The Familiar

by Leigh Bardugo

Lucrecia de León had dreams of the future, the disgraced prophet Piedrola claimed he spoke to angels, and the Mendozas were said to have a holy sage in their employ who could move objects with his mind. Of course,

“What is it the poets say? God gave women beauty to tempt man and speech to drive him mad.”

She hoped that Marius was right, that it wasn’t beauty life required, but will.

“Correct. There are certain places your miracles must not go. Resurrection, transformation. Only God in His glory can turn one thing into another.”

“Take it up with the Inquisition. Illusions belong to the devil. Miracles belong to God.”

Language creates possibility. Sometimes by being used. Sometimes by being kept secret.

These were the ways women entered the body, through the kitchen, through the nursery, their hands in your bed, your clothes, your hair. There was danger in such trust, and a wise man learned to respect the women who tended to his home and heirs.

“Fear men, Luzia,” he said. “Fear their ambition and the crimes they commit in its service. But don’t fear magic or what you may do with it.”

was wrong when I told you to fear men and their ambition,” he murmured in her ear. “Fear nothing, Luzia Cotado, and you will become greater than them all. Now sing for me.”

“Santángel is not a man. He doesn’t care for women or men or anything at all besides his books.” Santángel’s face remained impassive. “A book may disappoint, but it is far easier to be rid of.”

Perhaps they should have cut her hair that day. If Valentina had picked up the razor, or Hualit the shears, if Luzia had bent her head to their ministrations, maybe more than one of them would have returned to the shabby house on Calle de Dos Santos and lived to tell this story.

“In another life, in another world, I would be called a familiar. My gifts are not my own. They exist only to serve others. People fear me because I want them to, because their fear makes my life easier.”

“No language,” she snapped in frustration. “Every language.”

“Then the mistake is mine. It would be a foolish thing to suggest, after all. Say only that if this guard was the kind of coward who sets traps for young women rather than sullying his own hands with blood, he met the end he should. Say it will be whispered that to act against Luzia Calderón Cotado is to court death itself. Say this tragedy may be for us a happy accident.”

Something new had been born between them, something with a shape she couldn’t quite determine. Álvaro’s death, the pomegranate, now the scorpion, each moment taking on its own alchemy. But was she changing, or was Santángel?

“Thank you, señor. Your rudeness is a mighty shield.”

“Since that day I have been bound to Tello de Paredes and all of his descendants. My luck is theirs. I live, I do not age, but I am bound to them forever. And if I spend a night away from them, I will burn away to ash when morning comes.”

“Then kiss me again, Santángel,” she said. “It was too late for us before we ever met.”

Faith could be won. Curses could be broken.

peered at

chose to keep performing my milagritos, the same way I chose to show your patron my power when you ambushed me at your home. So let’s say that I jumped and you pushed. Do you know what I intended that day? I had my basketful of food and I thought the Inquisition was at my heels. I was going to run.”

“You must give up what you value most to break the curse. How can that work when it’s freedom you prize most highly?” “It was, Luzia. For a very long time. But curses are cruel.”

Maybe she had, but she could see the love and fear in Santángel’s eyes. He wasn’t afraid for himself, but for the woman he loved. Demon he might be but he was trying to save her.

“You’re right. I’m stupid and sentimental. When we wed I was a foolish girl who hoped to love you. I grew into a foolish woman who hoped to please you. And now, well, I suppose I’m still a foolish woman who only hopes to be rid of you. Go away, Marius.”

“People forget the work it takes to make wine. They drink it down and wonder why the cup is empty.”

Why had she wasted time doubting him? He was a killer. He was a liar. He was not a good man. But it was possible she didn’t want a good man.

There are different kinds of suffering, Valentina thought. The kind that takes you by surprise and the kind you live with so long, you stop noticing it.

They did not age. They did not change. They traveled the world a thousand times over. They may be traveling still.

He kisses her fingers, and combs her hair, and he treasures her, as only a man who has lost his luck and found it once more ever can.