A Card Too Many
 

The crescent moon hung low on the western horizon, just above the hazy lavender of the sunset.  Diego sat by himself on a small outcropping of rock not far from the hacienda’s main gates, watching the skies darken.  The brightest star, not really a star at all, but what he knew was the red planet Mars, sat high, almost due south, like a portent over Mexico.  A little farther to the east, the sickle shape of the constellation Leo, with its bright star Regulus, was just starting to appear.

Though he had spent enough time alone at night in the dark to have learned how to steer by them, he didn’t think the stars could guide men’s lives.  Still, he found himself wishing he knew more about how to read the astrologers’ portents, if not to predict the future, then at least to find out what strange conjunction of forces was currently possessing him. How could he have misread her so badly? Even now he found himself trying to invent excuses for her, not wanting to believe she could really be as cold-blooded as the evidence suggested. If the men who sought to kidnap him were being stalked by this woman, he might wind up having to save them from her.

But what if there were another way to see the situation?  Was there anything he had overlooked?  It occurred to him that perhaps he hadn’t really taken seriously the prospect of being kidnaped, so amused had he been at the irony of anyone trying to abduct Diego de la Vega.  But if someone had kidnaped him, wouldn’t he also kill his captors, if necessary, in order to get free—or to save someone else?  Moreover, how innocent was Teresa, really, in all of this?  How innocent could she be?  Surely she must have seen, or at least suspected, that she was there to protect more than just a maiden’s virtue.  Had she known about Oreana’s brother?

Diego sighed and stood up, finally, leaning back against a nearby boulder.  Then he headed back toward the gates of the casa grande, still convinced that he would have found another way to get around the servant woman.  Crescencia shut the door behind him as he came in, and he realized that she was probably the only servant who hadn’t retired for the evening, having waited up for him.  He had even sent Bernardo off to bed.  He thanked her and then, as he told her good night, he saw that Silvio was now sitting outside Oreana’s door, wrapped in a blanket, which meant he probably intended to sleep there.  She wouldn’t get out again, and that was just as well.

His room was completely dark when he stepped through the door.  By now even the moon had set, leaving him to find his way by instinct and habit alone to the fireplace, where he knew he would find a candlestick on the mantle.  Even this late in spring, the maids usually kept a few coals glowing, just to ward off the chill.  He grabbed a poker from the hearth and stirred the ashes.  But as he bent to light the candle, a chill no earthly fire could warm crept up his spine as he felt more than saw the ghostly presence that occupied the chair just beside the door.  Either he had walked right by her without noticing, or she had simply materialized out of thin air.  She looked imposing, even regal, as she sat relaxed, utterly still, her hands draped over the arms of the chair, her hair unbound, her white gown flowing over her slim thighs.  But her eyes seemed to glow like those of a predator as they tracked his every move.

"It is gratifying," she said, "to see that you possess the same characteristic flaw that all true heros must have."  Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but somehow formidably resonant.

He swallowed hard and straightened up slowly, gripping the handle of the poker a little more carefully, trying not to let the brass candle holder tip over as he absently set the unlit candle back on the mantle.  "And what might that be, Señorita?"

"Hubris."  She tilted her head just slightly, examining him, then leveled it again, commanding him to stand still.  He stood still.  "It is their pride, their ambition, their sense of honor, that drives them to achieve greatness," she went on.  "They tempt fate, defy the odds.  But sometimes they can cross the line, grow presumptuous, assume they know everything.  When they lose, it is always by a card too many.  You, Señor, have overplayed your hand."

"How did you get in here?"

"The same way you did."

"I find that difficult to believe, with Crescencia downstairs and Silvio sitting right outside."

"I was certain you would," she said evenly.  "That is precisely why I chose this time, and this location, so I could prove to you that I need not resort to murdering helpless servants in order to come and go as I please.  Teresa was my friend."  As she looked away, he thought she seemed a bit smaller somehow and less intimidating, almost as if the glow in her eyes might be tears.

"Then perhaps you would care to explain what you were doing with those plants," he said, setting the poker down on the hearth again.

"Something of which Don Urbino did not approve."

"That much I had managed to surmise."

"You managed to surmise a great deal more, it would appear."

