12

He smiled, his blue eyes as frank and cheery as a boy’s, though the lines in his face seemed deeper. He came forward, his hands outstretched.

“Mercy, love! I’ve come to take you home!”

How could he? Walk in like this, grinning, actually seeming to think she’d welcome him! So enraged that she felt as if she were flying apart, exploding into thousands of tiny bits, Mercy put her hands behind her.

“You … you’re a fool if you think I’d go anywhere with you ever again!” she shouted.

Philip stopped. The pupils of his eyes swelled and he flushed, but when he spoke his voice was soft, cajoling. “That—what happened—was all a wretched mistake, darling. I was drunk. When I came looking for you, you were gone. But now that I’ve found you, thanks to Kensington, I’ll take such care of you as you can’t imagine. I know now how much I need you!”

“If you come a step closer, I’ll vomit on you!” It wasn’t a threat; she was truly sick to her stomach, her whole being full of revulsion.

Philip’s lips twisted. “Why, you little bitch!” he said under his breath. “You’re my wife, and you’ll do what I say!”

“That’s enough, Cameron!” Zane’s voice cracked like a whip as he thrust past Kensington. He must have been behind them listening. “She was your wife, but you made her my bond-slave. Keep your hands off my property!”

Philip spun around, but before he could argue the big Englishman interposed. “I beg your pardon, gentlemen, but this is scarcely the way to settle such an important matter. You’ve got to put us up for the night, Falconer, unless you want a bad name for being terribly inhospitable, so why don’t we go have a drink and discuss this properly?”

“We’ve already discussed it, as you damned well know, Kensington. I said if Doña Mercy greeted her husband fondly, perhaps I’d let him purchase her bond. Since it’s clear she hates the sight of him, there’s nothing more to say.”

“But she’s my wife!” Philip cried.

“I have an overriding claim.” Zane gestured for the men to precede him. “You’re welcome to spend the night, of course. You may sling hammocks in the sitting room and Chepa will bring you food. Under the circumstances it would be awkward for you to have meals with the household.”

Philip’s weakly handsome face contorted. “By God!” he blurted out. “If you …”

“Come along, Philip,” ordered his companion. He flourished a bow to Mercy. “I’m sorry it appears we shall not improve our acquaintance on this occasion, madam. But there’ll be other times.”

Dazed, Mercy stared after them. It was as if a loathsome, chained monster had broken loose in the murky depths of buried agonies and dreads and now glided toward her with Philip’s smiling deceitful face attached to its gross vileness. She began to shake. Chepa held her till the spasm ebbed, then made her sit down with a shawl around her and drink the rest of the mint tea brewed for the patient.

“Tell me,” she suggested. “Not good to keep angry-afraid inside.”

So, alternately sobbing and storming, Mercy poured out her hurt and rage, telling how her husband had insisted on coming to a foreign country and then had gambled her away. “How can he look me in the face?” Mercy choked, clenching her fists. “How could he possibly think I’d forgive him?”

“Bad man.”

Mercy shrugged wearily. “Maybe not bad—terribly weak. And that’s worse! Give me a bad person any day. At least you know what to expect.”

For some reason, she thought of Eric Kensington, who was certainly not weak. But she didn’t know what to expect from him, either. Why, if he was interested in her himself, and the shine of his silvery eyes today had said that he still was, had he brought Philip and supported his claim?

“I witch him,” Chepa suggested, as if discussing seasonings for a stew. “He die, little white rooster. Then you not wife.”

“Oh, no!” Mercy cried instinctively.

“Why not? He make you tremble, make you sick.”

“But he’ll go away. Please, Chepa!” The woman looked unconvinced, and Mercy searched for words to prevent her from acting secretly. “My father would be grieved if I asked for someone’s life.”

“He was soldier.”

“Only to keep men alive.”

Chepa meditated. “The old ones say man has to make real, true face, real, true heart,” she said at last. “Make by self, with acts. Only few do this. Most take face, heart, from other people. Husband make no true face. Kill him, kill only unshaped mud.”

Mercy shook her head. “I can’t do that, Chepa. I’d fight him if he tried to take me, if Don Zane had allowed him to. But you must promise not to bother him, or I will be sick with worry!”

“Should have done, not talk,” Chepa grunted, then gave a heave of her massive shoulders. “So, white rooster live. Now you take bath. Dinner ready soon.”

