10

What to teach the daughter of a plantation owner, the descendant of a warrior chief, and the almost-crucified son of a Mayan priestess? Arithmetic, of course, demonstrated with pebbles for Salvador and Mayel. They should not take long to catch up with Jolie, whose mastery of adding and subtracting was at best shaky. And Salvador could already count to thirty, the number of leaves left on a hemp plant after the twelve largest ones were cut.

Jolie could read both English and Spanish quite well, so she read classics, history, poetry, and did compositions, while Mercy worked with Salvador and Mayel on basic English or practiced with them the Spanish she was learning herself. With this last, they got Jolie’s patronizing help.

Geography mixed with history took wings when Mercy hit on the idea of relating the Mayan ruins, which they took for granted, to the pyramids of Egypt, ziggurats of Babylon, mosques of Arabia, and the great cathedrals of Europe. And she found another sphere of comparisons in the tree that the children knew as the ceiba: this was the same tree that supposedly grew in the Garden of Eden, that was called the yggdrasil in Scandinavian myth, was known as the banyan in India, and that formed the basis for both the stylized menorah of the Jews and the pagoda of the Chinese.

Mayel found the language hard, but she practiced shyly during other hours, anxious to please Mercy. Salvador was eager and quick, learning English much faster than Mercy was acquiring Mayan. Jolie, proficient in speaking all three and reading two, basked in her role as translator, though she was not inclined to study anything that didn’t come easily. She had an agile, broad-ranging, but undisciplined intelligence.

Zane stopped by for a few minutes every morning, listening from the door but not interrupting. Mercy had not seen him alone since that walk to the moonlit ruins, and she wondered if he meant to ever after be distantly polite but avoid any real contact.

On the third day of lessons, though, during the noon meal, he asked if she’d like to meet him at the stables at about three o’clock. “Wear something you can ride in,” he warned. “I may have found you an acceptable horse.”

“A … a horse?” Mercy had missed her spirited but sweet-tempered mare more than, truth to tell, she missed the man who’d sold her—sold them both, for that matter.

“Not a mule.” Zane sounded irritable and she noticed with a little shock that he was looking tired, hollow around the eyes. “I’d thought this filly might do for Jolie in a few years, but there’s no use having her be riderless that long. Besides, the mare Jolie has now should do her fine till she’s twelve or thirteen and has more weight and strength in her wrists.”

Jolie had been staring almost open-mouthed. Now she sprang up and ran to Zane. “I’m strong enough for a big horse, Papa! Let me try!”

“And how would Piñata feel if she knew you were so anxious to have another mount?”

“I’ll still love Piñata, but I’ve had her since I was a small child!”

“All of two years,” he answered solemnly. “Piñata’s a nice pony with sense enough to keep you from breaking your neck. You may have your pick of the new colts this year, and it’ll be ready by the time you are.”

“I’m ready now!”

“You’re not,” he said sternly. “But have your dessert and we’ll go look at the colts when you’ve finished.”

“No!” she screamed. With a stamp of her foot, she glared furiously at Mercy, tried to speak, then fled when her voice failed her.

Mercy gazed in dismay at Zane.

His jaw clamped tightly and he rose, excusing himself. “I’ll see you at three o’clock,” he said, then turned to go.

“Oh,” protested Mercy, “I don’t think I should have that mare now.”

“It was stupid of me to mention I’d thought of holding her for Jolie,” he admitted, “but there’d have been little sense in it, wasting several years of a horse’s riding time. Far better that she choose a colt. And she will, as soon as she gets over her tantrum.”

“But …” Mercy bit her lip. She’d gotten Jolie to her lessons, but they’d reached no rapport yet. This might make understanding completely impossible.

“Jolie’s spoiled,” Zane said. “I’m just realizing how much. You, of all people, must know I can’t give in to her against my better judgment.”

True enough. It was just a shame he’d let slip his previous half-plans for the horse. Mercy dreaded repercussions, and, though she’d longed to have a horse again, she’d rather have done without than have gotten one this way.

“At three,” said Zane and strode through the gate.

