catch up as he rattles off the details, and it’s obvious he’s had time to think this through, though it’s the first she’s hearing of it.

She is to leave with his parents the next day.

She is to live with them.

To provide them company when he’s away, and be his prize again when he returns.

They will share her, he says happily, as if she is a cup to be passed around.

“Do not make that face, querida. It is the best outcome for everyone.”

Everyone? she thinks, fighting the sudden urge to break something.

She takes a long, slow breath. All is not lost.

“At least I will have Ysabel.”

But her husband shakes his head. “That would be . . . inappropriate.”

María’s stomach lurches.

“The countess doesn’t care for her,” he adds, but there’s more beneath the words. Andrés knows, she is sure, about his father and her maid, the matter of her lineage. “Besides,” he brushes on, “there is no need. My parents have servants of their own. You will have one of them.”

“I don’t want one of them, ” she snaps. “I want my own.”

He shrugs and says, “She is already gone.”

María stills, remembering her darkened room. The curtains never drawn.

“One of my vassals took an interest in her at the feast,” he continues absently. “He asked for her hand, and I gave it to him.”

Gave. As if she were a pretty vase. A well-upholstered chair.

“It will be an improvement in her station.”

The room feels like it’s tipping. María presses her hands into the table to steady herself. There is a serving fork balanced on a nearby tray. She wonders how much force it would take to drive the tines into his head.

Instead, she forces her hand to her throat, grasps the ruby pendant there.

“Don’t worry,” he says, as the edges of the jewel cut into her palm, “this will be our home again, once you have given me an heir.”

A bead of blood runs down María’s wrist.

Her husband does not even notice.