It was strange to sit at the big table with Zane and Jolie and know that Philip and Eric Kensington were across the courtyard in the sitting room. Though the turkey was piquantly stewed in a pungent black sauce that Mercy would usually have relished, she could only nibble. Jolie, obviously instructed not to pry, kept shooting curious glances at Mercy. Zane talked steadily, as if determined to reduce the visitation to an unimportant incident, while answering some of the questions he must have guessed were gnawing at Mercy.

“Kensington says he had business in New Orleans and encountered Philip there in a gaming house. When it developed that Philip’s luck had turned and he’d recouped his fortunes, except for his vanished wife, whom he continued to lament, Kensington told him where you were and even offered to detour to La Quinta on his own journey home to Belize.”

“I don’t believe it!” Mercy flashed. Then she added bitterly, “Of course, I can’t really believe he’s here, either.”

“Not for long,” Zane assured her grimly. “They’ve promised to be up and away by dawn. It seems Cameron will go along to Belize and take passage from there to the United States.”

“Perhaps I should ask him to divorce me,” Mercy pondered. “If I ever decided to remarry, if might be hard to locate him.”

Zane chuckled. “In his righteous indignation, he did say that he might divorce you on grounds of desertion.”

Mercy gaped incredulously, then burst into laughter.

“Are you hysterical?” asked Jolie worriedly.

Smothering her last hiccoughy giggles in her napkin, Mercy shook her head. “No, Jolie. I’m just thinking how funny it all would be if it weren’t so ugly. If he knew I wanted a divorce, he wouldn’t think of it, but probably he imagines I’d hate the scandal. As if being gambled for and given to the winner leaves a woman much concern about what people say!”

“I hadn’t noticed that you were exactly crushed and humble,” Zane remarked. He went on to news he had gleaned over an obligatory drink and cigar.

Maximilian had been persuaded not to abdicate and had bone back to Mexico City, though the Juaristas gained ground daily. “The United States is sending arms and ammunition to Juárez,” Zane continued. “Secretary of State Seward has given the American ambassador to the Juárez government authority to use U.S. land and naval forces in any way short of actual invasion that might help drive out the French. It’s only a question of time for the emperor unless he decides to join his poor, mad Carlota.”

“She is mad?”

“The pope’s refusal to support her husband seems to have permanently overturned her mind, though she’s said to have rational moments.”

“So she won’t be coming back.”

“Only in her wild fantasies.”

After a silence, Zane said that Philip was ranting about that fall’s elections, which had given the Republicans two-thirds control of each House, so that Reconstruction was now certain to be ruthless and to grind the vanquished South even more cruelly into the dust. Mercy ached for her homeland and wondered miserably if there would ever be a time when she could feel again that the United States was her country, not just the South.

“It’s been an upsetting day for you,” said Zane as they were sipping hot chocolate after the meal. “Chepa will bring you a restful brew, and when you wake up in the morning, Cameron will be out of your life forever.”

But not out of her thoughts. His reappearance had opened the sourly festering wound she’d foolishly considered healed. Until the putrescent matter drained, she could have no peace.

Jolie gave her an especially warm hug that night and Zane walked her to her door. “Good night,” he said. “Don’t let this distress you. Tomorrow it will seem like a bad dream.”

A nightmare. Mercy thanked him and went inside. The shuddering began and lasted even after she was in bed, with the covers up to her ears.

But Chepa came. The tea was hot and Chepa’s hands were comforting. Gradually, the trembling stopped. Mercy fell into sleep like a heavy stone in black water.

She awoke to a brutal grip prying her jaws apart. She tried to scream but was stifled by cloth stuffed so deep in her mouth that she gagged. She fought, trying to dislodge the obstruction enough to shout, but a blow against the side of her head knocked her senseless for a moment. She roused at being swung over a man’s shoulder, and she kicked and beat with her hands.

“Damn you!” It was Philip’s threatening whisper. “I’ll tie you hand and foot, then!”

Tossing her back on the bed, he tore a sheet and bound her cruelly in spite of her struggles. “You still belong to me,” he panted, “and I’ll take you away in spite of that fool Falconer!”

Mercy tried to cry out, but the gag stifled the sounds rising in her throat. She still couldn’t believe this. She had felt so safe in Zane’s house, so secure in his protection. And what would Philip do with her now? Why did he want her?

