Chapter 3
THREE
Mayté
The de León hacienda may have been the most lavish in all of Milagro with sprawling acres of lush land, hallways lined with painted portraits of family ancestors, chambers furnished with glittering treasures from around the world, and larger-than-life suites for each of the de León girls.
But an uncomfortable tension always clouded the air.
A five-minute visit had the same effect on Mayté’s body as if she had spent five hours hunched over a canvas.
She always left drained and in need of a stretch. Especially when Lo’s father was around. Always scowling, voice booming through the halls. As a child, Mayté was terrified of him. As much as she hated to admit it, she still kind of was …
Even after Mayté’s family moved to an area full of crime and squalor, Lo still insisted on visiting their tiny shack instead of staying comfortable in her own palace of a home. More and more Mayté understood why.
Lo pressed against a pillar and peeked outside—cautious and swift like a mouse. She shouldn’t have had to be a mouse in her own home, Mayté thought as she peeked out too.
Not a soul in sight. Lo grabbed her hand. “Hurry.”
The two hustled through the huge paradise of a garden.
Past the fountain and tall palms, between the potted dahlias and perfectly trimmed bushes.
Lo must have had this escape route memorized.
The gate was not too far off now. Leafy vines slithered down the orange walls lining the perimeter.
Lo yanked Mayté behind a tall bush. Her golden-brown eyes bulged, and she smashed a finger to her lips.
What? Mayté mouthed.
Giggles filled the air as Lo’s sister walked down the path.
Little Sofía skipped around Serafina, who was carrying a stack of work booklets.
The de Leóns all had the same smooth and beautiful faces the color of faded terra-cotta.
It was the kind of skin that turned bronzy from the summer sun and faded to the color of pale sand during the gray winter.
“That’s enough!” Serafina snatched Sofía’s hand. “We must finish our studies before dinner. No more goofing off.”
“Hmph.” Sofía pouted. Dark brown curls sprayed out from her bun like little horns, and her chubby cheeks bounced with every stomping step.
Once they were out of earshot, Lo sighed and fell against the bush. The thick leaves kept her upright. “I didn’t want them to see us and have to lie for me,” she whispered.
Mayté remembered how Lo always used to have to lie for her mother. Lo had never liked doing it.
“Come on,” Lo said. “Let’s get out of here.”
Centro Street was packed. Even busier than the mercado.
A mob of bodies blocked the storefronts.
Not even those on horseback or in carriages could get through.
The flood of colorful dresses and ponchos reminded Mayté of an abstract painting.
Several guards half-heartedly tried to keep everyone under control, but they seemed just as curious as everyone else.
As Mayté navigated the crowd, she couldn’t ignore the way people stared.
Heat crept up her neck. Whispers filled the air, buzzing fast like a swarm of wasps.
She should have been used to it. Ever since her family was expelled from Las Cinco, they had become a fodder for gossips, and the whispers only intensified whenever she was spotted with Lo.
Lo stared straight ahead, seemingly oblivious. At moments like this, Mayté could never tell what she was thinking.
She stood on her tiptoes to try to catch a glimpse of something, anything, past the sea of hats and heads.
Finally, she saw it. A building, standing in the distance.
The shape reminded her of a circus tent with a pointed tip spreading down into a dome.
But she had never seen a circus tent this grand.
It dwarfed the rest of the surrounding buildings, not only in size, but with its bright colors—pure blue, crimson, and amber swirling into flowery Talavera patterns.
Just like the painted ceramics sold at the street mercado.
“That must be it,” Lo breathed.
Nothing that their childish imaginations could have conjured would have been as magical as this.
It made their fantasies about golden castles with rooftops formed of clouds and starlight feel mundane in comparison.
Beautiful yet baffling. To think it appeared in a snap, overnight.
Not even ten thousand workers could have built it in that time.
It was magic, plain and simple, and not the kind tied to potions or prayers.
The sky around it seemed to shimmer as if encantos leaked out from the inside.
Orchids and passionflowers bloomed on the nearby trees, dreamy and bright.
Had they always been there? The grandeur of it all made her forget.
