“Please come inside.” She picked up a white fan from the table and opened it in one swift move, like a flamenco dancer. I couldn’t help but picture my mother in her polka-dot skirt when she danced: her serious demeanor, her proud pose, the precision of her steps and the elegance of her hands. Flamenco had been her biggest passion, but she’d only danced in the privacy of our parlor; she’d always been so careful to hide her drops of sangre gitana.

The cockatoo adjusted its gray feet on my sister’s shoulder as we entered the house.

She was very feminine and graceful, this sister of mine. The sway of her hips as she entered the hacienda held the complete attention of both Aquilino and Martin. Even I was staring, and I was a woman!

Inside, she removed her hat and set the bird on top of a cage. Angélica had her hair in a bob, very chic. As I faced my late father’s oversized portrait in the foyer, I noticed how similar Angélica’s complexion and coloring was to his.

The mosaic tile carried on to the foyer, but the walls inside were powder blue. Behind another column was a spiral staircase and a crystal chandelier hung above our heads.

A tall man was descending the staircase.

“Perfect timing, cher,” Angélica told him. “Come meet María Purificación’s husband, Don Cristóbal de Balboa.”

When she said my name, it sounded as if she knew me well, as if she and I had grown up together, and the family talked about me often. There had been no awkwardness in her tone. It was somewhat touching, but I couldn’t let my guard down. As far as I was concerned, someone in this house wanted me dead.

“Don Cristóbal, this is my husband, Laurent Dupret.”

A Frenchman. I’d known beforehand that many Europeans had made their way to this remote corner of the world, but it still jarred me to find them here, looking so polished and radiant.

He wore a striped gray suit, a checkered tie, and a carefully folded handkerchief that strategically escaped his front pocket. He looked like he’d just shaved even though it was the middle of the afternoon.

“Enchanted,” Laurent said, extending his hand to mine.

He had long arms and fingers that appeared to be made out of elastic rather than flesh and bone. His handshake was significantly softer than Martin’s, but Laurent was manly, attractive, and had it not been for my disguise, I would’ve sworn his eyes scanned me with flirtation. There was something unsettling about him and I feared, more so than earlier, that he could see my true self beneath Cristóbal’s spectacles. But if he noticed something, he didn’t say.