It wasn’t out of love that he’d traveled here, but she was astonished that spite and bruised conceit could move him to such effort. Certainly he’d never have come without Wellington’s company.

Too baffling, too hazy. The truth was that she must somehow get help before Philip dragged her away; otherwise, she wouldn’t be missed till morning, and that might be too late—too late for Zane to find her.

Philip lifted her again, grunting at her weight, gripping her painfully at the knees while her pulse thumped in her head, which hung downward. Dizzied, she fought for consciousness and gathered her strength as they moved down the hall.

If she could suddenly shift all her weight to one side, topple Philip over, or at least make enough noise to wake up someone! Trying not to alert her captor before the last minute, Mercy concentrated, then put all her effort into a mighty sideways lurch, powered by a desperate wrenching of her whole body. She fell partly against the wall, thus making only a muffled sound, but Philip swore loudly as he toppled against a piece of furniture.

She rolled away, hoping to hit something that would crash. Philip stumbled across her, caught his breath in fury, located her head, and struck her.

Lightning exploded in her brain. She knew nothing till Zane’s voice pierced her swirling fog, along with the glow of a candle.

“Cameron!”

Philip sprang. The candle that Zane put down flashed against a blade. Zane sidestepped, caught Philip’s uplifted arm, and wrested away the knife.

Quite deliberately, he drove the knife into its owner’s throat, yanked sideways. Philip crumpled, face down in spreading blood. Zane stepped past him without a downward glance, then knelt by Mercy and removed the gag.

“Close your eyes. He’s an ugly sight,” said Zane as he untied the strips at her ankles and wrists. “Did he hurt you?”

“Not much. Oh, Zane, how dreadful!”

For a moment, he held her close before he said brusquely, “Don’t shake like that. It’s over! Come, I’ll put you in my room while yours is being … cleaned up.”

Strong arms lifted her. Mercy clung to Zane. “It’s so … awful! I hated him … I never knew how much till he came, but …”

“He’s dead. He deserved it. He’ll never bother you again.” Kicking open the door of his room, Zane put Mercy on his big high bed and held her as he might have consoled Jolie. “Maybe in a way it’s better. At least you don’t have to wonder what he’s doing or feel linked to him. Your life with him is finished.”

Eric Kensington appeared in the doorway. “What’s going on? My God! You’ve butchered Philip!”

Zane wrapped the coverlet around Mercy and got to his feet, crossing to the door. “He tried to abduct this lady. Did you know of his intention?”

“Of course not!” Kensington’s surprise and indignation seemed real. “He was downcast and was still drinking when I went to sleep, but I’d thought he was resigned to traveling with me to Belize and from there taking a ship to the States.”

He came to stand in the room, his eyes dwelling on Mercy. “I must abjectly beg your pardon, Doña Mercy. I may be overly sentimental, but the thought of reuniting you and your repentant husband made me forget that, in fact, you might not desire that. I should not have meddled. Believe me, if there’s any way to make amends, I’d be grateful to atone.”

“You can take the body out with you and bury it—off my land,” Zane said thinly. He studied the big man and Mercy watched them both, sensing the male antagonism that vibrated between them in spite of Kensington’s apparent contrition.

Both were tall, but Kensington must have been four inches taller than Zane’s more than six feet, and he was probably twenty pounds heavier, massive through the shoulders. Both were in prime condition, though Zane seemed lighter on his feet and quicker. Zane was like a rapier, while Kensington was a broadsword.

Both could kill. Dark steel eyes clashed with those of molten silver.

The edge of Kensington’s mouth bent down and he shrugged. “I can see that having her husband’s grave on the premises might disturb Doña Mercy,” he said softly. “It’s a pity to see a quetzal hide like a wounded dove. Therefore, I’ll see to the corpse’s removal. My servant can bundle it up if you’ve some old sacking.”

Horrified at hearing a man spoken of as if he were refuse. Mercy asked if he couldn’t be wrapped in a sheet. Zane gave this order to Vicente, who’d run in barefooted, rubbing his eyes, along with Chepa, who piled more covers on Mercy and made her drink brandy from the decanter by Zane’s bed.

Kensington stood on the threshold and bowed, his golden hair shining even in the light from the one lamp Zane must have lit before going to Mercy’s room. “There’s no way I can express my regret at the unpleasantness this has caused you, madam. Thinking only to make you happy, I’ve brought you pain. Most of all, I’m sorry that when you remember me, it’ll be with disagreeable associations. But life is unpredictable. I hope I may find a way to please you.”

