Lemon Zest Cookies

I pivoted on the heels of my kidskin slippers before Sibila could think of offering me another clawed caress. I walked with my chin stiff, pretending the damp gallery breeze wasn't freezing the sweat glued to the back of my neck. Left behind me was the notary of Peñafiel, clearing his throat as he unfolded one of his boiled-leather folders to show some endless paragraph to my brand-new enemy. What an insufferable woman, for God's sake. In Bogotá, a type like that would have been taken down a peg at the first traffic jam on Seventh Avenue just by looking at her funny, but here one had to endure the courtly little theater and smile as if carrying a crucifix in her mouth.

The service hallway smelled of the usual: stale wax, soot, and that unmistakable saline backdrop of the sea breaking against the citadel's breakwaters. As I rounded the bend toward the spiral staircase, I undid the top two hooks of my bodice.

The whalebone stays were driving a very clear message into my ribs: take a deep breath and I'll puncture a lung.

"Caterina," I said to my maid, who was trotting three steps behind with a funeral face.

"My lady?"

"Go to my wardrobe. Get me the brown cloak, the one with the frayed lining at the elbows. And if Beltrán asks where I am, tell him I was overcome by a devout swoon and locked myself in the oratory to pray for my uncle's soul."

Caterina blinked, dismayed. Her gaze dropped to the bodice of my dress.

"But Doña Sibila will look for you for the reading of the deed..."

"Let her read whatever she pleases. There is always time to listen to them measure my neck. Move, go on."

I didn't wait to see her nod. I slipped through the low small door leading to the dock drainage chutes, dodging the worn steps that led to the belly of the citadel. If the court believed I was going to spend eighty-nine days weeping on a prie-dieu with a missal on my lap, it was because they still didn't know who they were messing with.

The lower kitchens were in a deceptive calm. At that hour, between the end of the noble lunch and the hustle of dinner, the scullions snored over sacks of turnips or were busy gutting mackerel at the outer fish market. Only old Fermí remained, dozing on a three-legged stool by the large cupboard, with his mouth open and a greasy rag on his knees.

I crossed without making a sound. The uneven flagstone floor was sticky with lard and leftover bran. I tied a coarse linen apron over my brocade skirt, pulling my sleeves up to my elbows with a couple of leather ribbons.

Mental inventory entry: a terracotta bowl with a chipped rim, two handfuls of rye flour stolen from the communal chest, a jar of clean lard, and an absolute treasure rescued from the fine spice basket: a whole lemon, wrinkled and yellowish, brought on some Moorish ship from Denia.

Rasping the skin of that citrus with a blunt-tipped knife was an almost religious delight.

The bitter, bright, and fresh aroma instantly cut through the damp, cold-wax smell rising from the sewers. I mixed the zest with the fat using my fingers, feeling the grit of the flour scrape my freshly washed fingertips. There was no white honey—that was high-treason contraband worthy of the gallows—, but in the back cupboard, I found a crust of wild honey that dissolved into the warm dough without putting up too many complaints.

I made small medallions, pressing them with my thumb in the center so they would bake evenly.

The low oven still kept a generous ember of holm oak firewood. I slid the iron shovel loaded with twelve pieces. The metal screeched against the refractory stone, releasing a tiny cloud of grayish ash.

"They're going to burn on the edge," said a dry voice from the shadow of the arches.

I almost dropped the shovel.

Damián Sanchis was leaning against the granite pillar, nibbling on a licorice shaving held between his index finger and thumb. He wore his gray tabard half-unbuttoned, the chain mail hanging like an iron spiderweb over his slumped shoulders, and that scratched bronze compass peeking from his leather waistband.

"They are not going to burn," I answered him, catching my breath. "They have enough lard to feed an infantry regiment."

"They smell like summer. The whole postern guard is going to smell this before they come out of the fire."

"That's the plan, genius."

Damián spat a bitter thread of the root to the floor and took two steps closer, staring intently at the incandescent mouth of the oven. He had a smudge of soot on his jaw and dark circles from spending the sleepless night.

"Do you have rocks in your head, Doña Violante? If the chief steward finds you here dressed as a baker, they won't need to wait for the clepsydra to book you. Citadel etiquette forbids..."

"Citadel etiquette, I wipe my backside with it," I cut him off, pulling the shovel out to check the color of the dough. "Do you know what a condemned woman gains by following the rules? A clean tomb and nothing more. I need to know who opens the postern gate at midnight, who carries Sibila's messages to the muleteers' inn, and who counts the gunpowder barrels in the armory."

"The guards don't talk to nobles. It's forbidden."

"The guards are hungry."

Silence.

Damián looked toward the hallway door, checking the gloom with that nervous tic of touching the pommel of his short dagger. Outside, the afternoon rain drummed against the leaded skylights, dyeing the suspended dust a leaden, sad gray.

"Sergeant Arnau is not going to turn a blind eye for a honey cake," he muttered, though his eyes went straight to the sweet smoke rising from the shovel.

"A warm stomach rarely testifies falsely against the one who gave it a snack."

Damián let out a snort that sounded like a muffled laugh.

"That sentence is not in the Chronicles of Aragon."

"It's from my homeland. Back there, we know quite a bit about handing out empanadas to calm down the cops... the bailiffs, I mean."

I dumped the hot cookies onto a hemp cloth. The crunch of the broken dough as it settled was music to my ears. The golden edge had little black spots of holm oak ash, but the center was tender, giving off that lemon scent that almost made me forget I was trapped in a rotten century hundreds of leagues away from anything resembling a hot shower.

"Here," I told him, wrapping six pieces in a piece of burlap tied with esparto grass.

Damián didn't grab it immediately. He looked at his gloved fingers, hesitating.

"Is this a bribe or charity?"

"It's tactical logistics. Call it whatever you want, but eat them before they get cold."

The boy sighed, gave in, and took the bundle. The heat pierced the rough fabric, comforting his hands numbed by the moisture of the rounds. He grabbed a broken cookie, blew a little on the attached ash, and shoved it whole into his mouth. He chewed slowly. His jaw tightened, then he relaxed his shoulders, and for a fraction of a second, he looked like a normal twenty-year-old guy and not a bitter soldier waiting for a war.

"It tastes like blessed glory," he admitted grudgingly, swallowing with effort.

"Well, of course. I have hidden talent."

"Too bad it's not going to do you much good."

The tone of his voice dropped an octave. Suddenly, the heat from the stoves wasn't enough to warm the air.

I stayed still, with the iron scraper suspended over the workbench.

"What's wrong?"

Damián tucked the bag under the folds of his Gray Guard tabard, looking toward the trapdoor leading to the docks.

"Sibila de Moncada was in the chapter house with the notary half an hour ago," he said, barely grazing the air with a whisper that didn't reach two yards. "She didn't come just to show regency parchments. She brought a warrant sealed by the high merino."

"And what does that mean?"

"She has requested the immediate handover of the ducal seals and the keys to the fortress. She wants to strip you of all command and confine you to your quarters before the court festivities begin."