Diction.
Practiced smiles.
Alicia, meanwhile, was erased even further.
Doña Mercedes made a cold calculation: two daughters of her own and one quiet stepdaughter, more beautiful than convenient, were too many cards on the table.
And if Alicia appeared before a man like Cristóbal Montenegro with her beauty intact and that involuntary dignity that some men recognize as treasure, everything could go wrong.
That was why she chose that Tuesday.
That was why she took Alicia into the garden.
That was why she raised the razor.
Three days later, Alicia was still working.
She did not hide—because she was not allowed to.
She wore a tight head covering, kept her gaze lowered, and continued with accounts, sewing, pantry duties, and errands.
Doña Mercedes pretended everything was normal.
Rebeca stayed silent with cowardly guilt.
Zulema watched with poorly concealed satisfaction.
Only Doña Tomasa, the elderly cook, dared to leave a bowl of hot soup by Alicia’s door without saying a word.
On the fourth morning, Doña Mercedes sent her to town with a list of purchases and a letter for the notary.
Alicia obeyed.
She liked walking to the plaza because during those minutes the air seemed to belong only to her.
She kept her head covered, her back straight, and her heart hardened by a new sorrow—deeper than the previous ones.
On the main street, a carriage stopped because of a traffic jam of carts.
Alicia looked up instinctively.
And met the eyes of the man from the garden.
Don Cristóbal recognized her instantly.