She read Stevens for a while, finally forgetting her distress at Jolie’s resentment in fascination at the traveler’s account of Uxmal and over details of the villages and countryside such a short time before the War of the Castes would bring such violent changes. When her ornate little clock pointed to two-thirty, Mercy dressed in her fullest skirt, the old gray gabardine, tucked the black coral necklace she always wore out of sight, fastened her hair back neatly, and went to the stables.

Zane was there before her, watching a boy lead a dainty little chestnut mare around the clearing. Already saddled, the mare was brushed and burnished till she gleamed like new copper, and the way she tossed her head was archly feminine. Mercy thought with a pang of the mare Star, which Philip had sold, the companion she’d never see again, and she felt disloyal to be so thrilled at this mare’s grace and carriage. But she couldn’t resist approaching gently and speaking.

“Beauty,” she whispered, stroking the silken muzzle with its twitching nostrils, “oh, you beauty!”

“Her name’s Castaña,” Zane said, strolling up and inspecting the mare with a critical gaze that nicked to Mercy. “She matches the color of your hair.” He smiled wickedly. “She’s sweet-tempered, however, and doesn’t require a heavy rein. Her gaits are smooth. It’s a joy to mount her.”

Blushing furiously, Mercy shielded her face against the mare’s glossy neck. “If you like her so much, you should keep her.”

“She’s too light for me. I’d wear her down if I rode her much.”

You’d wear down anyone or anything, Mercy thought, but she judged it wisest to avoid double meanings. She luxuriated in stroking the mare and murmuring to her.

“Let’s see you handle her,” Zane proposed. He gave her a hand up and scowled as she hooked her knee above the sidesaddle horn. “Do you know what I’d do if I were an enlightened female?”

“I’d love to hear!”

“I’d get some of that material made into divided skirts,” Zane said, “even trousers. Damned if I’d ride to one side like that! Any fool can look at a horse and tell how it was meant to be straddled.”

“Indeed!” flashed Mercy. “Then one can only assume that the fool of a man who invented sidesaddles hated women!”

“Probably.” Zane’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “To men, at least, the shape of the body or object suggests its natural use, the best way of grasping and using it. Now, this can be varied for piquancy or the novelty of experiment, but there can be no doubt that the best way to ride and control a horse is with a leg on either side, just as a similar position …”

“I think I will ask for some divided skirts,” Mercy interrupted. “If you don’t mind, I can’t think why anyone else should, and it would be such a relief!”

“Take the mare around to the clearing,” Zane said. “Then, if she and the gear all suit you, we’ll go for a ride.”

It was a delight to feel the intelligent, sensitive response to the slightest pressure of the reins. Castaña loped and cantered and single-footed till Mercy longed to turn her loose on a broad expanse where they could stretch out and skim the earth, the way she used to do with Star.

“She’s no hacienda breed that only knows how to trot,” Zane approved as he signaled Mercy to halt near the stable.

Zane’s raven-black stallion was led out for him and the boy opened the gate near the stable. They skirted the corrals and picked up a narrow track where Zane led till they emerged on what was a fairly good but somewhat overgrown road.

“The way to Tihosuco and Valladolid,” Zane said. “Or one could go south from Tihosuco to Chan Santa Cruz.”

“The Cruzob holy town?”

Zane nodded. “Myself, I prefer Tulum, on the coast, about a day’s ride from Chan Santa Cruz. The castle is on a cliff above the water, and from it you can watch that incredible blue-green water surge over the white sands to break on the rocks. My father used to take me there. He never got over his love of the sea. But the region belong to the Cruzob now. Tulum used to be a center for the worship of the setting sun; the ancients made pilgrimages there. They believed an underground tunnel led from there out beneath the sea.”

“It sounds beautiful—and fearsome.”

“Both. But I wish I could show you the sea. Those Caribbean waters have to be the clearest in the world. Pure white sand can be seen under the waves a long way out, as if one were looking through a gigantic liquid sapphire. There are palms and clumps of purplish periwinkles, and fantastic coral reefs often make pleasant, sheltered spots. My father also took me to a place called Akumal, Place of the Turtle, which had a beautiful curving, sheltered beach. We’d hired a native boat to sail us to Isla Majeres, where Lafitte had headquartered, and to Cozumel, another pretty island. We grilled our catch and swam and lay on the sand. At night the stars and moon were so close that it seemed we could touch them. I’m glad my father didn’t live to the time when he couldn’t visit the sea. He had a good death—he had heart failure while breaking in a new horse, and he was dead when he struck the ground.”

