Winds of Fate [Books IV - VI]

Interlude: Dum Spiro Spero, Dum Spero Vivo

The Past
March 1699
Seville, Spain

"Will you talk to your own mother, Juan Antonio?"

Anton keeps quiet, the letter for Theresa hot in his breastpocket as the carriage trudges onward across the city. He has taken a bath, sworn his faithful friends to secrecy, and quietly wore all his ornaments as befits him... still, of course, his mother would know something was amiss. She insisted to come with him today to their Hacienda, Paquito and Facundo having to follow in another carriage. Now she eyes him like a hawk across the seat, only... she has coupled that with taunting.

"-Sebastián Del Santo y-"

"Mamà."

"Tonio." Doña Margareta sighs, her black fan delicately in her grasp. "We are all tired from last night. I have no more strength in me to scream at you. The least you could do for my poor nerves is to tell me whatever did you do and where you spent the evening."

The young Conde bites his lip and shakes his head. He could lie. How easy would it be, when Facundo already gave a false story about a ship. But... lie? To his dearest Mama? He closes his eyes, ashamed, wanting the pillows to suffocate him then and there. "I can fix it."

"Antonio." Mama now stares at him, her tone dangerously low.

"I'm not a child, Mamá," Anton mutters without thinking, "I've sailed the world so many times now, and you're not there to look over my shoulder!"

The Doña stiffens, clearly stunned... and hurt. He could see it in her eyes, so like his own. Anton scowls at himself and turns away. It seems he had been fond of screaming at women these days. If Papa were here, oh. His mouth would have bled not a moment too soon. Papa had his faults, but he never did treat Mama like this.

"Lo siento, Ma-"

"You forget who you are speaking to, Antonio," Mama says, so calm, so deadly. Anton's cheeks prickle with shame when the Doña's brows meet. "Your father and I raised you better than that."

If not for the carriage still rolling down the outskirts of the city, Anton is quite certain his mother would have had it stopped so she could leave. She never did tolerate Papa's fits of temper, letting the Conde stove his anger in his study or with his targets in the field. He'd not return at times, or see them at supper, for he is worrying and dealing with his wrath. Sometimes it is the other nobles, while other times it is with Abuelo Jaime or even them-him and his mother. Perhaps it was the Del Santo curse: to hurt everyone you ever love.

He closes his eyes. "Forgive me, Mama," he could only whisper, and look away. "I am so very tired." He hides his face in his hands, resisting the urge to pull his hair and scream in the middle of the town square. Another apology too. He might as well never come back to his house, to Sevilla, for the matter. Anton presses his head against the carriage door and embraces himself. He knows this feeling. He is at his wit's end, and it will only get worse from there.

"Perhaps if you do not take on everything, Juan Antonio Sebastián, you would not be like this. At the end of your strength and wits."

Exactly what I said. Anton straightens up and clasps his hands together, meeting his formidable mother's hazel eyes. The Doña narrows that gaze at him, calm but also making it known to him that the disrespect is not forgotten. He lowers his head. When he was six years old, life had been easier. His playmates would make fun of him and his penchant for softness, and he would run home to his mother, climb on her lap and tell her everything. She would comb his curls and tell him he doesn't need those haughty fellow princes for friends anyways. She is his first friend, thoroughly, and his first teacher. For a lady who entered an arranged marriage, she had devoted herself to a husband and child with all love. Truly, their family owes a lot to her.