Page 17

II

Something in María loosens as she steps into the widow’s shop.

It is cooler than she expected, a welcome reprieve from the glaring day outside.

“Close the door behind you,” comes a soft, melodic voice. “The herbs prefer it cold and dark.”

María obeys, and is plunged into a disorienting wall of black, a shadow so thick it leaves her briefly blind.

She blinks, and as her eyes adjust she can make out the bundled sprigs that hang from the ceiling, the variety of jars and pots shelved along the walls, a pale mortar and pestle sitting on a low table.

The place smells damp and dry at once. Sweet and citrus, spiced and earthy.

It smells like the stone floor of the western alcove, like the tincture brewed by the cook at the inn, like a palm full of cherry pits.

“Can I help you?”

María turns, and there she is.

Not a stranger, but the woman she met all those years ago. Her veil tucked up, revealing the smooth, pale slopes of her face, the sharp point of her chin, fair hair falling in a plait, and eyes a shocking blue.

Ten years, and María begins to doubt herself, to wonder if her memory is flawed.

Because the widow has not aged.

Of course, some wear the time better than others, but they wear it still. Not her. She looks the same. Exactly the same. As if the years have made no mark at all.

“What brings you here?” asks the widow, and it takes María a moment to realize she means to the shop, and not to her.

She considers, trying to gauge whether the other woman can be trusted. After all, she has witnessed the city’s taste for gossip.

“A tonic,” she says, touching her stomach.

“Ah,” says the widow. “Are you hoping to get with child, or get rid of one?”

María cannot hide her surprise. She has never heard anyone speak so boldly.

But the other woman only shrugs. “Children can be a blessing, in the right bed. And a kind of sickness in the wrong one. Don’t worry, I am known for my discretion.”

María cocks a brow. “If you are known for it,” she says, “are you really so discreet?”

That earns a smile. And perhaps it is the knowing twitch of the widow’s lips, or the steadiness of her blue eyes, or simply the dimness of the shop that draws out the truth.

“I am not with child,” says María. “And I want to stay that way.”

The widow shows neither judgment nor surprise, simply says, “Very well,” and rounds the counter, taking the mortar and pestle with her.

She collects a variety of herbs and oils from the shelves on the wall, and María realizes that her gloves are gone, her hands long and thin and lovely, and so pale they seem to shine in the low light as she fixes the tonic.

She seems content to work in silence, but María cannot hold her tongue.

“You know,” she says, “we’ve met before.”

The widow’s hands keep moving, but she glances up, a small groove between blond brows. “Are you sure?” she asks. She holds María’s gaze, and her lips twitch again, as if toying with a smile. “I think I would remember you.”

María is surprised by the heat that rushes to her cheeks. “I was much younger then.”

“Ah,” says the widow. The pestle grinds against the mortar walls. The widow tips the contents into a small, dark bottle, closes it with a cork.

“But you have not changed.”

Again, that almost smile. Those blue eyes trail across her face. “What is your name?”

And she knows she should claim her husband’s mantle, announce herself as the Viscountess Olivares, but the only name that rises to her lips is the one she would have given all those years ago.

“María.”

“María,” echoes the widow thoughtfully. She rounds the counter, stopping only when they are close enough to touch, then holds out a hand, and María is already reaching for it when the widow turns her palm up and says, “the price is three reals.”

María blinks, recovering her senses. She is not permitted to carry her own money—there is no point, insist her husband’s parents—but she has taken to skimming coins from the countess’s purse whenever she finds it unattended.

Now she draws the reals from her dress pocket and sets them in the widow’s waiting hand, startled to find the skin so cold.

Like a compress on a fevered cheek, and yet, María feels herself flushing.

Just then, the door swings open, sending jagged light into the darkened shop, followed by the countess’s rasping caw.

“María.”

She turns, and the widow withdraws a step, into the deeper shadow of the counter. The countess does not bother coming in, simply stands there on the threshold, clutching at the baroness, who looks ready to divest her burden.

“Come, María. I am tired.”

The widow slips the small dark bottle into María’s hand. “It does not keep well,” she says, lifting her voice so the countess will hear. “You’ll need a fresh batch every fortnight.”

As María clutches the tonic, she hears the words for what they are. An invitation. She turns toward the door. Sunlight burns at the threshold, the day beyond still hot. She wants to linger in the dark.

The countess waits, impatient, but María glances back. “My thanks . . .” she says, trailing off because she never learned the other woman’s name.

The widow has begun sweeping the dregs back into the mortar on her table. She pauses and looks up from her work, those blue eyes like chips of sky.

“They call me Madame Boucher.” The smile breaks free at last, revealing a wolfish point to her longest teeth as she adds, “But you may call me Sabine.”