Diego felt his anger beginning to glow like the hot coals at his feet, dissipating the strange feeling of stupor that had somehow left him barely breathing.  If he had jumped to some mistaken conclusions, he would be happy to stand corrected.  But why must she be so enigmatic?  "Do you have some aversion to giving direct answers to questions?" he asked in a tone as polite yet as terse as he could make it.  She parried easily.

"I gave you a direct answer about the flowers this afternoon."

All he could do was nod.  "You did."

"Forgive me," she said, her voice a little softer now as she heard the conciliatory tone in his.  "Please sit down and I will try to be as direct as I can."

He picked up the candle again and knelt down to light it.  As it caught, its soft flicker sent wavering shadows across the walls.  He placed it down in front of the mirror above the dressing table across the room to magnify its light.  Then he lit another candle from it and started to light the candles in the large wrought iron sconce by the door but changed his mind when it occurred to him that getting caught with her here wouldn’t do him any good, either.  So instead, he merely set the second candle on a small table near her chair.  Finally, closing the window curtains, he drew up the chair from his desk and sat down before the fireplace, facing her.  In this light, she looked, if not quite ordinary, then at least reassuringly tangible and familiar again as she leaned back and folded her hands in her lap—though he himself was not quite so ready to relax yet.

"Teresa was not well," she began, "and hadn’t been for years.  Over time, she found that she tired easily and could not catch her breath.  At times her heart beat wildly, and she felt pain in her chest.  At last, Urbino took her to a doctor, but the man found nothing wrong with her.  He said she was just getting old and there was nothing he could do.  When Teresa told me these things, I knew the doctor had been wrong.  I have had some medical training.  My grandmother, you see, she was a midwife, a curandera.  I offered to help, but Urbino would not hear of it.  He wouldn’t even let me try.  He said it was . . . in the hands of God.

"I knew Teresa would die if I did nothing, and so did she.  Her feet and legs had started to swell, and this is a very bad sign, as this doctor told you today.  So we agreed to go behind Urbino’s back.  I began giving her an infusion made from the leaves of this plant, and she began to improve, slowly, as I adjusted the strength to suit her.  Pobrecita."

Oreana sighed, then glanced up at him.  "Direct enough?"

Diego pressed his lips together and nodded thoughtfully at the fireplace.  By this time, he had begun to feel both relieved and rather foolish for never having considered this possibility.  "No doubt your help must have placed Teresa in an awkward situation," he said.  "She would have been torn between conflicting loyalties."  Oreana rested an elbow on the arm of the chair and pressed her knuckles against her cheek.

"I tried hard not to put her in situations that would require her to look the other way.  She considered loyalty to him her Christian duty.  And she already felt as though she had betrayed him—and the Church—by accepting my help.  But she was grateful.  She told me everything she had overheard about Señor Marigál and his activities.  She knew he and Urbino were doing something her God would not approve of."

"So her death really was unavoidable, then."

"Oh, no.  No, it was not."  Oreana closed her eyes and shook her head.  "It was just a good illustration of how careful one must be.  Different plants from different soils may be more potent, or less.  Different kitchens, different containers, different levels of heat.  This morning, we had to work quickly because we knew Urbino was waiting.  So I tried to make the infusion weak, just to be safe.  But it must not have been strong enough to provide the relief she was used to, because she drank more of it while I was gone."

"Could you have saved her, if he hadn’t intervened?  I thought I saw her start to revive."

"Perhaps.  But of course we will never know."

"What did you do to her?"

"It is a difficult thing to explain," said Oreana, biting her lip.  "It is something I learned from my aunts.  They were trained by my grandmother, you know, and they have a private school now.  In Toledo.  This is where I studied."

"They taught you Greek and Latin as well?"

"And English.  In fact, I read the work of an English doctor who, years ago, used this plant—the dedalera—to treat just such problems.  He called it ‘foxglove.’  An interesting name, don’t you think?  It means ‘guantes de zorras.’" (1)

He nodded, smiling faintly at the irony, then said, "Did you tell Urbino about these things?"

"Sí.  It did not matter."

"But why?  Why would he be so opposed to—"

"Fear."

"Fear of what?"

"The same thing that frightened you, more or less," she shrugged.  "Fear of women with too much education, too much power.  Not enough humility."

"Not enough scruples," he corrected her.