“It’s amazing!” Lo clung to Mayté’s shoulder. “I wish we could see more.”
“We’ll just have to push our way through.” They had come this far; Mayté wasn’t going to let anything stop her. They managed to squeeze in closer, but the crowd grew even thicker. Someone elbowed Mayté in the ribs, and she almost tripped over someone else’s foot.
“Lorena, over here!”
Mayté’s insides prickled.
A teenage boy pushed through a gap in the crowd. His crisp morning suit marked him as a young noble. Likely one of Lo’s many suitors. Then another popped out. And another and another until five noble boys appeared.
“Oh! It’s Lorena.”
“What a sight you are today.”
“You look beautiful.”
“I’m so happy to see you.”
All of them appeared so handsome and hopeful.
Their faces were like a patchwork quilt of browns: some rich and earthy, others lighter shades of tan.
Each one wore fanciful cravats—colorful silk neckerchiefs—like a flock of strutting peacocks.
All of them spoke over each other, as if being the loudest would make the other suitors somehow disappear.
Ha! If that was the case, Mayté would have screamed at the top of her lungs.
“How wonderful,” Lo grumbled, then took a deep breath. She batted her eyes and her downturned mouth softened. “I ran straight here from a gown fitting. Do you like it, by the way?” She gave them a twirl.
With a single spin, Lorena de León could bring the world to its knees. The boys clapped and cooed, unbothered by the way everyone stared at them. They would make spectacles of themselves if it meant winning Lo’s favor.
“Magnífica.”
“You look just like an angel.”
“You are the most beautiful girl in all of San Solera!”
Lo put her hands on her cheeks and looked bashful. “How sweet. Thank you!”
Mayté hadn’t realized she was grinding her teeth until her jaw ached.
She loved Lo, she really did, but moments like this made it difficult.
Mayté felt invisible watching this spectacle unfold.
It wasn’t that the boys refused to look at her; no, they looked through her.
She was nothing to them. It was a fact she should have been used to.
Everyone she grew up with stopped acknowledging her existence the moment her father’s scandal came to light.
She still remembered the day she told Lo and the other girls about what happened.
Her skin still chilled at the memory of the way everyone but Lo stopped looking her in the eye from that point on.
She should have been numb to it.
But it still burned.
Mayté never received any love letters or requests to be escorted home by a chivalrous fellow.
No boys approached her father asking permission to court her.
None looked at her with half as much adoration as the suitors staring at Lo.
Surely it was due to her family’s fall from grace.
No one wanted to get dragged down with her.
But at moments like this, she wondered if there was more to it than that.
It was all horribly pathetic. Mayté reached for her rebozo, seeking its comfort, but it was missing from her shoulders. She had forgotten to grab it at Lo’s hacienda. Damn it, Lo.
But as quickly as anger and resentment swelled up, guilt chased them away.
None of this was Lo’s fault. So, as always when these feelings came to the surface, Mayté covered them.
She layered other emotions over her upset, like paint on a canvas—defiance, anger, but also hope. Fortune’s Kiss would fix all of this.
A gleaming white carriage led by an even whiter horse careened through the crowd.
Mayté stumbled back along with the rest of the suitors as the carriage narrowly missed them.
She caught a glimpse of the pair in the back seat.
A teenage girl shaded her milky complexion and wheat-colored hair with a parasol.
Next to her was a boy, leaning out the side of the carriage and laughing.
His pointy chin and nose were a much healthier tan, his hair the color of burnt wheat.
“Montoyas,” a suitor growled.
“Damn el orden antiguo,” another spat.
Mayté could never forget how everyone in her former social circle despised el orden antiguo. It was perhaps the only thing everyone could agree on. Those families, who mostly descended from Hispana, much preferred how life had been when their king governed San Solera from his throne overseas.
The Montoyas were perhaps the most infamous of La Orden, proudly claiming to be direct descendants of the cruelest of conquistadors. They siphoned resources from Milagro, earning the nickname Los Vampiros.
“They best not be considering gambling in Fortune’s Kiss,” a suitor growled.