DISCLAIMER: If you recognize it, I don't own it.

After ten years of work, the only people who could tell that something had happened to the church tower were those who knew of the battle. For the most part.

For the first few Sundays after that Day of the Dead, there were stares and whispers whenever Manolo entered the church. A few townsfolk were even daring enough to speak loud and close enough for him to hear: he had been singled out by the old gods, come face to face with them and still thought it proper to set foot in the Lord's domain? What did he believe, anyway?

"I believe He's up there somewhere," Manolo told them, and he meant it. "There's no reason to think that isn't true." It took time and patience: he had one, and he tried to find the other. The more he showed no ill will to the things said behind his back, the less often he heard them. Eventually his smiles and greetings were reciprocated with ones of their own: Good morning, Mr. Sanchez! How are your girls doing? My son won't stop talking about how excited he is for his first lesson with you. Most days it seemed as though he had never even been gone.

Which was why the cloud of foreboding that hung over him on the morning after the talk with Ofelia was more worrisome than most.

It began when they were heading up the hill towards the church. His daughter was quiet as she walked, abnormally so: on most Sunday mornings her gaze drifted about her as she spoke of whatever book she was in the middle of, but that morning she stared at the ground and didn't say a word. Even when the Mondragons caught up to them, she had only a few remarks for Vicente and Gabriela.

As they entered the churchyard, Ofelia stopped. It was only for a moment, but when she resumed walking, her pace was a bit slower and she stayed a step closer to her father's side. It took only a glance around for Manolo to see why. In the shadow of the church, far enough out of sight for most people to ignore, was a large, black carriage. It vaguely resembled a train car of sorts: rectangular, windowless, made of deeply stained wood and dull metal. At one end of the strange compartment, a short flight of steps led up to a small door shut tight with an old iron padlock. Painted neatly on the wood, in a shade of red that seemed just a bit too close to blood, was a cross.

A shiver Manolo didn't understand abruptly ran down his spine, and he hurried onwards.

It only grew stronger once the service began, and he found that he could hardly keep himself still. A pair of invisible, unblinking eyes were trained on him, taking note of each small movement, or so it seemed. He began to look around the room, hoping whatever it was would let down its guard and reveal itself.

That was when he saw her.

She was sitting across the aisle from them, at the nearest end of the pew. Manolo hadn't seen her around town before - I would have remembered. Perhaps she had come from further north: her skin was light enough to pass. She looked to be about fifty, if she was even that old. The wrinkles on her face were clear, and her shiny black hair was streaked with gray. It was pulled back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, not a strand out of place. Her dress was simple and black, covering everything below her chin. Hanging around her neck was a small crucifix. She had a sharp, eagle-like and eyes to match. Eyes that suddenly darted to meet his.

Manolo's gaze dropped into his lap and didn't stray again. When the sermon ended, he was the first back on his feet. "Come along, mija."

They were halfway to the churchyard gate when he noticed that his wife was not with them. "Maria?" he called out, turning around.

She was standing by the door with her father - and with the strange woman. Maria had her by the hand and was talking to her with a large grin and an animation reserved only for the most passionate of topics.

"Papa?" Ofelia asked. "Who's that?"

"I don't know…"

"Ah, there he is!" General Posada said, spotting them and beckoning him back. "Manolo! Come here, there's someone we'd like you to meet!"

He tried to walk quickly, disguising his reluctance. "Who's this?"

Maria gave him a strange look. "I wrote to you about her, didn't I? From the convent?"

"I'm not sure."

The woman extended a hand to him. "Valeria Santillian," she said. "Mother Superior of the Convent of the Perpetual Flame of Purity. For a time." Her tone was clipped and restrained, her accent impossible to place.

He thought Maria had mentioned the name once or twice, but he couldn't remember when. "Manolo Sanchez," he said as he hesitantly took her hand and shook it. "You knew Maria?"

"You could say she took me in," Maria answered.

"Whipped my little girl into shape!" General Posada crowed.

Valeria gave him an icy stare. "I fear I failed to improve her as well as I would have like."

"Send her back when she's of marriageable age, those were the instructions," her father said. "I made that very clear when she arrived."

"Besides," Maria said as she stepped between them, "I told you I wanted to go home."

Valeria turned her nose up at this, but then nodded. "I still believe the cloth could use a lady of your character, my dear. But what's done is done. I suppose I should congratulate you, Señora Mondragon."

"Congratulate me for what?" a voice chirped behind her.

She whirled around, making Ixa flinch at the sudden movement. "Hello, by the way," the younger woman said.

Maria laughed. "Sanchez, actually."

Valeria stared at Manolo, her eyebrows raised. "This is your husband?"

Manolo waved at her. "I hope there isn't a problem with that."

Valeria's gaze traveled downwards, to the figure hiding behind his leg. "And the girl?"

Maria smiled. "Come say hello, Ofelia."

She approached the newcomer slowly, almost trembling. "Hola…"

Valeria looked at the three of them, her eyes darting back and forth almost imperceptibly. "I see."

That's enough of that, Manolo thought. "So what brings to you to San Angel?"

"Studies," she answered. "I was told of several texts from the first missions kept in your church. My companions and I wish to examine them." She gestured to the carriage, where a small group of men and women dressed in black were unloading boxes. "We plan to stay a month, at the least."

"Maybe you could visit us sometime!" Maria said. "I'll make tea, and we can do some more catching up!"

Valeria nodded, a slight rise and fall of her head. "I would be grateful."

Ofelia shrank back against her father. "Papa," she whispered, "I want to go home."

"We'll leave you to your work, then," Manolo told Valeria as he forced a smile. "It was very nice meeting you."

She stared at him, her eyes glinting in the way they had when they first fell upon him. "I shall see you again quite soon."