The blaze of light from the courtyard exploded against a head of hair that was unbraided and as red as the flame from the ocote pine torches. Idolina saw this and along with it a face that was flushed and disconcerted by the violence that had just taken place.

The intruder stood up. When she saw that the other woman did not, she asked in perplexity, “Why don’t you get up?”

“She is sick,” the Indian woman interjected.

The intruder appeared to ponder this answer. She let out a brief laugh.

“So you’re Leonardo Cifuentes’ famous daughter.”

Idolina was struggling to stand up, aided by the nana. She replied, “Leonardo Cifuentes is not my father.”

The intruder stood next to the other two women now. She pulled Idolina over to the window in order to scrutinize her, following the outline of her face with the tip of one of her fingers.

“You don’t look like him.”

Idolina pulled sharply away from the touch.

“And yet,” the intruder added, “he worries a lot about you, about your health.”

Teresa whispered in the girl’s ear, pleading with her to let them leave. But Idolina did not listen, studying the beauty and aplomb of this woman. In some part of herself she was still struggling against the overpowering influence she was giving in to. The marimba rang out in the distance.

“When he finds out you are well, Leonardo will be very glad.”

The nana tried to catch Idolina’s eye. But Idolina was saying ! to the intruder, “I am in your hands.”

The effort it cost her to acknowledge this truth made the blood I flood into her face. Then Idolina suddenly frowned severely.

“Why did you come in here?” she asked.

The intruder made a vague gesture as if to say the answer was obvious.

“I was going to the powder room; I don’t know this house and I got lost.”

Something in that voice always left a glimmer of doubt. Something that sounded of too much deliberation, too great a coincidence. A voice that was incapable of complete deception but was even less capable of being completely sincere. And the self-control in the words the intruder spoke when she came in, when she sensed another presence in the darkness, was feigned; she hadn’t completely contained the quivering that comes over a person who suddenly feels she has fallen into a trap. Idolina understood this. But now that lucidity was intolerable to her. She didn’t want to draw a conclusion from the evidence, only to stick to the literal meaning of the sentences.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Julia Acevedo.”

She had forgotten to add her married name. She lowered her eyes and said with an almost imperceptible trace of disgust, “Why are you barefoot?”

Idolina tried to hide her feet under the hem of her nightgown.

“They don’t buy shoes for me because they think I can’t walk.”