Abuelo, ever the gentleman, even when he was only an illusion, took her hand and pressed his lips to it, despite that she’d clearly meant to shake instead. “Ah, my granddaughter’s new friend. Es un placer conocerle.”

Drake shook himself and stepped forward. “Abuelo. What are you—why are you . . . ?”

Abuelo’s eyes could sparkle with the best of them. “Rarely have I seen you unable to frame the right question, Dragón.” Then his too-dark brows lifted toward his white hair. “Is this how you greet your abuelo?”

“Lo siento.” Apology muttered, Drake moved forward to embrace him. “You look well.”

“As do you, which is a great relief to me.” Now he narrowed his eyes, rebuke in his gaze, and motioned with a hand.

Only then did Drake notice that Eneko stood in the corner, clutching a hat, which he now held out.

Not just a hat. Drake’s hat. He took it, knowing he looked as dazed as he felt. “How did you get this?” It ought still to be tumbling through the Spanish countryside. Or on the head of a farmer who laughed over his find.

“The better question, Dragón, is how did you lose it?” Abuelo moved to the rickety chair behind the landlord’s scratched desk and sat in it with the same grace and authority he used when taking his own seat in Bilbao. Steepling his fingers, he narrowed his eyes still more. “Imagine my concern when the policía knocked on my door two weeks ago, your favorite hat in their hands, saying they discovered it at a suspected murder scene in Madrid and traced the label to the haberdasher you favor there. He so very helpfully checked the number he’d put on the tag against his books and gave them your name. Imagine my concern, Dragón, when they said they were not certain whether it belonged to the victim or the culprit, but that you were a person of interest in this crime.”

Drake groped for support—a chair back, a shelf, something to keep him upright. Instead he found Margot’s hand in his. Which anchored him far better than furniture could anyway. “I beg your pardon?”