“If Angélica is as harmless as you say, then how do you explain that I found a snake in my room—the same kind she keeps as a pet?”

Martin’s face paled. “It could be a coincidence. There are a lot of snakes in this area.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences.”

Martin paced the kitchen, absorbed in thought, hopefully trying to make connections that would shed some light into my predicament.

“I just can’t imagine any of Don Armand’s children doing something like that. There has to be another answer.”

I stared at my empty glass. “What about my father’s other daughter?”

“Another daughter?”

“Elisa,” I said. “Apparently, she used to live here but Doña Gloria sent her away when she found out she was her husband’s child with one of the maids.”

“I’ve never heard of her. Elisa, you say?”

“Yes.” This time, I added aguardiente to my own glass. “What if she’s in town? What if she’s the woman Soledad Duarte mentioned?”

“I haven’t seen anybody new in town. And I spend a lot of time there.”

“Then who is the woman who hired Franco to kill me?”

Martin didn’t have an answer.

I was about to mention what I’d discovered about Alberto, too, but didn’t. I’d promised Mayra I wouldn’t say who the father of her baby was and there was no reason to betray her.

“I’d better go,” I said. “Are you going to tell my sisters who I really am?”

“No, but they’re bound to find out sooner or later.”

“I know that, but I need a little more time. I believe that if I come out as Puri, my life would be in danger. The person who sent Franco aboard the Andes may still be here, and perhaps closer than we think.”

I didn’t know how to read his silence. It lingered on me all the way to my father’s house. What was Martin going to do with all the information I’d given him? Moreover, why had he given me that inscrutable look?

CHAPTER 28 - Angélica

CHAPTER 28

Angélica

Vinces, 1913

“Laurent needs one last push,” my mother said, mashing green plantains for tigrillo. “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

Once again, my mother and I were talking about my ongoing problem with Laurent: the fact that he hadn’t proposed. I knew it bothered my father, too—he questioned me every time the Frenchman visited.

“You haven’t proven to him yet that you would be a good wife,” she said.

Her comment irked me, though I didn’t know exactly why. Then again, almost everything my mother said had that effect on me. I sighed in resignation.

Grabbing a basket, I set out for the orchard in search of ingredients for dulce de guayaba, the only dessert I was good at.