“It seems most unlikely,” said Zane, “since Belize is far away and La Quinta is far off the road to Mérida.”

Kensington raised an eyebrow. “Who knows? Since the start of the War of the Castes, many people have found Belize a refuge. I wish you continued immunity from Cruzob forays, Falconer, but there could be a time when you or this lady would welcome British protection.” His eyes on Mercy, he smiled. “Believe me, Doña Mercy, I am always at your service. Should, heaven forbid, any mischance befall Mr. Falconer, be mindful that you have a friend.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Zane cut in. “My mayordomo has instructions in case of my demise. It’s nearly dawn, Kensington, and the men have readied your horses. Chepa, will you make this gentleman some breakfast so he can be on his way?”

“I make you some tea,” Chepa told Mercy, then went out through the courtyard entrance.

“Thanks for seeing that I get an early start.” Kensington smiled. “Farewell, Doña Mercy.” His eyes lingered on her so that she felt cold in spite of the heaped covers and began to tremble again.

“Have a safe journey, Kensington.” Zane stared at the Englishman till he bowed a last time and strode away.

Closing the door, Zane crossed to the bed and looked down at Mercy, a muscle twitching in his lean jaw. “It seems you have an eager protector. He could scarcely propose it more plainly than he did in front of me, but I’m sure his old offer of marriage still stands. Now that you have no husband, you should consider it.”

“Do you want me to … to go away?”

“We’re discussing what you want,” he said harshly. “Do you want to leave with Kensington?”

“No!”

Bending, he caught her face between his hands. “Why not, if marriage and respectability mean so much to you?”

“I don’t love him.”

Zane let her go as if her flesh burned him. “Love! A trumpery word women use to justify whatever they do and break a man to their use! And you won’t admit to passion, will you, honest need of the body? No, it has to be love and legal binding and a hook through a man’s nose!”

Shrinking back on the pillows, Mercy gazed at him, fighting back tears. He reached for her, then whirled, grasping his hands tightly behind him. “Who’d believe I’ve had you at La Quinta all this time and not taken you?” he asked savagely. “I can’t believe it myself! I’m not made of iron, Mercy. If virtue’s paramount with you, you should take Kensington, for if you stay here, someday I might not be able to stop myself.” He’d been speaking with his back to her. Now he turned violently. “Do you understand that?”

“What?”

“If you stay here, tempting me just by your softness, your sweetness, the way you move and walk, sooner or later I won’t be able to stop.”

Their eyes met with tingling, frightening, ecstatic shock. If he had lain down with her then, Mercy could not have opposed him, but he went out of the room, as if devil-driven, just as Chepa came in with tea.

“Your room ready now,” she said, holding the cup so that Mercy had to drink. “Don Zane say I have hammock by you for some nights if you afraid.”

Chepa made her finish all the brew. “I want to get up,” said Mercy. “It’s nearly daylight. I can’t sleep after …”

“Lie down,” Chepa said. “Close eyes. I rub neck and back. Get up then if you want.”

With her face down against sheets that had the clean male smell of Zane’s body, Mercy shuddered as Chepa’s hands, for a second, reminded her of Philip’s. She heard again that stifled choking. But as she tensed, Chepa kneaded at her muscles, working them into place as the herb drink gradually soothed her mind.

She never knew when the stroking ceased.

Her rest was deep and sound. When she awoke, she gazed at the carved headboard a long moment before she realized she was still in Zane’s bed and why. Light streamed through the shutters, gilding a huge mahogany armoire, a leather armchair and reading table, and a chest of dark wood inlaid with what looked like bone in a running pattern of incised leaves.

What held Mercy’s gaze was the small cabinet with open hinged doors and a curved top that stood in a large wall niche. Inside the cabinet the madonna stood on a crescent moon, wearing a crown of silver, as did her infant son. Behind them was a painted blue sky spangled with stars, and around the niche were painted roses. It was charmingly feminine, the only touch of grace in an austere chamber. Mercy was sure it had belonged to Zane’s mother, but she would have expected him to close the doors of the little shrine; she was glad that he had not.

The clock struck eight. Mercy pressed her face and breasts against Zane’s pillows for a moment, then remembered he must have slept here with his wife, the woman who seemed to have made love a lying mockery to him.

