Chapter 31 · Chapter 31

The morning light broke cold over the tiled roofs of the Albaicín, casting long, sharp shadows across the stones of our courtyard. Inside the lower chamber, the air smelled faintly of elderberry syrup and dried hyssop, clean scents from earthenware jars that bore no ink, no labels, and no script that a suspicious magistrate could seize upon.

Yet guilt in this city did not require evidence; it required only an accusation spoken before the crown's officer.

From the narrow upper casement of the house, where the wooden lattice shielded my face from the street, the sound of iron-shod boots echoed against the steep stones of the alley. It was not the casual gait of a water-carrier or an olive merchant.

A bailiff of the royal court climbed the hill, flanked by two guards in boiled leather and carrying the heavy oak staff of his authority. In his left hand, clamped under his arm, rested a sheaf of stiff paper sealed with red wax.

Beside him walked Don Cristóbal’s clerk, a thin man whose eyes darted along the carved doorframes of our lane.