Mercy didn’t know how to respond to that. After a long moment, she spoke, softly. “You miss the sea, too.”

“Yes. But it was a holiday for me, a special time, not a home, as it was for my father till he settled at La Quinta. I’m sure if it hadn’t been for me, he’d have gone back to sailing after my mother died.” Zane gave her a sheepish glance. “I blasted you for talking so much about your father,” he said gruffly. “It would seem it’s your turn.”

“I like to hear about your father.”

“No need to be polite.”

“But I do! It makes you seem more … human.”

His mouth twitched. “Even the devil was young once. Shall we try your mare’s canter here, where the road is broad enough?”

At the end of an hour they turned back toward La Quinta. “Xia’s village is about ten miles down that side road,” Zane said and pointed as he swung Kisin around. The black horse was named for the old god of earthquakes, who was also, Zane had said, the Mayan devil. “I’ll take you there soon if you’d like to go. As I warned you, La Quinta’s isolated.”

“I’d like to see the village, of course,” said Mercy, stroking Castaña’s neck, inexpressibly happy at being on a fine horse again and at having stayed on good terms with this unpredictable man for a record length of time. “But La Quinta has everything essential. I don’t mind that it’s not close to a city.”

“Give yourself time,” Zane said with an edge of bitterness. “My wife loved it at first, but within six months she was calling it a prison.”

“People differ. You, for instance, are the only plantation owner anyone seems to know who tends to his own lands. And though nearly everyone else uses debt-laborers, you don’t.”

“Good business in both cases.”

“Perhaps. But practice reflects attitude.”

His dark gray eyes raked over her jeeringly. “And you want me to believe that you, too, are an exception?”

The stinging jibe brought angry words crowding to her lips. She swallowed them, then waited till she could speak with dignity.

“Believe what you please.”

She pushed Castaña ahead, but Kisin soon came up even. “Are you saying that you could be happy at La Quinta, never long for society, shops, or the company of other women?”

“Chepa’s the most interesting woman I’ve ever met. I doubt if I can even start to learn everything she knows.”

Zane shot Mercy a strange look. “Learning—that’s important to you, isn’t it? But you’ll miss women of your own kind to talk to.”

“Why? I’ve never had them. I talked with my father.”

Zane scowled. “Oh, yes, your father.”

They rode past the corrals in silence. Boys came to take their horses. Zane, springing down easily, lifted Mercy from her saddle, holding her off the ground for just a second longer than necessary.

“The mare seems all right. Will you keep her?”

“She’s wonderful. I’ll very much appreciate the use of her, but, of course, Jolie should have Castaña in a few years if she still wants her.”

“Jolie will be enamored of the colt we select when she gets over her pouting. It’s not good to ride a horse you don’t own. I give you Castaña.”

“She’s too valuable a gift for me not to feel indebted.”

His lean face broadened with a smile. “Marvelous! How many gifts will it take to mortgage you so completely that you become … grateful?”

“I already am.”

“Yet not enough.”

“What you ask has nothing to do with gratitude. You speak of loneliness! I’d die in that tower.”

His eyes smoldered over her till she felt consumed by licking, tiny flames. “Even if I came to you each night?”

Her lungs constricted and her body yearned for him so fiercely that she could barely whisper. “You expect me to trade what I can learn and be and do for existing to gratify your lust?”

“Plenty of women would be glad for the chance.” His raw laughter mocked them both. “Not for my personal charms, possibly, but I pay well.”

Mercy stared at him, angry, yet sorrowful. Why did he shut himself away from all feeling? “You pay money for whores, but a lover costs trusting and risking hurt.”

He eyed her with a sardonic curve to his lips. “You have so much experience? I had supposed the scarcely trustworthy Philip to have been the only enjoyer of your favors.”

She said nothing. He didn’t want to understand, so he’d always be able to twist or evade her words. She turned toward the house, but long, hard fingers closed on her wrist, swinging her around.

