I’d love to ignore her, to press Hector for more details about his childhood, but I invited Jada for a reason, so I force myself to pay attention to her. “Thank you.” I glance around for the kitchen master, but he has already slipped away to put the finishing touches on dessert. “He makes pastries specially for me now, from a recipe I brought from Orovalle.” I grab a corn tortilla and nibble on it.
“Yes, your love of pastries is well known.”
I study her face, trying to determine if she insults me on purpose, but she chews blissfully on her pollo pibil.
It is the traitor Belén who says, “Her Majesty has an even greater passion for jerboa soup.”
I almost choke on my tortilla. Jerboa soup was our daily repast when we traveled together through the deep desert. If I taste it again in this life, it will be too soon. I glance over to find his lips twitching with humor.
Jada says, “But jerboa soup is so . . . pedestrian.”
“Sometimes.” I swallow the lump of tortilla and say gravely, “Life’s simpler foods have great poetry to them, don’t you think?” I have no idea what that means, but she nods as if concurring with a profound truth.
Conde Tristán says, “The official dish of Selvarica is called the sendara de vida. It’s made of starfruit soaked in honey and lime, then roasted over peppered coals. It’s sublime. If any of you come for a visit, I’d be delighted to serve it.”
Ximena and I exchange a startled look. Her face is white.
My nurse turns toward the conde and says, carefully, “The sendara de vida. That means ‘the gate of life.’”
He nods. “Named after an old legend.”
“Oh, do tell us!” I say, with what I hope is artless enthusiasm. “I’d love to hear more about Selvarica.”
At the end of the table, Father Alentín leans forward, eyes narrowed. Beside me, Hector sets down his wineglass and places his hands casually on the table.
Conde Tristán looks around at his suddenly rapt audience, aware that once again he is on the outside of an ongoing conversation. But he proceeds gamely. “It’s wholly apocryphal, but legend says God created two gates, one that leads to the enemy and one that leads to life. The gate that leads to life, la sendara de vida, is somewhere in Selvarica, and many a nobleman’s younger son has set off in search of it, hoping to prove himself and make his fortune. No one has succeeded, of course. But many of my people believe in its existence. They say whoever finds it will find life eternal and perfect happiness.”
Silence weighs like a heavy blanket over the dining room.
Finally Alentín says in a tight voice, “Strange that I have not heard of this legend.”
The conde shrugs. “I barely knew of it growing up. But Iladro reminded me.” He indicates the overdressed herald beside him. “Right, Iladro?”
The herald reddens at our sudden scrutiny. The plume of his hat wobbles as he nods. “Yes, Your Grace,” he says in an understated tone that belies his announcing voice. “The legend remains popular in the remote island villages.” He grabs a scone from the tray and shoves it into his mouth, possibly to discourage the conde from calling on him to speak further.
“Apocryphal,” Ximena mutters to herself.
“An old manuscript or two alludes to it,” the conde says. “But that’s how we know there’s no truth to the legend, right? None of the inspired holy scriptures mentions it once.”
“Indeed,” Ximena says, but I hear the doubt—or possibly wonder—in her voice.
“What is ‘apocryphal’?” Lady Jada asks.
Hector says, “The Apocrypha is a group of documents that were put forward as being inspired by God, but were proved by scholars and priests to be merely legends. Nothing divine about them after all.”
I look at him in surprise and delight. I had no idea he knew about such things.
He regards me sidelong, his eyes dancing. “But interesting as pseudohistorical documents,” he says to Lady Jada. “They say much about the attitudes and customs of the time during which they were written.”
“What about you, Lady Jada?” I say, still smiling. “As wife of the mayor, can you tell me about any spectacular dishes—or legends—from Brisadulce your queen should know of?”
Lady Jada throws her shoulders back and opens her mouth to launch into what I am certain will be a treatise of profound triviality. “Your Majesty should instruct the kitchen master to prepare—”
She freezes at the sound of retching.
“Iladro?” says Conde Tristán.
The herald bends over the table, his body convulsing. He looks up, his eyes oozing tears. His delicate face is a blotchy purple.