“I’m predictable.” Smiling, he handed over bills and coin enough when the proprietor told him the total, exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then slid out the door.

Spices and greetings tinged the air as he strolled the ten minutes to Abuelo’s proud house. Drake called out “Buenas tardes” to all his neighbors, juggling his books time and again to wave or shake a hand.

He knew well that most of these neighbors thought he’d moved in with Abuelo solely to avoid serving in the war. No doubt a few of them looked down on him for it. That had taken a bit of teeth-clenching and spine-straightening to get over when first Hall and Thoroton positioned him here, but at this point he generally believed himself when he recited the refrain that no one else’s opinion mattered.

They didn’t, not ultimately. He knew he was serving his country. It didn’t require the daily wearing of a uniform or a medal or being praised as a hero to know he was doing what he ought.

Still. To be thought a coward . . . that had required a bit of thickening of his skin, to be sure.

He let himself in through the centuries-old wooden door, three inches thick, and closed it behind him with nary a creak. When one spent as many hours at home as did his abuelo, one had ample time to ensure that every hinge, latch, and seal was in perfect order.

“Dragón.”

Drake’s feet had been aimed toward the central marble staircase, but he redirected them toward Abuelo’s study, to the right of the entryway, and stepped through the open door with a smile. “Buenas tardes, Abuelo.”

His grandfather motioned him in with a wave of his hand, his attention still latched upon the papers currently on his massive desk. “You had a pleasant meal with your English friend?”

“Sí. Charles is always pleasant company. Poetry, the news, mutual acquaintances—always plenty to talk about.” And even more not to talk about. Drake shifted his stack of books to his other arm.

Abuelo penned something onto the paper in his impeccably elegant script and finally looked up. He was the very figure of style—dark jacket cut to fit him perfectly, snow-white shirt beneath, perfectly matching his hair, a tie in a shade of deep red that set off his brows, still shockingly dark. Drake couldn’t recall ever seeing him out of his bedroom in anything less than formal dress. Some might find it odd, given that he never went out to show it off. But plenty of people paraded into this room throughout the day: business associates, servants, priests, neighbors. The world of Francisco Mendoza de Haro was full and colorful, and larger than one might think, given the walls he chose to keep around himself.