“Has there been someone else?” he queried, his gaze probing her like a dark steel blade.

She tried to wrench away, could not, and threw back her head. “My life before I became your … your bondmaid is none of your business!”

“By God, it is! If I’ve let you withhold from me, by your pious, innocent tricks, what you’ve given others …” He dragged her to the wall between the great house and Macedonio’s, imprisoned her with a bent arm on either side, and pried up her chin with one hand. “Have you been with other men than your spineless husband? Has your purity all been deceit?”

“If I’d loved another man … if I’d taken him, I still wouldn’t think I’d deceived you!” she blazed. “Loving’s different from being bought, from indulging an animal need!”

“If you loved—if you’d taken!” Zane gripped her shoulders till they ached. “Plainly! Have you had a man other than Philip?”

Trembling with outrage and the treacherous response of her body to his hands, Mercy said between her teeth, “That, Zane Falconer, is none of your business! You didn’t win my past!”

He spun out and away from the wall, hustling her with him. Mercy hung back, digging in her feet. “Where … where are we going?”

“To the tower.”

“You said you wouldn’t force me!”

“That was when I thought you to be chaste.”

“Why have you let one woman shape the way you judge all of us?” she cried. “My husband served me badly, too, but I hope I have enough sense to blame him personally, not every man in the world!”

“You are a prisoner of your past, too.”

“How?”

His mouth twitched. “You insist on a wedding ring, which brings us back to the question: Have you been with anyone but your husband?”

Mercy swallowed, but his grip was inexorable. “There … there was no one else,” she muttered.

He gave a harsh laugh. “How quickly your brave defiance yields to whimpering!”

“If I outweighed you by eighty pounds and was a foot taller, I might make you whimper, too!”

“Or blench.” He stopped, looking down at her.

A tear squeezed from her eye, and though she blinked angrily, he saw it and wiped it away with the ball of his thumb. “Mercy, Mercy, why are you so stubborn? We both know I can do with you whatever I will.”

“You can rape me—once.”

He raised an eyebrow. “How would you limit it, my sweet, when you can’t prevent it? You’re too tough-minded to kill yourself for your ‘disgrace,’ and you’d find it damned hard to kill me.”

“I’d get away from here.”

“And swap me for starvation or perhaps slavery in some batab’s hammock at Chan Santa Cruz?”

“If you break your word, whatever happens to me is on your conscience.”

“You think I have one?”

“I know you do.”

He put his hand out deliberately, fondled her breast, and watched her eyes as the nipple tautened and her body flexed involuntarily.

“That gives you the dimmest idea of what else I have,” he said, his face strained and cruel. “I want you till it sometimes crowds everything else out of me, including what you call conscience. Don’t push me too far, Mercy.”

He released her so abruptly that she stumbled backward. He gave her a crooked smile. “Besides,” he finished softly, “I’m not convinced, however you protest now, that once I took you, you couldn’t be resigned to some sweet bondage. Philip was your husband, but did he make you shudder with rapture, beg for more? Did he ever drive you out of that funny, sober, righteous mind of yours?”

She stared at him, shrinking. He whirled away and shouted toward the stables. In a moment a boy reappeared with Kisin. “Tell Chepa I won’t be home for dinner,” Zane called over his shoulder.

Stunned, Mercy watched him vault into the saddle and go back the way they’d come. Where was he riding? Xia’s village? Mercy tripped as she walked back to the house, feeling exhausted, holding her breath to try to quell the throbbing ache in her loins. The black coral he’d given her seemed to jab into her throat.

He had Xia. She had no one. How long could this go on?

She stopped in the sitting room, went around examining and praising the sewing work, and managed to explain the divided skirts she decided to have made from challis and the gray-blue poplin. These must be full enough not to cling, but they shouldn’t be cumbersome, either.

One of the women had arthritic hands, and just that morning they had been bothering her so much that Mercy suggested she stop sewing. Now the woman was stitching more briskly than anybody. When Mercy asked with sign language and a few Spanish words what had happened, the woman smiled and pointed out to the veranda to where some bees hummed around a morning-glory vine. She then touched several red welts on her hands.

