Alejandro de la Vega looked at the library as if he had never seen it before. The piano looked like a display model, although Diego had played it constantly for five years. Diego had polished it to a high shine, tuned it himself to an inch of its life. Alejandro let his fingers drift slowly down the keys. It felt alive, warm to the touch, and he wondered how much of Diego's warmth lingered on them.

He wandered over to the tall bookcase near the bright window. His eyes caught sight of a treasured toy soldier from his own boyhood. Taking it gently off its shelf, he turned it over in his hands. Wearing the familiar uniform of a Sergeant, he was reminded of Mendoza, the bumbling but kind soldier. The soldier looked nothing like the fat fool, tall and strong and slender. Obviously a favourite of Diego's, otherwise it would not be standing guard over his treasured novels. A book lay discarded, forgotten, on the chaise lounge, as if its owner had ducked out to answer the door and would return within moments.

Alejandro picked it up. He felt like he was in a dream, one he would soon wake from, but his heart knew otherwise. His head would take a while to process the last forty eight hours. He glanced at the cover, Robin Hood. He opened the book, sitting slowly, and scanned the first couple of pages. A boy's adventure story, no doubt. He smiled and closed the book gently. All Diego did was caught up in books…even the adventure part. He stood and placed the book back in the shelf.

Diego's desk sat on the other side of the room. It was meticulous. How many letters to the governor sat in envelopes inside those drawers, waiting for their writer to post them? He'd have to post them on his son's behalf now. He wondered how Diego had gone from a messy desk to such a neat and fanatically tidy desk in ten short years. He had never managed it himself. Must have been his mother's side of the family.

There was a knock on the door. He half expected Diego to sing out "I'll get it," and make a light dash to the door. He shook his head. His boy was not going to do that. Not now. Not ever.

Slowly he made his way to the door, and opened it.

"Don Alejandro," Ignatio greeted him. His eyes were downcast.

"Have you found him yet?"

"Don Alejandro, the explosion was intense. There is unlikely to be anything left of him. I'm sorry," Ignatio said. There was an edge to the Alcalde's voice, a strange unfamiliar edge of true sympathy, but Alejandro couldn't really respect it.

"This was your fault. My son was at risk, you knew that. The King will soon know of this," Alejandro said. "You should have kept him safe, and now you can't even retrieve my son's body."

"I will go out once more. Diego was not a man of action, but he was smart in other ways. Perhaps he managed to avoid the main part of the expolsion. Perhaps his body is just not where we expect. I will double the efforts," Ignatio said softly. He tried not to think of the consequences of this. Diego's cousins on his mother's side were now related to the King himself, even though through marriage. Connections at court were everything. His career was in tatters over the Zorro issue already, and now this tragedy would have him court martialled. And, if the King was annoyed enough, possible execution.

"If we could contact Zorro…" The Alcalde bit his lip. Zorro. The man was a menace…. although he had come to the rescue of the pueblo countless times in the past. A fact and a predictability he himself had relied on heavily over the three years he had spent in office.

"I would think Zorro's body would be found there as well," Alejandro said. "The way that man protected me and mine was always extraordinary. He always seemed to be there when we needed him."

The Alcalde slightly nodded. The fact had crossed his mind, but it was early days. Zorro had the bad habit of being out of action for a few days and then popping up out of the shadows just when he had persuaded himself that he was gone for good.

"If you excuse me, I need some time on my own, Ignatio, please. I am grieving over my son. I think you can accept that," Alejandro said with an edge of pain in his voice. He shut the door, almost against the soldier's face, and went back to the library.

He sat in the chaise lounge, drenched in sunlight, but felt none of its warmth. He placed his head in his hands for a moment, in silent grief. He would not break down. Felipe needed him. The boy was around somewhere, grieving in his own way. He had turned and ran for the hills, on the announcement of Diego's death. Alejandro would have to look for him eventually, but the child was always running in the hills. He would come to no harm. Not now.

The old man glanced up for a moment. An art easel sat in the corner, a cloth draped over an artwork in progress. He went over and lifted the soft veil. A portrait of a queen resting in a meadow, playing with flowers sat half-finished on the easel. She was definitely meant to be a queen, with subtle raiment and a small tiara on her head. Very regal, in the mode of the true heads of the Spanish court. He drew in his breath. The brush strokes were almost as fine as the work of the classic artists. The queen had her head to the side. His heart almost stopped. It was Victoria's features on the queen's face. Diego had transformed the tavern keeper into a fair princess with a gentle hand and fine strokes of a paintbrush.

A piece of paper jutted out of a tiny drawer. The original sketch, no doubt. Alejandro gently dislodged it and opened the folds to reveal the paper. Not a drawing, but a finely written poem. A love poem? From a man frightened of any romantic attachment? He glanced at the painting again. A love poem for Victoria? Alejandro sighed, and put his head in his hands again.

Poor Diego, he must have been in love with the only woman in the world he could not have! Unrequited love was one of the hardest things a man could bear. Why hadn't Diego come to him, to share this distress? They had always trusted each other, hadn't they? They had always known they had each other's backs, in all things.

He shook his head. Lately Diego had avoided him. Lately Alejandro had shouted at his son whenever he moved. Nothing had been good enough for him. First it was his tracking skills, but when Diego had ventured an opinion he had shot him down in flames. That thought had turned out to be valid, but he had offered no apology to his son. He derided his experiment for rescuing soldiers from a cave in, but it was immensely successful. Again he had offered no praise, no apology.

What had been Diego's last thoughts in that shack on the hill? Regrets that he hadn't made his father proud, that he had been a failure as a son? Alejandro shuddered.

Diego had always made him proud. He had loved him so intensely, but he had never truly understood his son. His music, his arts, his science all showed Alejandro that his son was brilliant. A man any father could be proud of. His kindness and generosity was legendary in the territory – he helped anyone who came to him in need, and ventured to assist when it was not asked for.

When Diego had returned home from Spain, he knew nothing about him. Everything he thought he knew had disappeared. Where was the finely honed swordsmanship? Where was the proud horsemanship of a young de la Vega? It had been there before University. It had evaporated on his return.

Diego had failed to live up to Alejandro's expectations, but he was forming a life for himself. He was strong in his opinions, so much so that Alejandro had had to restrain him from charging in to the fray. He frowned. Was that true? Did he really restrain Diego? He remembered finely crafted muscles flexing under his hands when he had held his son back. Where had those muscles come from? Painting that portrait? Writing that poem? Reading for days? Playing the piano?

He stood up. Muscles came from exercising them. He wondered about his son. His strong, intelligent son. A son that wouldn't let him in, that wouldn't talk to him about his true feelings. Why? Why these secret activities, these exercises to build strength? For what purpose?

Had he been hoping to challenge Zorro? Had he been ducking down to Mexico City to get lessons in swordplay? Had he been secretly seeing another unknown lady, courting and wooing her? Had an engagement been on the verge of being announced? He shook his head. Things he would never know now.

He placed the love poem on the small table to the right of the easel. He thought about returning the paper to its hiding place, but its writer would never return to become offended by the intrusion into his privacy.

He glanced out the window. The doctor had forbade his involvement in the retrieval of the body of his son, considering it too great a strain on his already weakened heart. It didn't mean he had to listen to him. He was Diego's father, and these clumsy buffoons were messing up yet again. If all he could locate was a charred semblance of Diego, it would be devastating, but it would be something.