Mercy grimaced as she slipped from the huge bed and went barefooted to her room. Why had he let one woman determine his view of all the rest? Perhaps he was changing slowly. At least now he wanted a rather permanent mistress instead of occasional satiation with the whores of Tekax or Mérida or whatever strange gratifications he’d shared with Xia.

The door of Mercy’s room was open. She hesitated, took a deep breath, and stepped inside. Her bed was immaculate, the torn sheet replaced. There remained nothing to show a man had seized her there in the night.

A pleasantly astringent smell filled the air. A handful of herbs was charring in the fireplace. Chepa’s purification? Mercy smiled, but she was grateful.

Vicente and Chepa must have kept their silence, because knowledge of Philip’s death never filtered out. Jolie remarked that the big golden man had looked like a Viking, which led to geography, stories of the far-sailing dragon ships, and the possibility that Quetzalcoatl, the fair god expected by the Mayas to reappear on earth, had been, in fact, a Viking.

His name, which meant Plumed Water Serpent, could easily derive from the prow of a typical Norse vessel or wings on a helmet. Though Quetzalcoatl had been just and beneficent, the Spaniards, who’d been taken for him since, were not. And again, Maximilian’s blond hair and beard had made some Indians believe he was their returned savior.

Zane happened in during this discussion and said softly from the schoolroom door, “Did you know he burned himself to death along this east coast? I believe it was at Tulum and that he’s the diving god shown on the temple mural there, uniting heaven and earth.”

“Why did he do that, Papa?” asked Jolie, her eyes wide.

“He got drunk and dishonored himself so terribly that he believed he must die. So he put on his robe of quetzal feathers and his turquoise mask, which he wore because he was very ugly, and he journeyed to the east. There he set himself afire and his ashes rose to the skies. They say that’s when all the brightest birds were created. He descended to the Kingdom of the Dead, and on the fourth day he rose into heaven and became Venus, the Morning Star and the Evening Star, male and female, and god and man.”

Jolie put it into Mayan for Salvador and Mayel, who had been, with eager puzzlement, catching what they could. Then she regarded her father with solemnity. “Is that true, Papa?”

“Some of it, I think. There must have been an ugly fair-skinned stranger who became a good king and tried to end human sacrifice. This made the priests angry and they may have conspired to make him sin so terribly he would want to end his life. His descent into hell and ascent to heaven? Who knows, child? It’s the common legend of all great heroes.”

Jolie considered, her golden eyebrows arched. “Mr. Kensington might be a Viking, but I don’t think he’s good like Quet … Quetzalcoatl.”

“The Vikings also sailed to Russia,” Mercy added. “And they raided England so ferociously that there was a prayer against their fury right along with pleas for protection from battle, murder, and sudden death.”

“That’s more like Mr. Kensington,” Jolie said and nodded. Zane had left them. The girl took Mercy’s hand and pressed it to her warm little cheek. “You look sad, Doña Mercy. Are you sorry you didn’t go with your husband?”

“No.” Mercy’s throat felt scalded and she had a flash of Philip when they were young, galloping beside her down the walnut land, smiling as he fed her wild strawberries and kissed her the first time. “No. I couldn’t go with him. But I am sad.”

“He wasn’t a Viking,” said Jolie. “But he didn’t seem old enough to be your husband. He was like a boy.”

Mercy thought that was probably the truest epitaph that could be made for him.

She had nightmares for the next few nights, but Chepa would come from the nearby hammock to quiet her, and by the end of the week it all seemed like a horrid dream. She couldn’t be glad about Philip’s death, but it had cauterized the wound of his betrayal, cleanly searing it out so that this time as it healed, it healed clean.

Philip was dead. An act of his had brought her where she was, but she’d stayed by choice. She was, more than she’d ever been, in control of her fate. Zane allowed her that power, of course. Even if, as he had warned, he took her now by force, she’d chosen to run that risk rather than go with Eric Kensington.

Zane was seeing to the clearing of some new land for henequén and was gone from morning till night until the sixteenth of December. On that day, work slacked off for the long holiday season, which would last for almost a month until the village’s patroness, Santa Yñez, had her fiesta during the third week of January.

On the first night of the nine-day festival of Los Posadas, Mercy went to the village with Chepa, Mayel, Salvador, and Jolie. They followed the procession of pilgrims carrying a litter that held images of Mary riding on a burro, Joseph, and an angel. Singing and carrying candles, the group moved toward the church, where they sang a song begging for lodging at the inn.

