Winds of Fate [Books IV - VI]

Interlude: Pasión (Part Two)

March 12th 1699
Barrio de Triana
Seville, Spain

When they return to the plaza, the crowd is thinner but nonetheless still joyful as they clap and cheer for the dancers. Anton carries the heavy bouquet in his arms, barely being able to see atop of it. He must have looked ridiculous, but he was willing to shove all the embarassment down his dry throat once his eyes finally find her, in that splendid red dress, her black, black hair now wild and freely whipping about as she spins to the claps of the people and the strums of the guitar.

For some miracle, he manages to weave through the crowd to the front. He has left Paquito and Facundo by the carriage that sat quietly by a tapas. Anton takes a deep breath and avoids bumping a large lady on one side, only to nearly fall on a tiny child at the other. He sinks. At least, the flowers do hide his attire—he can't risk anyone knowing who he is soon.

Just as he triumphantly steps at the front however, the crowd erupts into cheers and the dancers all bow. While some may be performers themselves, nevertheless, they still throw coins at the group. Theresa graciously smiles at each and everyone while she holds out her kerchief to the donations—a perfect hostess, he muses quietly. Suddenly, he is overcome by doubts as he looks down at the plump, red Spanish roses, pristine white gladioluses with their narrow petals, even gay, purple, and tiny jacarandas, which come from South America and now thriving in Seville... among others.

A young woman in tangerine gown with her hair all tied in a bun and her emerald eyes bright sees him and smiles. "And who is that for?"

"Oh, for Theresa," he immediately says, cursing himself internally for being so bold especially when the girl hides a giggle at his response. "Sí... erm... she knows me."

"I think we all know who you are."

His eyes widen. Mierda!

"¡Teresa!" The young woman calls to the other side, a hand on her hip as she waves her fan with the other. "¡Tu donjuán esta aquí!"

Your Don Juan is here.

"Donjuán." Laughter and giggles erupt from the crowd. Anton nearly shrinks behind his flowers. Don Juan is the myth and legend in Seville, a dashing young man infamous for his conquests on ladies' beds... inviting himself to said women's arms and linens by promising them marriage. No doubt the crowds cannot stop laughing. His offering of flowers reeks of marriage. He swallows hard, most especially when Theresa swivels and hands the pocket of coins to the same woman... with a brow raised, and a hand on her hip, the other dangling so carelessly beside her as she walks so confidently to him.

He evades her eyes, for it does not escape Anton that he is actually a Don Juan. Don Juan Antonio Sebastián, to be exact. Named after Sevilla's more pious, more admirable Don Juan Del Santo, the first Conde de Sevilla. However, this particular Don Juan is actually late for supper; no doubt his mother is worried. Perhaps he should have abandoned this daring venture.

Perhaps he should have just kept inside his city walls, as the Fraile advised.

The click clack of her shoes drown all the chatter and laughter away. "I can barely see you."

"Oh? Oh." Anton lowers the flowers down, much to Theresa's surprise. "Sí, it's me again."

"What are you..." Theresa gawks, prodding the flowers. "Antonio—"