Winds of Fate [Books IV - VI]

Interlude: La Boda y La Sombra Azul

Two Days Later

His skin no longer burned or iced, and he could finally speak through the growl in his throat. Anton blinks his eyes open again, just as determined hands draw the curtains open, making the fabric whoosh. He had been drifting in and out of sleep since. Without knowing the time, for the chamber is beset in darkness. A loving hand, with that faint smell of the dusky roads and sweet, fruity perfume to mask the toil of the day, would dab cloth over his face, his body... His heart would ache then. For he would know that scent anywhere, would know her warmth anywhere. In the delirious dreams he has so near to Death, he had seen her beside him, cheek on his shoulder and palm over his heart. Oh, and he could remember...

How he could not even hope to live for her.

Yet, life he has been given by God. He remains still; having lain in bed for a week and more, the mattress and blanket have stuck to his sweaty back and the pillows had caved his head in. By his feet, Facundo turns from the windows and beams, hands behind him so elegantly. "Don Antonio," he warmly greets, "I've come ahead to see if you need anything before your mother arrives."

He coughs. "Nada." Yet a shiver still rushes down his spine. "Muchas gracias."

His voice comes out a croak.

Señor Facundo smiles worriedly and walks over to his side. The faithful servant presses a palm under his neck. "Bien. No fever. You haven't had any for straight two days now."

"Milagro." Anton sighs, digging his elbows into the cushion. Facundo immediately helps him sit, but the malaise has thoroughly done his muscles and bones that the slight movement makes him cry aloud. "Dios mio—"

"Perhaps we should not strain you too much, Antoni—"

It is tempting, but it will do him no good. Anton huffs and takes up Facundo's offer of his shoulder. "I cannot... stay..." He finally sits up straight, "In bed!"

And immediately presses against the pillows with an aching back again.

"Oh." Anton covers his eyes. "My back just told me no."

Señor Facundo shakes his head. "Por supuesto. More pillows?"

He winces. "New ones, por favor?"

Facundo smiles. "Anything else, Señor Conde?"

Conde. Anton closes his eyes once more and takes a deep breath. I missed the Semana Santa. What about the parade, the Hacienda, I promised Toñito and Ana... Alcala and the whole household... Mamá... Theresa.

Theresa is gone from Sevilla.

"Señor?"

He wakes from the dismal thoughts to Facundo's tender grip on his shoulder. Anton shakes his head. "No, Señor. Gracias." He sinks and weakly smiles. "Perhaps a cane?" He winces. "I can't feel my legs much... If I cannot ever walk them—"

"Ah, your mother made sure to move you every now and then while you were ill. The feeling will come again, Señor. But if it assures you and you need it, then I shall see what we can do."

"Paquito probably knows where to get one." Anton scowls. "I haven't seen him. I've seen only you and Mamà."

"Not only us, I assure you. You were just not fully awake," Señor Facundo says that with a shine in his eyes that Anton could feel he is hiding a secret. "Paquito is at the stable—"

The door swings open, and Doña Magareta breezes in, with Señora Cariño pushing a tray full of breakfast options: the ever sweet ensaimadas, circular braided rolls dusted with sugar and topped with cheese, that Señora Cariño boasts come from as far as Mallorca—the recipe, not the breads; the crisp, round and scallop-bordered galletas; another sugar-dusted but twisty, long churros and its accompany cup of chocolate beside it; and finally, in this feast, sits on a metal plate what he loves most, potatoes folded into eggs with onions and spices: tortilla de patata.