From inside the closed door, the villagers posing as innkeepers sang back a refusal to each pleading, till at last the pilgrims said that Mary would be mother of the Holy Child. At that, the innkeepers threw open the door and welcomed in the travelers. The holy figures were placed on the altar and everyone knelt to pray. Then women brought out sweet bread and various cakes and candles. The villagers spilled onto the common, and dancing began to the music of a ukulele-like instrument, drums, and flutes.

The young people danced in pairs, in each the man with his hands behind his back and the girl coquettishly lifting the edges of her skirt as they faced each other. When they passed, they lifted their arms and clicked their fingers rhythmically. Mayel was drawn into the dance. She looked entrancing in a festive embroidered cotton dress that had belonged to Chepa’s beloved lost daughter, and a yellow ribbon perched like a great butterfly at the back of her coiled black hair.

Sóstenes and another man brought out a gay paper-and-tinsel star piñata and a child was blindfolded and given a stick. He tried to hit the piñata, which the men held out of reach on a rope, and after flailing wildly for a few minutes, his place was taken by a girl, then by another boy, till at last a little girl of perhaps four was allowed to hit it, shattering the paper sides so that candy and a mass of small trinkets and toys rained down to be scrambled after by the children.

A posada was held each night, but Mercy didn’t go again till the ninth night, Christmas Eve, when the villagers, shortly before midnight, said nine Ave Marias and sang to the Virgin as an image of the Infant was placed in the manger on the altar.

There followed a midnight Mass chanted by the maestro cantor, an old layman, who knew most of the ritual and presided over the village’s religious life. It had been years since a true priest had visited the hacienda, but even before the war, a year or two often passed so that when the priest came, he often baptized children at the same time he married their parents.

A feast was served in the council house. Zane appeared for none of the celebration, though Chepa told Mercy that he had, as always, supplied the piñatas and the festive meal.

Jolie was falling asleep as she ate, so Mercy roused her enough to half-carry her home and get her to bed. Covering the girl up to her chin, Mercy gazed down at the smooth angel’s face and lightly kissed the golden hair, giving thanks that Jolie had come to accept her, and for being allowed to take part in the posadas, even though, at this season, she felt especially far from home.

Blowing out the lamp, she turned to the door and almost collided with Zane, who steadied her with quick, hard hands and spoke softly before she could be frightened, drawing her outside and closing the door.

“You didn’t know I was watching, did you?” He had been drinking and his words tended to slur. His fingers dug into her arms as he gave her a shake. “You … kissing my child. Madonna.”

Frightened, Mercy tried to pull away, but he gripped her tighter, then gave a choking little laugh. “Been waiting. Thought when you came in I’d give you my present and brandy … get you drunk, get you to bed. My Christmas present. But I’m drunk.”

“Zane …”

“You always stop me. Why is that? Why do you always do what stops me?”

Weakened by his hands, upset at his drunkenness, Mercy couldn’t answer. Suddenly he opened her door and thrust her roughly inside.

“Merry Christmas, Mercy. My big present is leaving you virtuous. But there’s something else for you on the bed.”

He almost slammed the door. Shaken, her breasts tingling with arousal till they hurt, Mercy leaned against the wall, clamping her jaw tight to keep from calling after him. She yearned for his mouth, the strength of his arms, the force and sweetness and wildness of his lean, well-muscled body, so racked with need that it threatened to sweep away all reason. But some small whisper of sanity persisted in the storm.

To be his while he thought as he did would mean a sealed existence in the tower, a life apart from that of La Quinta. If she let passion turn her into a slave of his body and her own, she’d betray herself far worse than Philip had done.

Father! Father! …

Elkanah’s kind, sad eyes seemed to caress her, helping her ride out the strongest moments of temptation. When she could breathe again, she lit a lamp and moved to the bed.

There on the pillows lay a book bound in red leather. She opened it and read on the hand-lettered title page: Cures from the Badianus Manuscript, an Aztec Herbal of 1552. Turning through it, she read of treatments for everything from skin ailments to poor flow of milk after childbirth. There were pages of herbs in color. A magnificent treasure! Mercy touched it lovingly, thinking how Elkanah would have studied it.

Tomorrow she must make sure the gift hadn’t been a drunken whim; but for tonight she would sleep with it close to her pillow.

