Page 65 of The Truth About Myths
He passed the pile to Pedro. "You have the letters. I will take Isabel back to Lisbon."
"Not yet." Pedro stared at his glass. "Canastra has plans for Spain. You will stay here until we understand what those entail."
"You are insane. What of Isabel's security?"
"I think she would agree there is a time for sacrifices—"
"Bullshit. If it is not safe for Isabel here, I will—"
"Until we know Canastra's plans, it isn't safe for her anywhere. The border garrisons are active. If you wish to protect her, you must be vigilant. The duke’s correspondence, his private talks—suspect everything." Pedro stored the letters inside his coat and stood. "I'll be close by."
The tavern crowd opened to let Pedro pass. Henrique cursed under his breath. His trip to Comillas had indeed turned into a Hydra of Lerne. No matter how many heads he chopped off, they returned to bite his ass. Dio strolled back to the table, a grin splitting his face.
Why was it so hot in here? Angrily, Henrique tugged at his cravat and removed the coat. A sheet fell from the inner pocket and landed near Dio's feet.
"You should have joined us. The girls were better company than the brooding Count of Almoster," Dio said, bending down to collect the paper. "What's this?"
Henrique rolled his shoulders. "It must have been among the letters."
"A death certificate?" Dio scrunched his face, and then his eyes widened. "I can't believe it." He lowered it slowly. "The date, the location, the name. This belongs to the friar. The one who cursed the Braganzas. For at least a century, kings and queens have been searching for his resting place."
Henrique took the paper from Dio's hand. It looked frail and ancient. Could it be true? The curse had been haunting the royal family for decades. He didn't like to believe in such nonsense, but the fact was, no firstborn of the royal house survived to assume the throne. Why had Canastra been keeping this?
Chapter 23
"A woman laughing is a woman conquered."Napoleon Bonaparte
Theimpromptubackstagebuzzedwith activity as dryads, nymphs, and satyrs hurried up and down, their pan-like harmonicas swaying from painted lips. Isabel rolled her shoulders. Soon it would be her cue. The last scene. Diomede's play delighted her. His tale of young Hercules was witty and held a core of morality.
Isabel peeked through the curtains as Alfonso delivered a soliloquy about what he should do with his life. He had spoken his lines with articulation, and the toga displayed sinewed arms, but something was lacking. Ever since Henrique mentioned Hercules, she could not help seeing his face whenever she thought about the hero.
She glanced at the audience for what must have been the tenth time, but Henrique wasn't on any of the velvet chairs her cousin had lined for the presentation. Neither was he near the Grecian columns supporting the ceiling. She bit her lip and tiptoed to inspect the shadows closer to the exit.
"Stage fright?" Dolly touched her shoulder.
She had been fabulous as Hera, performing the central part with humor and charisma. It had surprised Isabel, such theatrical talent.
Isabel kissed her cheek and tweaked her nose, now receding to its former glory. "I'm so proud of you."
"Lady Virtue is the perfect part for you. Break your tiara." Dolly beamed and skipped away.
The stage had been Isabel's cradle. From the moment she fluttered her eyes in the morning until she turned on her side and embraced her pillow, she performed. The country needed the perfect veneer, the groomed princess who quoted Rousseau, who could inaugurate a setting stone with dignity and be sent to diplomatic missions. At least this part of herself she performed flawlessly.
Henrique appeared from nowhere. Women around her giggled and pretended to cover their dishabille.
"Are you ready?"
Her lips parted as Henrique circled around her. Other men should be forbidden from wearing evening attire. They couldn’t compare to Henrique in formal black and white. Tonight he had the red scarf around his neck, and the splash of color emphasized his blue eyes, making them magnetic. As if he needed more power. Shivers raced up her spine as his eyes took in her bare arms. The Greek gown woven with silver thread showed more skin than she'd ever exposed in her life.
Her mouth turned so dry she feared for her stage lines. "I thought only people involved in the production could be here."
He halted and touched a freckle above her elbow. "I am involved in the production."
Isabel stared at his lips. Sinful, they were, and so firm. She should’ve licked them when she had the chance. "How do you fit in a heroic play?"
"You can call me summer." After declaring such cryptic words, he passed a harness around her waist.
Isabel's breath caught. "Summer? The play is about the choice between virtue and vice."
