Isabel was embroidering when her husband entered the sewing room. He gesticulated to make his presence felt, but Isabel pretended not to notice him. She couldn’t go on pretending when his voice, deliberately obsequious, unbearably hypocritical, issued an invitation: “I hope you will honor us with your presence tonight.”

Isabel’s fingers tightened around the embroidery frame. Leonardo went on, “Because I suppose you must be aware by now that I am giving a party in my house this evening.”

Well might Isabel have replied to that “my house,” so possessive, so inaccurate. But a spasm of anger made her throat contract.

“By the way, I’ve been wanting to thank you for all the trouble you’ve taken. I have no doubt that thanks to you the dance will be a great success.”

Isabel had let her chance to demand an apology escape. Now she would have to defend herself, prove she hadn’t been shirking her duties as the lady of the house. Heatedly, she attempted an excuse, “You didn’t need me. Doña Mercedes is here.”

She pronounced that hated name with the childish resentment of a woman who sees her place usurped by another.

“It doesn’t matter to you whether I have someone to take over for you or not. It’s your obligation as the lady of this house. . . .”

“As the lady of this house I am not obliged to throw parties for your querida!”

It was the first time that word—querida—had defiled Isabel’s lips. All of Leonardo’s other diversions were so fleeting that they didn’t deserve the title. And now that Isabel gave it to La Alazana, she did so with a tremor, knowing she was transforming a hazy and ambiguous intuition into an established fact.

“You, Isabel? Jealous!”

Cifuentes registered it with incredulity, not because the irreproachability of his conduct made it absurd but because his wife’s age made it ridiculous. But Isabel didn’t grasp that nuance in his tone; she was listening only to the meaning of his words. And, overly anxious to allow herself to be convinced to the contrary, she hazarded, “As if you hadn’t given me reason enough to keep a sharp eye on you. . . .”

“Yes, I’ve given you reasons. That’s why I find it strange that now that you have no reason. . . .”

“Are you going to deny what I’ve seen with my own eyes? You’ve got your head in the clouds and you’re drinking the wind over the famous Alazana.”

The trace of spite in the nickname sent Leonardo beside himself with rage. He grabbed away the embroidery frame Isabel was shielding herself with.

“La Alazana, as servant girls and common people in the streets call her, has a name: Doña Julia Acevedo. And she is the wife of a respectable man, a friend of mine, whom I would be incapable of insulting.”