Since everyone had been up late the night before, Christmas day was quiet. Mercy still intended to give her gifts on Christmas rather than on the Day of the Three Kings, so she put the plump blue coati on the still-sleeping Jolie’s pillow. Then she came up softly behind Chepa to wrap her in the soft shawl and said to her, “Feliz Navidad!” And Mayel exclaimed over the parcel of bright ribbons and several necklaces.

Salvador admired his new shirt, but he was utterly enraptured with the handmade book of proverbs and fables. That left only Zane. The sweet, spicy smell of fresh-baked sweet bread and hot chocolate announced breakfast, so Mercy took the carefully decorated bookmarks along to the dining room and put them at Zane’s place as Jolie ran up to her frantically.

“The coati! It’s so soft and cuddly and just beautiful! Thank you, Doña Mercy! Salvador and I have something for you, but we’ll give it to you on the Day of the Three Kings.”

“I don’t know if I can stand the suspense that long,” Mercy said and laughed.

Zane came in, a bit heavy-eyed, but apparently with no memories of last night. He smiled with surprise and appreciation as he looked through the bookmarks. “The tree of the center,” he said and nodded. “Handsomely done, Doña Mercy. My library will take on elegance once I’m not marking places with tamale husks, bits of sisal, wood slivers, and scraps of paper. Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome. And thank you for the book of cures. But are you sure you want to give it away? It must be very rare.”

“The only one of its kind,” Zane confirmed. “A doctor friend of my father’s translated it into English for him and got an artist to copy the herb pictures from one of the few copies of the old Aztec manuscript. I’m sure no one else would get as much pleasure from it as you will.”

“There’s nothing I’d rather have,” Mercy admitted, not sure that she should allow herself to be persuaded.

“Not even diamonds?” Zane teased.

Only you … but how can I say that? “It’s the most wonderful present I’ve ever had,” she said honestly, and they sat down to breakfast, beamed over by Chepa, in her luxurious shawl.

It was a peacefully happy day. That afternoon, Zane suggested that he take Mercy and Jolie riding, and they got home just in time to freshen and change before a dinner of cochinita pibil, tamales, yams, seasoned rice, pumpkin seed cakes, and caramel pudding.

A fire crackled in the hearth. It wasn’t needed for warmth, but it cast a cheerful glow that made them linger at the table long after the dishes were cleared away, and even Jolie had all the hot chocolate she could drink.

“I know I’m too big to sit on your lap, Papa,” she muttered sleepily. “But can I, for a little while?”

“Oh, I think we can manage that,” Zane said and laughed. “But from the way your eyelids droop, I think I’d better carry you to your room!”

She didn’t argue but caught Mercy’s hand. “Will you come tell my coati good night? His name is Carlos.”

“Why did you decide to call him that?” asked Mercy as they crossed the courtyard to Jolie’s room.

Jolie yawned against her father’s shoulder. “That’s what I called my pretend-brother before I knew Salvador.”

Zane was commanded to admire the blue challis animal. When he’d done so to Jolie’s satisfaction, he went to his office and Mercy slipped into her own room.

It had been the happiest day she’d spent in Yucatán, the happiest in years. The long ride that day with Zane and Jolie and the shared evening meal had made them seem almost like family. Mercy sighed, beginning to undress. Tonight, however, she and Zane wouldn’t share the big matrimonial bed—any bed at all.

Putting on her nightgown, she was picking up her hairbrush when she noticed a small packet beside it on the chest. How had that got there? A surprise from Zane or Jolie?

She opened the paper, staring at the gleaming jade that was smooth and cold in her palm. A quetzal. A slip of paper had fallen to the floor. With strange, fated knowledge, she bent down for it and held it in fingers that trembled.

“Sometime, someplace.”

That was all. It wasn’t signed. No need for it to be. Eric Kensington must have paid someone to put the gift in her room. The quetzal seemed suddenly to burn her hand. Opening the chest, Mercy dropped the exquisitely carved jade in a corner and covered it up.

She held the brief note over the lamp till it caught on fire and burned, but as she flicked away the burned flakes she seemed to hear the big Englishman laughing sardonically.

Nonsense! He was on his way to Belize. Zane had made it plain that he wasn’t a welcome guest. Arranging for this quetzal to be left in her room was a final touch of bravado, a swagger before accepting the inevitable.

Mercy put the Badianus copy by her pillow and kept touching it for reassurance, but it was a long time before she fell asleep.