Paxón winces at the word, but he does not deny it. “Lord Jorán has expressed doubts about going through with the wedding. He fears God’s wrath. Thus far Isodel remains untouched, but if it is some kind of blight, it is bound to spread. Besides that, all these extra guests have depleted our stores, which we expected to replenish with early crops. Fights have broken out between Lord Jorán’s soldiers and my own. And then . . .” He pauses, runs a hand through his hair.

I exchange a worried look with Zito. “And then?” I say.

“There is Espiritu,” he says.

“Espiritu?” Elisa asks. “What is that?”

“He appeared about a month ago,” Paxón says. “They call him Espiritu for the way he slips into sheep pens and chicken coops and melts away with his prey. He makes no sound, leaves no mark save for an occasional drop of blood or a scattering of feathers. But they hear him in the night, screaming at the moon in rage and heartbreak. Our soldiers have searched the hills for him, but they find only empty cottages, marked with signs of blood and violence.”

“A jaguar, maybe?” Elisa says. “Man-eaters are rare, but not unknown. There was a pair that worked together, terrorizing the northern holdings for several years before they were hunted down and killed.”

“How do you know about the shadow cats, Your Highness?” says Paxón, and I don’t appreciate the mockery in his tone. “Have you hunted them yourself?”

“I . . . I’ve read about them. I read a lot.”

“Then let me tell you some things that you will not find in books. Our seamstress was working just the other night, sewing a flounce onto Lady Calla’s wedding terno by candlelight. Espiritu screamed, sending shivers through her heart. When she awoke in the morning, she discovered the flounce’s seam had gone crooked, the stitches slipped, as if even the terno could not bear Espiritu’s jagged grief.”

“Well, perhaps she should not sew by candlelight,” Elisa says. But my skin prickles.

Paxón continues, undeterred. “And two nights ago, when the ostler was oiling the tack for my mount, the one I’ll ride in the wedding procession, the great cat screamed again and panicked the horses. It took half the night to soothe them. In the morning, the ostler discovered that rats had fouled the last of the oats and the barrel of apples had gone to rot.”

“How can the cry of a great cat do that?” Elisa says. “It is more likely caused by the same thing that poisoned your fields.”

I wince. Elisa possesses all the subtlety of a cudgel. “My dear sister,” I say. “Let us respect their wisdom in these matters. Perhaps Espiritu is the instrument of God’s judgment.”