11

We sat on high-backed chairs in the courtyard of the Episcopal Palace. My fear had changed to boredom and hunger. Papá had said I mustn’t walk around. To make sitting more active, I swung my legs, counting each swing, until, after just fifteen, Belo told me I was wasting my energy in foolishness.

I counted the potted plants that circled the fountain in the middle of the courtyard: 16. I counted the big ivory tiles that I could see: 57. And the small ivory tiles: 128—maybe. I kept losing my place, which was maddening.

Since our arrival just after dawn, we had been assured repeatedly by men in silk doublets and velvet capes that the monarchs would see us “very soon.” Belo called these people noble riffraff. Papá said they were low-level lords who worked as secretaries to the monarchs, handling their appointments. I wondered how many appointments the monarchs had in a day.

I wore my best gown—mauve silk with flowery embroidery in green thread. Around my neck hung a necklace of glass beads and a gold pendant set with a yellow stone. Bela’s pendant hid under my gown.

Papá whispered prayers. Belo stared straight ahead.

Finally, a young man rushed to us and bowed stiffly, as if his upper half were the lid of a box, folding down. “Their Majesties will receive you in the throne room.”

My hunger vanished.

We followed the secretary to a stone staircase. I wondered why the staircase divided, even though both sides led to the same balcony. The secretary led us up the left side, perhaps the side reserved for Jews.

Was the queen always angry, like Mamá?

Beyond the balcony, the secretary turned smartly to the right. I watched the hem of his crimson cape, his legs in green and gold bicolor hose, and the backs of his shoes, which were tan with low heels.

Close behind him, we crossed a threshold flanked by open double doors. Seven steps in, the secretary halted abruptly. We stopped, too. My nose was an inch from his cloak, which smelled musty.

The secretary barked, his words as clipped as his movements, “The Cantala family attends Your Majesties.”

Belo took my right hand, and Papá took my left. Belo’s grip was so tight it hurt. Papá’s hand was slick and slippery. He was sweating! And my hands were freezing. We marched forward. I closed my eyes, relying on the hands to keep me from falling.

I managed to count, though I could hardly feel my feet. Twenty steps.

Belo hissed furiously, “Loma, open your eyes!”

I did, though I turned my head, afraid to look forward. The walls were made of carved wood. There were no windows on this side, but candles burned in candelabra atop posts that lined the wall. How many posts? How many candles?

“Don Joseph!” The voice, deep and velvety, came from a man.

Still holding my hands, Belo and Papá bowed deeply. I curtsied despite my weak knees. When I rose, I dared to look at the monarchs—

—who were smiling at us, showing ordinary teeth rather than fangs. They sat perhaps four feet above us on a wooden dais, on matching high-backed thrones covered with tapestry and topped by scalloped canopies.

Orange-red hair rippled to the queen’s shoulders. Her gown was burgundy velvet studded along the neckline with pearls set in gold. The king was more soberly dressed in a brown cloak that fell open to reveal a black doublet and ivory hose. He wasn’t stout, but his face was fleshy and his lips plump. Though he had no beard, his cheeks were stippled with black dots.

The monarchs’ smiles seemed happy. They were either pretending or were truly glad to see three Jews standing before them.

“Who is this?” Queen Isabella cried.

This was me.

Belo said, “My granddaughter Paloma, the pride of my old age.”

“Surely,” the king said in his velvety voice, “all your children and grandchildren are your pride.”

“Certainly, sire, and, most of all, Paloma.”

“Come to me, Paloma.” The queen’s voice, now that she wasn’t shouting, was soft and insistent.

Belo and Papá nudged me forward. I stumbled, caught myself, and climbed the dais.

Queen Isabella held out her hands. I went to her and clasped her hands despite my terror and, really, horror, as I catapulted back to the moment when Señor Mateo grabbed me.

“How old are you, child?”

I whispered, “Seven.” Her hands were paler and pinker than mine, which were tan and yellowish.

“Three years older than my Juana and six years younger than Isabella. If matters were otherwise, you could be lady-in-waiting to one of them. Would you like that?”

I nodded, afraid to say no.

“What kind of husband do you hope for someday, Paloma? Handsome? Kind? Rich?”

I nodded again and, since this was a topic I’d considered, I found the courage to add, “And wise.”

“Not an impossible combination.” The queen smiled at the king. “Such a man chose me.”

King Ferdinand smiled, too. “You would marry a great lord. Your abuelo would become a lord or a bishop, and who knows how high your papá could rise?”

Belo a bishop? In a church? I realized he meant if we became Christians.

“My husband and I love your abuelo as if he were part of our family.” Queen Isabella let my left hand go and covered my right in hers. “Are you good, Paloma?”

I whispered, “I don’t know.” I thought of my heart-hatred for Yuda.

“Do you want to be good?”

“Yes.”

King Ferdinand chuckled. “It isn’t easy.”

“Sometimes,” his wife said, “it’s hard even to know what course is good, but Jesus and my confessor show me the way. Best of all, when I sin, my sins are forgiven.”

Ice seemed to run through me. Were they going to force baptism on us?

“Look at me, Paloma,” Queen Isabella said.

I did.

Her eyes were blue. “Tell me your latest good deed.”

What good deed? I obeyed and respected my parents and Belo, but those weren’t deeds. “Er . . .” I took three shallow breaths and remembered. “On the way here, I massaged my abuelo’s feet.”

After a moment of silence, a squeak escaped Queen Isabella. King Ferdinand cried, “Ho!”

I hoped I’d said something dreadful enough to make the queen stop wanting me for a Christian but not so awful that I’d be killed.

Then Papá laughed his boisterous laugh. An instant later, the king drowned him out with his own laughter, and Queen Isabella proved to have a gurgling laugh. She let go of my hand.

Belo didn’t laugh. I turned to see his beard jutting. He was angry—probably at me.

The queen wiped her eyes. “More of our guests should bring progeny. Don Joseph, I see why you prize your granddaughter so. Paloma, you may go back to your grandfather and father.”

I hurried to Papá, who put his arm around me and spoke for the first time. “Majesty, she’s a truthful child.”

Belo said, “Paloma is an unusual girl, but, my queen”—he swept a bow—“unusual females aren’t unprecedented.”

Queen Isabella nodded, and I decided that Belo had brought me on this trip just so he could say that sentence.

“Spain’s need is great.” King Ferdinand leaned forward and put his forearms on his knees. “It won’t be satisfied by a small sum.”

“Not if we are to defeat the infidel,” Queen Isabella said.

The infidel meant Muslims, who ruled in the south. The Christians had been fighting them for hundreds of years. Jews weren’t the infidel; we were the heretics. Just as bad.

The queen stood. “Dine with us tomorrow.”

The king stood, too. “Bring a proposal. Leave the child behind.”