“Poison from bee kills poison in hands,” Chepa explained, coming in. “Ants can help, too.”

There was no doubting the cure, though it seemed extreme. Mercy told Chepa that Zane wouldn’t be home for dinner, and, finding it difficult to bear the housekeeper’s troubled expression, she passed on to her own room.

For a while that afternoon, she’d been happy and Zane had seemed to be, as if he felt more for her than the ready lust he’d admit to. It was as if he kept trying to persuade himself that she deserved nothing else, that no woman did. And just as she wouldn’t be his unless he loved her, he wouldn’t lie to cajole her into bed.

He thought, of course, that she was intent on marriage, but hurt and angered as she was by him, she didn’t think he’d use that kind of deceit. If he ever said he loved her, she could believe him.

But his wife had scarred him deeply, so deeply he might never again trust enough to love. Maybe the only way he could feel safe with a woman kept over a long period of time was to lock her in the tower and share with her only his eroticism, not his life. Mercy knew frustration over her might drive him to install some woman there, and she hoped she wouldn’t know about it, though a secret like that would be hard to keep quiet around La Quinta.

Changing into a dress embroidered with birds, Mercy was brushing out her hair when a reflection in the mirror made her gasp.

Turning, she stared at the jaguar on the window ledge. Blood was smeared around its carved fangs, and it was posed with its forefeet on a green-and-red object.

Mercy put down her brush and moved slowly to the window. It was real blood on the small animal, most of it coming off when she picked it up. Its prey was a bird, surely a quetzal, made from clay covered with bits of green and red feathers. There was more blood on the throat.

A grisly little charade. Jolie had gone to considerable trouble to arrange the surprise, and the ribbon with which Mercy had changed the wild cat into a pet one was wadded in the corner, also smudged with blood.

Perhaps it was childish, but Mercy felt uneasy at leaving the tableau. She washed the blood from the jaguar and newly modeled quetzal and perched the bird on the jaguar’s shoulder.

Jolie made a hasty meal of it when she learned that her father wouldn’t be at the table. As she reached for several honeycakes, already on her feet and mumbling excuses, Mercy lightly touched a cut on the end of the girl’s finger.

“Did you hurt yourself?”

Jolie yanked her hand back, as if burned by Mercy. “It’s just a scratch!”

“A jaguar scratch?”

“You’d better be careful!”

“I’m not afraid of such tricks, Jolie, but I don’t like them, either. I don’t want to forbid you your grandmother’s room, but I shall if you keep this up.”

“It’s more my room than yours!”

“In a way, perhaps, but it’s where I’m living.”

“I wish you’d never come,” said Jolie with quiet hatred, her violet eyes narrowed. “You’re in between my room and Papa’s, and now you stole my horse!”

Whirling away, she vanished through the gate, leaving Mercy to sip hot chocolate and brood. Had it been wise to force the issue with the child? It had seemed best to get it over with while Zane was away. He was already irritated with Jolie, and his sudden attempts at discipline were likely to cause more problems than they cured.

But why, Mercy wondered, did she feel so lonely and forlorn because he wasn’t there?

Zane didn’t appear for breakfast, but he came to stand in the doorway during classes and listened with his dark head tilted to one side while Mercy explained that wellborn Chinese girls had their feet bound to make them tiny and admired, though the bandages had a maiming effect and virtually crippled the select victims.

“Corsets are just as bad,” Zane snorted. “How any woman whose waist has been squeezed to sixteen inches can have a healthy baby is beyond me. But the deadliest blight of all is the way we bind minds—tight, tight, no chance to think, and once all sense of proportion is warped and intelligence hugs its fetters, it doesn’t matter much if the body’s twisted, too.”

“It’s interesting that women undergo most of their malformations in order to be more attractive to men,” observed Mercy. “At best, men have some ideal of feminine beauty, and woe to the female in that society who’s too thin or too plump, too tall, short, or shaped differently from what men have decided they want!”

“I’ll be my own shape,” said Jolie, protectively tucking her feet beneath her. “I’m glad you’re back, Papa. I don’t like for you to be away.”

