“The defender of lost causes . . . ,” said Alicia.

“He was never able to save them, of course. Martín was murdered by order of Valls, or so they said. Mataix was never heard of again. His death is still a mystery. And as for Isabella, with whom poor Brians had fallen in love, as did everyone who met her, she had preceded them, also in extremely suspicious circumstances. Brians never got back on his feet again after all that. He’s a good man, but he’s frightened, and anyhow, there’s nothing he can do, either.”

“Do you think Mataix is still there?”

“In the castle? I hope God isn’t that cruel.”

Alicia nodded, trying to take it all in.

“And you?” asked Vilajuana. “What do you plan to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you just going to sit there and do nothing, after hearing all this?”

“My hands are as tied as those of Brians. Or perhaps even more.”

“How convenient.”

“With all due respect, you don’t know anything about me.”

“Then tell me. Help me complete the story. Tell me what I can do.”

“Do you have a family, Vilajuana?”

“A wife and four children.”

“And you love them?”

“More than anything in the world. Why are you asking me?”

“Do you want me to tell you what you must do? Really?”

Vilajuana nodded.

“Finish writing your speech. Forget about Mataix. About Martín. About Valls and everything you’ve told me. And forget about me. I was never here.”

“That wasn’t the deal,” Vilajuana protested. “You’ve tricked me.”

“Welcome to the club,” said Alicia, walking out.

2

Not long after leaving the Real Academia and stepping out of Palacio Recasens, Alicia was turning the corner into a narrow street when she had to stop to throw up. She held on to the cold stone wall and closed her eyes, tasting the bile on her lips. She tried to take a deep breath and restrain herself, but nausea hit again and she almost fell to her knees.

If she didn’t fall, it was because someone held her up. When she turned around, she was confronted with the obliging face of Rovira, the apprentice spy, who looked at her with deep concern.

“Are you all right, Señorita Gris?”

She tried to recover her breath. “What on earth are you doing here, Rovira?”

“Well . . . I saw you wobbling from afar and . . . I’m sorry.”

“I’m fine. Go away.”

“You’re crying, miss.”

“Clear off, you idiot,” she lashed out, raising her voice and pushing him away with both hands.

Rovira shrugged and hurried off, looking wounded. Alicia leaned against the wall. She dried her tears with her hands and, pressing her lips together angrily, set off again.

On her way home she found a street vendor and bought some eucalyptus sweets from him to drive the acid taste from her mouth. Then she started slowly up the stairs. When she reached the door to her apartment, she heard voices inside. Perhaps Fernandito had come by for new instructions, she thought, or to report on his mission. Perhaps he’d patched things up with Vargas.