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than
half her attention from whatever it was that was preoccupying her thoughts, had
adroitly delivered Tia into the care of one of her ladies while she herself
retired.
             
             
             
              Juana's hands went to her temples to ease the tightly
strained - back hair which was exacerbating a growing headache; the frame that
held her hair in these artificial ringlets felt like an iron bar across the top
of her head. She stood still, trying to order her confused thoughts. But when
she lifted her head her mind still felt blank and shocked. Too many impressions
had forced their way into her mind, and she felt as though she had been cast up
out of a buffeting sea on to a strange shore.
             
             
             
              As she gazed about her, the high, shadowy spaces made her
feel dwarfed and insignificant, as she had felt when she had been confronted by
the red - headed man with the scarred face; her thoughts winced angrily away
from the unwanted memory as she set out to explore the Duquesa de Valenzuela' s
rooms. Her fingers traced the embossed flowers, gold and white, that ran in
ordered riot beneath the glaze of the tiled walls. The coolness here was almost
visible, a bluish haze that hung in the air; in every room there was a
desolation that told her these apartments had not been used for years. They had
tried to dispel the atmosphere by setting flowers everywhere, but the scented
white drifts looked like snow, fragile and transient; she half expected to find
the bedchamber hung with cobwebs, so powerful was the sense of emptiness.
             
             
             
              On the threshold she paused, literally deprived of breath
by the luxury that met her eyes: hangings of crimson and gold and white, the
walls and celling painted in dazzling colours, one whole wall lined with
mirrors in which reflections swam as if through greenish water. She saw herself
staring palely from the doorway, as motionless as a doll in her blue gown.
             
             
             
              The sound of hurrying footsteps made her turn, and a voice
said, 'Senorita!'
             
             
             
              'Michaela! How do you come to be here?' Impulsively, Juana
hugged her maid. 'I did not know what had become of you when we left the
carriage.'
             
             
             
              'I did not trust those men with your baggage, senorita, and
if I had it would not be unloaded yet! And I thought the Zuccaro men were lazy!
Have you done all your greetings?'
             
             
             
              The Moorish girl's bright, inquisitive eyes held a shadow
of anxiety.
             
             
             
              'Not all of them. I am not permitted yet to see the Duque
himself — it seems he is prostrate with joy at the thought of seeing me and
will not rise from his bed until tomorrow. They say that I may see him then.
             
             
             
              'That is all to the good, then, is it not? No need to rush
upon trouble.'
             
             
             
              Juana smiled reluctantly. Michaela was shrewd and
realistic, and would never spend time in lamenting what could not be altered.
In Juana's place, she would probably salve the loss of the man she loved by
beginning the search for another man she could love as well as the last. She
had been her maid since Juana was eight, when Miguel had bought the scrawny
ten-year-old from her foster - lamer, who ran a travelling fair. His compassion
had been excited by the idea of rescuing the little Moor from a life of
inevitable depravity, and Michaela had never bothered to tell him that