“If you get nervous, you must tell Doña Mercy.”

“I’m not nervous,” she said, dismissing Mercy with a glance of veiled disdain. “It’s just that the house doesn’t feel right when you’re gone.”

“Come, minx, don’t turn an overnight trip into the voyage of Ulysses!” He tousled her shiny hair and left the room.

As he passed, Mercy saw on his muscular brown throat a small oval of tiny, regular marks, and near it was the raised welt of a scratch. Xia, or whomever he’d gone to, had given him a tumultuous night. He could now ignore Mercy till his male tensions started building again; and that thought made her so angry that she would have enjoyed scratching him herself, but not from transports of passion.

When lessons were over, Jolie lingered for a moment. “Would you like to see the old maps and genealogies of the village?” she asked. “This afternoon, the scribe is going to show them to Salvador and me. Victoriano has arranged it.”

“That would be interesting,” Mercy said, startled at the overture. “Yes, I’d like to see them, if you’re sure it’s all right.”

“It’s arranged,” repeated Jolie. She didn’t smile but wore a look of fierce determination. Had she decided, however grudgingly, that she’d better make peace with Mercy? “Salvador and I will wait for you by Macedonio’s at three o’clock.”

“Thank you,” said Mercy, smiling into the taut little face, hoping this would be the start of a tolerance that might warm to friendship. “I won’t be late.”

“Neither will we,” Jolie said. Snatching Salvador’s hand, she pulled him after her.

Zane and Jolie, on good terms again, filled the noontime conversation with a discussion of the colts Jolie had announced she was eager to examine. It really did seem that she had decided to adapt gracefully to the situation, though her gaze flicked hurriedly past Mercy when she looked her way at all.

“I’ll be busy going over accounts with Macedonio this afternoon,” said Zane as they rose at the end of the meal. “But if you wish to ride, I’ll tell one of the men to accompany you.”

“Thank you, but I won’t have time today,” Mercy said. “I’m going to visit the scribe with Salvador and Jolie.”

“He’s showing us the maps and genealogies!” Jolie said.

“Good!” Zane slanted Mercy a surprised but pleased glance. “But I think, Doña Mercy, that I didn’t yet advise you against riding alone. Never do that. If I can’t escort you, I’ll send a reliable man.”

Though Mercy loved solitary jaunts, it wouldn’t have occurred to her to ride alone in this region, but she found the prohibition a trifle galling. Still, with his eyes holding hers, there was nothing to do but nod agreement.

“I’ll meet you at three,” she promised the child, and she went to her room while father and daughter drifted through the courtyard, their laughter floating back.

Mercy watched them through the window, the black head and the gold one. Each was the only blood relative the other had in the world; their closeness was both tender and alarming. That’s how Father and I were, Mercy thought with a surge of pain. Can I ever be that close to another man, ever trust one? At least she could understand Jolie’s possessiveness and give her room and time to accept an outsider. From this afternoon’s invitation, that acceptance might come sooner than Mercy had dared to hope.

Lying down with Stevens’ travels, she read till it was time to join the children.

Sóstenes Pec, the scribe, was a withered old man whose hands shook as he opened the rawhide-covered chest in the village’s public building. He said something in Mayan to Victoriano Zuc, the H-men, and the only Indian male Mercy had yet seen who could be called fat. His skin looked woman-soft, and he had a trilling, rather highpitched, voice.

In Spanish so slow and simple that Mercy could follow the gist of it. Sóstenes explained that he had learned to read and write from his father, who had learned from his father, who had studied with the priests in Tekax. The priests had destroyed all the old Mayan hieroglyphic manuscripts they could find because the hieroglyphs were so bound up with old gods and beliefs. Still, the Spaniards hadn’t tried to replace the Mayan language with Spanish, but had taught the sons of priests and leading families how to write Mayan words in European script, so nearly every village had a scribe who could do this.

Carefully, Sóstenes displayed documents concerning land and then a number of more or less handsomely ornamented genealogies. He spread out his own, painted on very thin bark, which showed a many-branched tree with a man and woman on either side of it. These, he said, were his great-grandparents, and on the branches were written the names of their descendants.

