"Checkmate, Felipe," Diego said softly, knocking the opposing king over. It had been a challenging match, but Felipe had made some unthinking mistakes.

Felipe frowned, and studied the board. Diego smiled slightly. "If you can't see the lead up to that victory, you need to practice more."

Felipe shrugged and signed briefly.

"It is very important, Felipe. Chess is a game that trains the mind. Strategy and attentiveness is very important. Zorro would be quicky caught and executed if his strategy and attentiveness was lacking. Strategy is important in any sphere of life."

Felipe signed a little more, and Diego raised an eyebrow.

"A man can't be successful in all areas of life...not at the same time, anyway." He stood and sighed, stretching to his full height. It had been a long match, and he had taken it seriously, as he did all of Felipe's lessons.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. "Bedtime was some time ago, Felipe. Off you go. A quiet night in tonight, I think. We will reconsider the alcalde's actions in the morning."

Felipe saluted with a smile, and Diego smiled too. The boy was getting cheeky lately. So close to manhood and yet so far. Still a child, with a child's mischief. He watched him go towards his room.

zzz

Diego was contemplating an early night, but his mind was restless. He was used to active nights, but there had not been any reason to act as Zorro for a few days, and with his father's absence, he was trying to catch up on rest. Not that it was easy. Foxes were more active at night, after all.

Pacing the floor in his room for a few moments, his eyes fell on the little wooden box, with the notes lying beside it. His body was tired, as Zorro had kept him sleepless for almost a week, but curiosity still burned. He could investigate the box a little. He could sleep late in the morning, no one would be surprised.

He sat at the desk, and opened the drawer. He withdrew a magnifying glass, and examined the first piece of note paper. No obvious watermark, he determined. He raised it to his nose, and detected a faint fragrance. Perfumed paper, he realised, with a slight smile. His mother's signature scent seemed to float around him, enticing him to finally open the folded paper.

'Dear Diego

My sweet son, I moved the box today. Somewhere safe. Your fingers are so itchy for treasure, that I had to laugh. All for a few baubles from history. I want the beads to remain on their strands however, unbroken and safe. The clumsiness of a young child's hands can be disastrous.

It was your birthday last week, my little man. Six years old, and so much like your father. My heart is always in my mouth with you both. I wish I could give you a brother to test your metal with, not all these adults.

You must wonder why I am writing this letter. I am going to leave you this box, with all the treasures passing to you. If by some miracle I provide your father with a daughter she can have her own box. My health is fragile as Hernandez says every time I catch a chill. Not that I want to admit it to myself or your father. And never you. I suppose you are reading this as a man, not a child. That seems strange, after watching you play this afternoon.'

Diego paused in his reading, surprised with the conversational tone of the note. He had never had a very close relationship with his mother, preferring his father's world in those days. He had always respected her, but at arms length. He'd had the impression that she was very fragile, easily broken, easily tired, and very precious.

Her voice seemed to be so different from what he remembered. So personable, so light hearted. Despite her poor health, her voice in her writing came across very cheerful.

Diego flicked through the other notes in the box. A collection of old love letters, as he had discovered earlier. The rest seemed to be addressed to him. A neat little pile, calling to him. He gathered them together, and lifted them out. Some had the years clearly labelled, and he realised that there were ten pages in all.

His mother had died when he was just twelve. Why had she kept writing them to him, so far ahead in the future? Had she had a sense of foreboding that death would take her so soon? He found himself staring into space, into the wall above the desk, lost in thoughts he couldn't even name.

He was getting tired, he reasoned. Slightly overwhelmed, and somehow emotional behind his reason. The rest of the discovery could wait until he caught up with his much needed sleep.