Winds of Fate [Books IV - VI]

Interlude: Don Antonio de Sevilla (Part One)

1699, The Past
Seville, Spain

"Tonio?"

At the wake of the Dowager Condesa's svelte, albeit irritated voice, a door swings open with a squeak and hits the wall.

BAM!

To a barren library.

Doña Margareta sighs and swivels. Click! Click! Her satin heels' smooth wooden soles tap on the marble floors, its clicks muffled by the occasional swish of her heavy mantua.

"Antonio!"

Her call reverberates in the hollow courtyard, where only the lonely, spraying drips from the marble fountain echoes.

"Now, where is that boy." the Doña rolls her eyes and drags her heavy brocade train behind. She very well knows her son is far from a boy, he is now the Conde after all and is eighteen years old—practically a young man, but her Antoñito surely acts like a child still at his worst days.

"¡Dios mio!"

The Condesa tries to rack her memories of their recent conversations... and takes a deep breath. She has managed to convince her dear son to keep his father's denunciation between them. And while Antonio wiped his tears and stood up once more, threw himself to work and all, Margareta also knows deep within that Tiago's words gnaw at the boy. It is there, behind Antonio's eyes, whenever he would avoid her as she gives him advice on the mansion, on Madrid, on the hacienda...

On the future Condesa.

The impending choice sends a headache throbbing at her temples, and Doña Margareta gathers herself by taking a deep breath and closing her eyes to shut the sun's intense glare. No doubt her dearest boy is languishing about that too. While he has never spoken of the rootless peasant girl once more, and Margareta can only guess what transpired between the two, both of them are aware of how dire this coming summer is for the family's future. If he chooses to sail, for another half a year, then he must marry before he does as well.

Her brows furl, and Margareta caresses her rings for confidence. Oh, Tiago. She glances doefully at the bubbling fountain down below. You should have been here. He is too young. "Too young, mi amor," she whispers, denying the painful prick of tears at the edge of her eyes, "Toñito needs guidance."

The Doña sighs.

"A man's guidance." She plants her fists on the balustrade, damning her own words. True they may be, she also knows it is futile. Better her than her brothers' and uncles' influences, for they only know to better themselves at the expense of others. Better her than the De Pelayo-Del Santo and De los Santos-Madrigal cousins, who still seek their own share of an inheritance long forfeited by their forbears.

No. Antonio has no one at all, through no fault of his own. Both the Ortegas and Del Santos are seeing the ends of their lines: her family with their morals, the Del Santos with their heirs.

As if they are cursed.

No, no. Margareta presses her lips to a line. She gathers her heavy skirt and strides once more, back into the cool halls of the palace. As she turns into the gallery, she finds the maids squatting about and straining atop ladders to wipe the gilded walls and mirrors dutifully. "Disculpe," she says with a nod, as they all stiffen in attention. "Oh, no. No need to bow. I was just going to ask. Has any of you seen the Conde?"

The girls look at each other, and some shake their heads.

Doña Margareta smiles and waves them off, then continues her way, with fists clenched. She breezes down the staircase as fast as her tight shoes allow... until it hits her.