Next he exhibited a round map, also on bark, marking Mérida as Tihoo and showing Mani as the center of the country, according to the old Mayan tradition. Another map showed the village and surrounding region. There were royal grants of common land, several land treaties, and bills of sale.

Victoriano, who either spoke no Spanish or pretended not to, took Salvador to one side with several of the documents and, with Sóstenes’ help, apparently explained to him some important facts about the village. Jolie pressed a small pointed finger on a symbol a short distance from the village on the map that Mercy was studying.

“This is what’s left of a temple with a big jaguar. Would you like to go see it? It’s near a wellspring in a cave that’s supposed to go way down underground, maybe all the way to the sea.”

“How far is it?” Mercy asked, hoping the expedition would be feasible. She was eager to respond to these first hints of acceptance from the puzzling; haughty, yet vulnerable little girl.

“Oh, half an hour, maybe,” Jolie said and shrugged. “We wouldn’t be late for dinner. Salvador’s already been there. We can let him study with Victoriano while we go on.”

“All right.”

Mercy thanked Sóstenes, praising the care that had been taken with the priceless old records. She said goodbye to Victoriano while Jolie, in Mayan, must have explained to him and Salvador where she was taking Mercy.

Flora was waiting outside the council building and greeted them with delighted whimpers, pacing along beside them as they took a narrow path leading out of the village. They passed several cornfields where men were harvesting and one place where an Indian was clearing a new field, alternately using an ax and machete, depending on the size of the tree or bush.

“This all must have been part of the old city,” Jolie said, kicking at the round-edged stones of what had been a wall. “Papa says it covered several miles, but there’s not much left of it now except this jaguar shrine and the tower behind the orchards.” She shot Mercy a weighing glance. “Have you seen the tower?”

“Yes.” Mercy tried to avert questions about the circumstances. “It would be a great place for Rapunzel. Do you know that story?”

“The name of my grandfather’s chère amie was Rosamunda,” said Jolie with disconcerting directness. “He never loved her as he did my grandmother, but Chepa says a man should not live without a woman. Did Papa show you the tower?”

“Yes.” Mercy’s cheeks were hot. It was ridiculous to be interrogated like this by a child, but refusing to answer would make it seem she had something to hide.

Again, that strangely adult violet gaze touched her, then veered away. “Xia lived there once, you know.”

What a grotesque conversation! But the only way Mercy could think of to manage it was to be matter-of-fact, to register no shock for the benefit of those sharply inquiring eyes.

“Yes, so your father said.”

“Did he tell you she was his chère amie?” queried the girl, her eyes narrow violet slits.

Mercy’s breath caught with stabbing pain. “That’s none of my business,” she contrived to say coolly after a moment. “And this is an improper subject, which we’ll not discuss again. However, since you plainly know more about such things than you should, let me assure you that I’ll never live in that tower!”

Jolie nodded and sighed. “That’s what Xia said. She said you’d make Papa marry you.”

Was there no way to end this absurd and wildly indecent exchange? “Your father doesn’t intend to marry,” said Mercy in a crisp tone. “And since I’ve never met Xia, I’m amazed that she’d say such things, especially to you.”

“She doesn’t think I’m a baby,” snapped Jolie. “She knows I can understand things.”

With supreme effort, Mercy held her peace, but she had a vastly uncomfortable flash of how an older woman possessed of a priestess’ lore, if not supernatural powers, could work on the mind and senses of a child like this. If Xia had said those things, and Jolie’s crudities had the ring of truth, the woman had to be in love with Zane. And even if he’d never marry her, she at least had his body, which Mercy must deny.

Jolie scooped up Flora and set her over her shoulder. “There it is,” she said, pointing “See the jaguar? Around on the other side there are signs carved on the stone.”

The jaguar was really two seemingly male and female heads and torsos connected by one smoothly massive shared lower body. The heads faced in opposite directions. Dominating the rubble of walls and fallen arches, the double beast had evidently been kept cleared of creeping vines and plants by some devotee. A short distance away water gleamed from a limestone grotto that led into a dark hole.

Mercy was moving around to see the glyphs Jolie had mentioned when there was a cracking sound, scrambling, and then a cry.