I couldn’t believe it—they’d never tried chocolate.

“I have,” Laurent said. “My country practically invented chocolate.”

“Actually,” I said, “it was the Spanish who brought chocolate to Europe from the American continent, and we were the first ones to add milk and sugar to it.”

“Don Cristóbal is right,” Martin said. Of course, anything to contradict Laurent.

Ramona let out a loud screech, her body bouncing up and down.

“Ramona! What’s happened to you?” Angélica was back, nestling some seeds in her hand. She removed the cloth from the bird’s head. Ramona puffed, exposing the yellow plumage under her wings, and went on a tirade of indecipherable insults. “You’re not funny, Alberto. Honestly, I don’t know how people confess their sins to you,” Angélica said.

“Well, they do. Happily,” he said. “In fact, you should, too.”

“Thank you.” Angélica took her seat and calmed her bird with the seeds. “But I’m perfectly content with Father Telmo.”

“That’s because he falls asleep while you talk.”

“Alberto!” Catalina said. “Enough blasphemy, please. What is Don Cristóbal going to think? That we mock our faith?”

I didn’t know what to think of them, honestly. I forced myself to finish my coffee—it was so bitter in comparison to my cocoa.

After dinner, my sisters played their instruments. They made a great duet: Angélica with the harp and Catalina with the violin. It was obvious that they’d had formal musical training. Had my father sent for me years ago, I might have had my own instructor and could have become a proficient performer, too—I loved music so.

I refrained from humming or swaying, though I was moved by the beautiful sounds coming from my sisters’ dextrous fingers. I wished I could accompany them with my singing, but it would be disastrous if I did. For one, I had no ability as a tenor or a baritone, so my singing would be an obvious giveaway. Then there was the fact that I’d become insecure about my voice ever since Cristóbal and La Cordobesa had gotten into the habit of shoving cotton balls into their ears every time I sang. The nerve of those two! I knew I wasn’t La Caramba or one of those legendary zarzuela singers, but I liked to think I had some flair when I sang, which I did often, usually when roasting cacao beans at the shop. I sighed. How I missed my old life. But it was gone for good.

“Don Cristóbal?” Martin’s voice interrupted my thoughts.

My sisters were done performing and stared at me expectantly.

“Yes?” I said.

“I was asking if you’d like to join me and Alberto for a drink in town?”