The Licence of War

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At the holiest moment in the Mass, as bread and wine became the body and blood of Jesus Christ, Don Antonio de Zamora was counting under his breath. Uno, dos, tres, quatro … He had spied his target on the previous Sunday, only to lose her among the faithful crowded into the vast nave of Santa María de la Sede, yet today God had placed her conveniently close: a row ahead of him, just across the aisle. Cinco, seis, siete … It would take no more than twenty, he estimated. Diez, once, doze … She began to fiddle with a hairpin in her expensive lace mantilla. Diez y seis, diez y siete … Her spine stiffened; he might have stroked his finger along it. Diez y ocho, diez y … On the count of nineteen she turned, as if he had tapped her on the shoulder, and the look upon her face confirmed what he already knew: that he was as handsome and desirable as in his youth. Regretfully, he lowered his eyes. While he needed a new mistress, he could not afford another spendthrift sevillana. He might ask Gaspar to find him a simple country girl and employ her at El Caballo Blanco, to save on her keep and enable him to visit her at his pleasure.

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