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vegetable patches laid out in perfect symmetry I looked toward the adjoining church and paused. Nestled in the spire high above was a latticed bundle of twigs—a nest, perched in dizzying, isolated safety.
    “The stork is a good mother. She knows how to defend her young,” a voice said close to my ear. I gasped, spun around. I found myself looking at a completely unexpected yet disturbingly familiar face. I remembered how he had gathered me in his arms, carried me from my father’s death chamber into the night….
    “My lord Archbishop,” I whispered. I dropped into a curtsey, in deference to his holy station. As I lifted my eyes to him, his smile exposed crooked teeth, at odds with his flushed jowls, thick lips, and beaked nose. His stare was piercing, belying the warmth of his tone.
    “Isabella, my daughter, how you’ve grown.”
    My mind raced. What was Archbishop Carrillo of Toledo doing in Santa Ana? Had he come here for some other purpose, just when we happened to be visiting? Something told me it was too much of a coincidence. His presence couldn’t be accidental.
    He chuckled. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Surely you hadn’t forgotten me?”
    “No, of course not,” I said, flustered. “Forgive me. It’s just that I … I didn’t expect to see you here, of all places.”
    He cocked his large head. “Why not? An archbishop often travelsfor the good of his brethren and the sisters here have always been kind to me. Besides, I thought it would be best if I met with your mother away from Arévalo. She and I have just spoken at length; when I said I wished to see you, she told me you had come into the gardens.”
    “My mother?” I gaped at him. “She … she knew you would be here?”
    “Of course. We’ve been corresponding for years. She has kept me informed of both your and your brother’s progress. In fact, I’m surprised to find you alone. Where is Bobadilla’s daughter?” His scarlet cloak with its white cross swirled around him as he looked about, a hand cocked at his brow. The nuns who’d been in the garden had slipped away; now that I was alone with him, he seemed to dominate the very air with his pungent smell of wool, sweat, horseflesh, and another, expensive musky scent. I had never smelled perfume on a man of the Church before; somehow, it didn’t seem appropriate.
    “Beatriz went into the city to buy cloth,” I told him.
    “Ah.” His smile widened. “But I was told that you and she are inseparable.”
    “We were raised together, yes. She is my companion and friend.”
    “Indeed. One needs friends, especially in a place like Arévalo.” He went silent, his penetrating gaze fixed on me, his hands folded in front of his rounded stomach.
    Without realizing it, I stared. He did not have the hands of a prince of the Church, white and pampered and soft. Against the golden signet ring of his office, his fingers were sunburnt, scarred, his nails soiled like a peasant’s.
    Or a warrior’s.
    His dry chuckle brought my gaze back to his face. “I see you are observant as well as demure. Such qualities will serve you well at court.”
    At court …
    The garden receded, like a fragile painted backdrop. “Court?” I heard myself say.
    Carrillo pointed to a stone bench. “Please, sit. I appear to have alarmed you; it was not my intention.” He lowered his bulk beside me. When he finally spoke his voice was subdued. “It might strike you as strange, given how much time has passed, but His Majesty the king hasrecently expressed interest in you and your brother. Indeed, he instructed me to ascertain your circumstances for myself. That is why I am here.”
    Beneath my bodice, my heart leapt. I drew in a shallow breath and tried to compose myself. “As you can see, I am well. So is my brother.”
    “Yes. Such a pity the Infante Alfonso could not come, but I’m told he’s been remiss in his lessons and was left behind to study.”
    “He’s not so remiss,” I said