We got up at seven and, after dropping López off at my parents’ house, drove to Robledondo wearing jeans, our wedding clothes hanging from the straps above the rear windows and with a trunkload of food. I’d hardly slept all night, and dozed the whole way. Beatriz welcomed us with coffee, and we were in the garden before 10 a.m., hoping that the evening sun would later add an afterglow to the chalky clouds. It wasn’t forecast to be cold; the winter had been warm, even in the sierra, and there were tables inside for those who felt the chill. By eleven, when we were dressing in silence, it was hot. Looking in the mirror, I felt a sudden, urgent need to go to the beauty salon to get my hair done: I’d never in my life been to a beauty salon. I asked Beatriz to be my stylist.

“How do you want it?”

“Whatever, but brush it for a while first. Will you do my makeup too?”