“He shamed himself,” I whisper back. “But I don’t care about him. Unless he is the reason everyone seems so anxious? Or is it the blight on the land that has the castle on edge?”

“Maybe His Grace will tell us.”

“His Grace will tell you what?” We turn at the sound of the conde’s voice. He has edged closer to us, using his cane for support.

Zito says, “I observed that your father-in-law seems tense and unhappy, and Her Highness asked me why this might be.”

“It’s a complicated situation,” Paxón says.

The mayordomo leads us all to a mahogany table with matching chairs that creak their age as we sit.

Paxón asks the mayordomo to fetch refreshments. He stretches out his bad leg, then takes a deep breath and says, “This wedding was intended as a bold stroke, princess, a way of strengthening my countship’s border. With the Perditos to the south and the Inviernos to the east both growing audacious, I hoped to acquire a strong ally in the Hinders. I had also hoped . . .” His face turns sheepish. “That such a bold move would gain the attention and interest of your father. I want him to understand that we continue to take our duty of guarding Orovalle’s border quite seriously.”

A surge of triumph fills me, but I tamp it down. Such a gesture will require something in return from the crown, something to assure Paxón that he remains a valued vassal. One thing is certain: I will see this wedding done. It fits so neatly into my plans to shore up the region in preparation for my own reign.

The conde has fallen silent and thoughtful. “But?” I prompt.

“But . . . ever since Lady Calla and her family have arrived here, so that we might get to know one another before we wed, we have been cursed. We have lost God’s favor.”

I try not to gape at him. “Strong words. The Scriptura Sancta says, ‘It is not for man to know the intent of God.’” I glance over at Elisa to see if she notices my thinly veiled message, but if she does, she hides it well.

“And yet the signs are there,” the conde says. “We’ve plowed our fields and planted our seeds, but nothing sprouts. The trees refuse to blossom.”

Elisa leans forward. “Many things affect the arrival of God’s bounty,” she says. “Rain, cold, and so on.”

Paxón shakes his head. “We have been touched by neither late frost nor early drought. Indeed, the weather this year has been just short of perfect. But nothing grows. Almost everything that sustains this castle comes from within a league of its walls, but everything within a league is dead, save for the wild, uncultivated jungle that abuts our southern wall.”

“It does seem unnatural,” I concede.