It is summer and the sun is setting on the pueblo of Los Angeles, and today, she will get to watch.
It is not often that Victoria has the time to pause for such a moment. Her days and nights are always busy with the demands of the tavern, but today is Sunday, it is very hot and business is slow.
Now, she settles into a small patch of shadow, reclining against the wall and lets her mind wander and she watches the glowing hot globe descending, the soft hint of yellow tickling at the horizon.
It is not often that she has the time to feel lonely. She is always surrounded by customers, the air of her shared home buzzes with conversation by day, and is punctuated by soft sounds of sleep at night, but now, it is so very quiet.
Now, she is alone with her thoughts and can wonder if this how she will spend the rest of hers days.
As if in answer, a shadowy form appears in the far distance. She is grateful for the distraction it provides and watches now the setting sun and the figure growing larger-and sharper-before it.
He is a gentleman. His bearing, his elegance are obvious, even at this distance.
In time, she can see the dark leather of his boots, tingled with orange at the edges by the fading light. It twists and turns to curve over the outline of legs, catching the tails of his coat and dissolving them into a golden glow.
The crisp black of his sword belt is next to emerge to her eyes. It shifts with his stride, brushing at the edges of his hips and the tips of his fine waistcoat. The hand on his blade's hilt is showered by the ruffles of a fine cuff, echoed again at the base of his throat. His face, still in shadows, is framed by golden hair, caught in the wind and blazing like fire in the dying sun.
So handsome!
She finds herself breathless, standing now at edge of the porch, her hands sliding along the rail, as at last, she can see.
Madre de Dios.
His expression is softened, almost wistful and for a last, lingering moment, his bright eyes carry only the memory of the daylight sky, with no trace of the arrogance and vanity that always clouds them.
Then, like the lowering of a helmet's visor, the malice and madness return.
"Senhorita."
Luis Ramone bowed, fractionally, in acknowledgement of her gaze and in a few, quick strides, passed from her field of view and into the falling darkness.