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By then, the mysterious bundle had vanished from the bed and Máriam was on her feet, her chin lifted, her stance regal. I delivered my weeping mother into her thin, muscular arms, as Máriam said sternly, “Marisol! Go to your father at once and tell him an old man is being murdered in the street.”
    Her voice was as soft as ever, barely louder than a whisper, yet I heard the ferocity all the same. And while I was puzzled by Máriam’s behavior—she could have saved time by running to tell my father herself, instead of waiting in my mother’s bedroom—I obeyed her and dashed out her chamber door onto the mudéjar -style loggia, the covered, open hallway that connected all rooms on the middle floor. I ran down the half-open hallway, turning a corner where the north wing met the central, and again when the central wing met the southern, where my father’s chambers sat.
    The door to my father’s study was open. He had invited no guests this Sunday but sat alone, surrounded by books and maps of the city as he squinted down at a well-worn tome of municipal code spread open upon his reading desk. Creases had formed above his golden brown brows, and his pale blue eyes held a distant, pensive look, which vanished the instant I ran up to him, gasping and panicked. Still sitting, he turned himself and his full attention toward me and caught my forearms.
    “Marisol, calm down and tell me,” he said. His grip was soothingly firm, his tone calm.
    “It’s a Jew, an old man,” I blurted. “Gabriel and the others are beating him out in the street!” I drew a breath, unable to hold back the most sordid detail. “He has no nose!”
    At the word Jew my father tensed. “Your mother—where is she?” His fingers dug deeper into my flesh.
    “In her chamber, with Máriam,” I said. I didn’t understand why he was frightened for her.
    My father dropped his hold on me and rose at once; the fear in his eyes had transformed into a deep, smoldering fury. “Go back to your mother and stay with her,” he said evenly. “I’ll see to this.”
    But by then I was already halfway out the door, figuring that if I didn’t remain long enough to hear his command clearly, I couldn’t be held responsible for disobeying it. I ran back the way I had come and took the staircase down to the ground level. There I flew to the front entrance, past the unlocked gate, and out into the street.
    The drama in the cul-de-sac had taken a fresh turn. The old man, his maimed face and head uncovered, clung with trembling arms to the trunk of the nearest olive tree. Miguel had gone in search of a knife sturdy enough to slice off a body part; while awaiting the spectacle, the kickball players and their fans had gathered in a semicircle, hurling pebbles at the Jew.
    A giant compared to his victim, Gabriel swung the walking stick, clubbing the old man’s back and shoulders pitilessly. The man emitted only faint groans; with each fresh strike, his grip loosened and he slipped farther toward the ground.
    I ran down the street toward them. Servants had wandered out of the surrounding houses to watch, most of them with honest dismay or faint disapproval, their hands to their mouths, but none of them demanded an end to the violence.
    I was halfway down the street when I spied my strawberry-blond friend, Antonio, pushing his way through the crowd. It wasn’t until he ran directly up to Gabriel—who was preparing to take another swing with the walking stick—that I noticed Antonio’s right hand was clenched in a fist. My jaw dropped: Antonio was nimble and athletic for a fourteen-year-old, but he was no match for seventeen-year-old Gabriel’s height and was less than half Gabriel’s breadth. I watched in horror as Antonio’s fist went flying toward Gabriel.…

 
     
    Three
     
     
    In the Chapel of the Fifth Anguish, I opened my eyes, startled at the touch of Gabriel’s hand upon my elbow; the priest had finished his sermon and had just asked Gabriel and