"Those traits are often associated in men’s minds," she replied.  "Perhaps you can separate them out, Diego.  You seem very careful in your judgments of others.  But many men, even fairly enlightened ones like Urbino, who are not particularly superstitious, will still tremble at the mere mention of a word like ‘witchcraft.’"

"Witchcraft . . . ."  He narrowed his eyes and frowned, studying her face, then looked away, nodding.  "That has been a frightening word."

"A word that has caused the deaths of many people."

"Is that what Urbino believes you practice?"

"That is what Señor Marigál has accused me of," she said.  "And my brother also, of course."  Then, seeing his reaction, she added, "Well, what did you think?  Apparently, Marigál has plenty of scruples.  He doesn’t just arbitrarily decide to extort money from some family.  First, he must reassure himself that his victims have done something wrong.  Heresy.  Witchcraft.  No doubt you will be accused of these things as well.  And if he has the authority of an inquisitor—"

"Then he could have people locked away almost anywhere, for as long as he likes, with the blessings of the church.  I see," Diego nodded.  "But the church does not execute people."

"No, of course not.  You would have to be handed over to the civil authorities for that.  And often they can be bribed.  But if not, there are also those who never survive the interrogation.  Believe me, Diego, if you have around here any books that the church has banned—Candide or the Confessions of Rousseau—you would be wise to hide them from Urbino."

Diego took a deep breath, thinking that this news did put her penchant for giving evasive answers into a certain perspective.  He knew that these days most priests didn’t even believe in witchcraft, considering it no more than silly superstition.  In Spain, the usual cure was not to burn a woman, but simply to lock her away in a convent.  And in Mexico no one had actually been convicted of witchcraft for, well, quite a while, despite the persistent indigenous beliefs in sorcery.

But he had read the old accounts of torture and burning—in France, Germany, and, yes, even in Spain.  Some of the details had sickened him.  And their most horrifying feature was that those who most strongly and sincerely maintained their innocence were often those most brutally tortured.  He remembered Don Guillermo’s hands all too vividly.

"But if Marigál accused you," he said finally, "why were you not locked up along with your brother?  How is it that you were left free to make deals with Urbino?"

"I can only guess," she said.  "Maybe Marigál did not think he needed me in order to keep my family from resisting, since Arturo is the youngest, and the only boy.  Maybe Urbino talked him into it, or maybe la Reina de Los Angeles is watching over me.  Maybe all of those things."

Diego didn’t doubt that Urbino feared her, though he probably didn’t want to admit the superstitious nature of his fears, even to himself.  His alliance with Marigál was no doubt based more on greed than religious zeal.  But the danger she represented may only have heightened her allure—or at least Diego could see how that was possible.  He could also see, now, that he really did owe her an apology.

"Oreana," he began.

She sat forward in her chair, smiled and shook her head.  "In your place, I would no doubt have drawn the same conclusions, she said.  Your reproach was understandable."

"But not justified."

"Justified?"  She pondered the word for a moment.  "You know, my aunts have a saying that whatever you send out, good or bad, comes back to you times three.  There is no justification, no forgiveness.  Even accidents have consequences.  This one with Teresa nearly cost me your trust.  But according to them, the price is not yet paid.  It will come back twice more to haunt me.  That is just the way things are."

"That does sound a little bit like heresy," he smiled, chiding her.

"Oh, it is," she nodded.  "But what have I to lose?  Besides, I didn’t come here just to collect an apology."  She got up then, and as she came to stand before him, he stood up also, wondering what more she wanted, not even daring to take seriously the possibility that had just entered his mind.  Then she took his arm—"Please"—and motioned toward the bed.

Inadvertently, he felt his body respond with an ache that welled up into the pit of his stomach, spreading out in all directions, weakening his knees and arms, then trickling out even through the tips of his fingers.  But his mind simply refused to believe that he had understood her correctly.  So when, at last, she pulled him over to the edge of the bed and motioned for him to sit down, he was entirely too surprised to do anything but obey her.

"Now, please take off your shirt."  She went to the dressing table and pinched out the flame of the candle he had left there.  Then she retrieved the small table and the other candle from the place beside her chair and set them both near the bed.  Then she turned back into him as he stood up and gently took her arms.

