“He’s having some sort of fit,” Evelina wailed. “First blotches, then fits. Why can’t you be normal?”

She shook him by the shoulder and dug her nails into his flesh. No response. He was gasping, as though he was finding it difficult to breathe, and watching the invisible birds, not paying any attention to her. Not getting her with child.

“You’re a freak!” Evelina cried. “As bad as your brother, even if you don’t have the legs of a lizard.”

She punched him a couple of times and then sat back on her heels and stared at him. She didn’t know what to do. He was growing worse. He began to thrash about. Men died of fits like this.

And if he died, what would become of her?

“I should get help!”

Evelina feverishly threw on some clothes and, flinging open the door, she ran out into the night—straight into the arms of Jorge.

“I heard a cry,” he said, and his voice was calm and his arms were strong and comforting.

Quivering, Evelina pressed against him.

“The prince,” she gasped, “He’s . . . there’s something wrong . . . he’s having a fit. . . the wine ... I have to find the patriarch—”

“No, you do not,” said Jorge. “You found me. Come back inside. Keep quiet.”

“You don’t understand! He might die!” Evelina struggled to free herself.

“You are the one who doesn’t understand,” said Jorge coolly, his grip on her firm. “If His Highness dies, they’ll discover that you put the wormwood in his wine.”

Evelina went cold all over. “Poison! They’ll think I poisoned him! They’ll hang me!”

She felt faint. Jorge put his arm around her and half-carried her back into the house. Shutting the door, he bolted it.

“Maybe someone else saw me go to the Widow’s . . .” she whimpered.

“Only me,” he said, reassuring.

She looked over at Marcus.

“Oh, Holy Mother of God!” Evelina whispered, shrinking back against the wall. “He’s dead!”

Marcus’s head lolled on the pillow. His arms hung over the sides of the mattress, hands dangling limply.

Jorge knelt swiftly beside the prince and felt for a pulse. He put his head close to Marcus’s open mouth. He examined the blotches on his body and then looked at Evelina and smiled.

“What?” she asked, shivering so that her teeth chattered. She could already feel the noose closing around her neck.

“He is not dead,” said Jorge. “He is breathing easily. His pulse is strong. The blotches are already starting to fade. They will probably be gone by morning. He is asleep.”

Evelina heaved a shuddering sigh and closed her eyes.

“Thank you, God!” she breathed. “Thank you!”

“He’s very deep in sleep,” Jorge added. “I doubt if a cannon shot would waken him.”

Evelina opened her eyes. She heard Huspeth’s words, You must lie with him this night.

With him. With some man.