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don’t trust me you don’t deserve me,’ (his voice scraping like a keel on the riverbank, his voice, alas, with no defining timbre to it at all) and I’m so cross with myself that when I finally fall asleep I dream of cutting out my slack fool’s tongue with the thread of my sewing yarn.

CHAPTER FOUR
In the Mercedarian Convento with Diego Velázquez
    After I complete my early morning work for Pacheco, I pack some sweets and nuts in a bag and go to call on the Mercedarians. I ring a bell at the front gate and wait, assuming that the apprentice of the devout Pacheco will be welcomed with immediate trust. An orderly arrives, asks me my business, then admits me to the vestibule where paintings of previous Mercedarian leaders line the walls. I pretend to admire these ghastly pictures while the orderly goes to find Luis.
    It’s more than a year since I’ve seen him and he’s much taller and even a little plump. Gone are his street clothes and bare urchin feet. He’s wearing a white cassock and brownleather sandals. When I give him the sweets and nuts, he smiles broadly and asks me, very directly, if I’m here to make some more drawings of him. His attitude is less recalcitrant than in the past; it’s almost as if he wouldn’t mind sitting for me.
    ‘You’re happy in here?’
    Luis thinks about it, then shakes his head. ‘They force us to eat pork. They even make us drink wine. We must sing Gregorian chants three times a day!’
    Luis was allowed to stay in Spain because of his lovely singing voice.
    ‘How many Morisco boys are in here with you?’ I inquire.
    ‘Um. There’s Benito, Remi and Camilo.’
    ‘The others, have they been here long?’
    Luis nods. ‘They were really little when they came.’
    ‘How do you find school?’
    ‘Okay, I guess.’
    Luis looks at me glumly. ‘I’ve heard nothing about my mother and sister,’ he pauses and, when I don’t comment, he continues, ‘Where would they have settled do you think? They say our people are welcome in Tunis, but meet death elsewhere. In Algiers and Morocco they call us Christian infidel. Remi’s father was murdered by bandits on the road to Fez. And you know what? The priests waited three years to tell him.’
    ‘I’ve heard similar stories,’ I say.
    ‘Can you help us escape?’
    I’m taken aback by his naive trust. ‘Do you really wish to join your mother in the Mohammedan lands?’
    My question has puzzled him.
    ‘None of us really wants to go to the Barbary States,’ Luis continues, ‘We’re Sevillians, aren’t we? We’ve been baptised in the name of the Holy Ghost, just like you. We want to go back to eating couscous in our old homes, but that isn’t possible, is it?’
    I shake my head.
    As an eleven-year-old I looked on while thousands of Moors were driven from our city, weighed down by their heavy bags. The river of people was passing by for ages it seemed, and when it ceased I remember seeing lots of baggage left lying on the road. The Moors couldn’t carry all their belongings with the crowds moving so fast, so they dropped it as they went. A day later and all the forsaken bags and furniture had been scavenged. But the exiled Moors left curses on their abodes in West San Marcos and Adarjevo. Walls collapsed on unsuspecting new residents, and one poor family ate from a garden of poisoned vegetables and three of them died. The barrios where the Moors lived have become ghost towns since then. Horses refuse to take their riders into these suburbs,but children play round the fringes, trespassing inside for thrills and dares.
    Luis and I need a change of scene. At my request a priest is happy to guide us around the chapter house. Paintings by my master Pacheco are prominently displayed and appear to be in excellent condition. As soon as the priest leaves, Luis relaxes. He sits down, his back resting against a wall, and plays absentmindedly with the buckles and straps on his sandals. I continue my inspection of the paintings and