"You will—have to take that off," she said, her voice faltering as she looked up at him, and for a moment he almost thought she seemed more flustered by her own naiveté than by his touch.  Of course, he knew his masculinity could be called into serious question if he didn’t at least kiss her under these circumstances.  But he also knew that if she kissed him back, things might not end there.  And if she didn’t, he would feel unspeakably foolish.

Finally she swallowed hard and said, "your arm."

He nodded.  Then, letting her go, he sat down on the edge of the bed again and, trying not to let his fingers tremble, slowly undid the sleeves, then the front of his shirt.  Then he slid it off and laid it beside him on the bed.  Meanwhile, she turned away from him, resting her hands on either side of the table.  Then, judiciously, she lifted it again and set it down so that they were both squarely facing it.  Then she stood with her back to him, looking down at the candle, not moving at all except to breathe slowly and deeply.

When at last she turned back to him and began carefully removing the bandage, she seemed more like the woman he had seen when he first came into the room—the woman Teresa had been used to calling "Mi Reina," and clearly not altogether in jest.  Her fingers didn’t tremble at all.  Feeling even more unsettled at this transformation, he smiled and asked, "How many more times will that cut return to haunt me?"

"With luck, never again," she said, her tone gentle but oddly distant.  Then she walked over to the dressing table again, and this time he noticed, in the dim candlelight, the tea kettle she must have brought with her, sitting on an iron trivet just beside the wash basin.  She washed her hands, then took several small items from the pocket of her chemise and set them on the table by the bed.  Then she sat down beside him and bent to examine the gash.

Just as Bernardo had done, she washed his arm carefully, holding the basin precariously in her lap, but she took even more time to look closely, her touch light but firm and incredibly reassuring.  Then she took a small amber colored bottle from the table and removed its cork stopper with her teeth.  It had a sharp, pungent odor he couldn’t quite place, and it stung a little, but then felt cool as she dropped it into the open cut with the tip of a piece of cotton cloth that she then used to mop up the little bit of blood that had started to flow again.

Finally, from an unobtrusive spot near a seam in the neckline of her gown, she removed a small sewing needle threaded with black silk and held it for a moment or two in the flame, being careful not to singe the thread.  "You might think this is going to hurt," she said, "but it will not.  I have burned all the pain out of it, look there and see.  You will feel some pressure, but if you keep your eyes on the flame, that is all you will feel.  Entiendes? Mira."

Her voice sounded soft and maternal and, to his surprise, she was right.  He could feel that she was doing something, but by the time she finished, he wasn’t sure she had even started to stitch, until she bent down to bite off the thread.  "Watch the candle," she said, "we are not done yet."  Then she wove the needle carefully back into the seam of her gown.

Something about the candlelight reminded him of the sun in her hair, or the way that light sometimes glinted off the ripples on the surface of a pond in the late afternoon.  It made him feel drowsy.  "Tell me about a time you felt safe," she said.  "A time you felt nothing could hurt you."

The request sent his mind spinning off through a thousand images, and he had to admit that she probably was right about the hubris.  There weren’t that many times in his life when he hadn’t felt safe, or if not safe, exactly, then at least confident that he would be able to get out of whatever fix he happened to be in at the moment, no matter how dangerous it was.  Instead, he found himself thinking about the one most vivid time in his life when he hadn’t felt safe, the time when, for some reason he was too young to fathom, his mother had died.

They had buried her in the hills, near the same rocky bluff where his father had taken them that afternoon.  But no one had told him anything, and it had taken him many years to realize that his father had withdrawn, not from anger at him, but from grief and loneliness.  Even now, as he looked at her portrait hanging behind the chair near the door, he understood the pain more with his head than his heart.  "She died with a miscarriage," said Oreana gently, her voice bringing him back to himself.

He nodded.  "How did you know—"

"Sometimes I am not so insensitive," she said.  "When my own feelings are not blinding me.  This afternoon in the hills, I saw it on his face.  And yours.  She was a source of great strength to both of you, and safety.  Think about her."

"I don’t remember much."

"Think about sunlight on the water."

At once, the image returned to him, and he recognized it as one of his earliest memories—her sitting beneath a tree, the sunlight filtering down to play in her long dark hair as she held a book and read to him a story of heroism and high adventure, while he lay with his chin propped in his hands, watching the golden ripples on the surface of the pond.  He felt the light warming his back, his shoulders, his legs, his arms.  When his eyes finally returned to focus on Oreana, he found her standing just beside him, smiling, her right hand almost but not quite touching the spot on his arm that still seemed warmed, somehow, by sunlight.

"Now we are done," she said.  Then she took small square of cotton gauze from the table and held it over her needlework, wrapping another wider piece all the way around his arm several times, securing the end with a few careful stitches from what remained of the thread.  "Soon those stitches will have come out," she said.  "I will show Bernardo.  Oh, do not worry, I can speak sign language, and he is very bright; he understands everything.  He even reads your books, did you know?  I will also show him how to make the poultice I told you about, so the scar will fade."

Until this very moment Diego had completely forgotten that she would be gone within the next few days, and that he might never see her again.  "Gracias," he said, daring to reach up and brush a wisp of hair from her cheek.  "Oh, and, by the way, Bernardo can hear just fine."

She caught his hand, then pursed her lips and nodded thoughtfully, piecing everything together.  Then she smiled and said, "Please take care of yourself, and make sure that the man you rescued from Señor Marigál gets to tell his story to the governor."

"What will you do?" he said.  "Can you not be persuaded to ride along with us?"

"No.  I must find out where they are holding Arturo."

"And once you find out?"

"Then I will ask Urbino to keep his word.  And if he does, I will marry him."

"And if not?"

"Then I will free Arturo without his help," she said darkly.  "Oh, do not ask me how.  Like you, I can be resourceful.  I will think of something."

"You won’t kill anyone."

"Of course not," she shrugged.  "Not if I can avoid it."

Diego sighed.  By now, he knew that when he wasn’t sure how seriously to take her, he was better off taking her at her word.  And he had seen firsthand how resourceful she could be at getting past servants, at least.  As she turned to slip the small amber colored bottle back into her pocket and put the table back where it had been, he said, "Very well.  But I will try to follow you."

Oreana stopped and turned around to face him.  "Please do not do that," she said, letting the regal facade melt just a little.  "Do you have any idea what Marigál could do to you?"

Diego nodded.  "I have seen a sample of his work.  But do you think I could just let you go off to confront him alone, knowing what he might do to you?  No, Señorita, I do not think I could continue to be Zorro if I permitted myself that luxury.  It is not just a matter of living up to one’s reputation, but of satisfying one’s conscience.  Do you understand?"

"I suppose I will understand much better," she said dryly, "if you are killed because of me."

"That will not happen," he said.  "Hubris, remember?"  She looked away, trying not to smile.  Then he added, "By the way, how did you get in here?  Really."

"I told you," she shrugged.  "The same way you did."

"Then how was it that neither Crescencia nor Silvio saw you?"

Finally her smile widened.  Then the smile became a soft giggle.  "Magic," she said.

Now he knew she was teasing him.  "And I suppose you mean to get back into your room the same way?"

"That is correct," she said, looking a both impish and mysterious.  Then, in a conspiratorial tone, she added, "Would you like to watch?"

He pressed his knuckles hard into his lips to keep from laughing out loud, then nodded, though he wasn’t quite sure how funny it would be if she were caught.  And he was only more or less sure she wouldn’t be.

"Very well, put on your shirt," she said, handing it to him.  "You must not catch cold."

As he slipped into the shirt, he was surprised to find that all the soreness had left his arm, as if it had never been cut at all.  But as he flexed and then extended the muscles, she caught him by the wrist, and then began to fasten his cuff.

"Please do not tear out my stitching," she scolded him gently.  "I must say, you remind me so much of my brother."

He shook his head.  "I seem to have that effect on beautiful women."

She rolled her eyes.  Then her smile faded into something more wistful, and she studied his face for a long moment.  Finally she shrugged and said, "Are you ready?"  Then, heading toward the door, she motioned him to follow.

The air outside felt soft and cool, scented with the faint green odor of cottonwood sap and the sharp bitter smell of moist fertile earth.  As she crossed the threshold, he felt something shift, though it was as subtle as a state of mind, or a change of seasons, on a certain day when the sun slants in through the windows at just a slightly different angle.  Then he watched her walk silently, deliberately along the veranda until she came to her door, where Silvio was now asleep.  She made no sound at all as she turned the latch and stepped gingerly over the snoring man.  Then at last, with a final impish glance in Diego’s direction, she turned and shut the door behind her.