Chapter 6

"Victoria, your best room, quick!"

Her back to her tavern's door, Victoria Escalante was wiping some glasses behind the counter and almost startled hearing this as, for a tenth of a second, she believed she recognised Zorro's very firm and assured voice. But no, she thought immediately, firstly why would Zorro enter the tavern in broad daylight through the front door instead of discreetly using the service door giving onto the scullery, as he usually did? And above all, why would he ask for a room?

No, and what's more, Corporal Sepulveda's words soon dispelled her doubts before she even needed to turn around:

"But Don Diego," the corporal said, "are you quite sure about…?"

Victoria never knew what Diego was supposed to be sure about because Sepulveda left his question unfinished, his voice hesitant and seemingly not willing to phrase the end of his sentence.

Diego, uh? Hmmmyeah, on second thought it might as well be his voice, although more assertive and imperious than usual. And since when didn't he say a mere 'hello' or 'good afternoon' anymore, and did he forget to add a simple 'please'? Bah, she simply told herself, he must have gotten out of bed on the wrong side, or have had a bad day, that's all. After all, it sometimes happened to herself too. Smiling archly while inspecting the glass she had been wiping, Victoria wondered somewhat mischievously what on earth could be a bad day in Diego de la Vega's life. Had he gotten a splinter in his finger? Broken a nail? Had one of his damned experiments not worked out as expected?

But anyway, she would certainly not let him get away with it and, turning to face the newcomers, she decided to kindly and jokingly point out his momentary lack of manners:

"Buenos días to you too, Don Die–"

But the last syllable of his name remained stuck in her throat when, still open-mouthed but with no sound coming out of it, Victoria discovered the sight now displayed before her eyes: Diego de la Vega carrying a woman in his arms! Holding her gently against him, cradled against his chest, her head nestled in the crook of his neck!

That was most unusual, to say the least. And even, this was the last thing she would have expected to ever see with her own eyes! Victoria felt her jaw drop in astonishment.

Was she the mysterious woman he once told her about, the one he has secretly been in love with for many years? If so, he apparently finally confessed his secret to her, and avowed his feelings as well as the torch he's been carrying for so long, obviously...

Oh hey, hey, wait a minute, here! Did he just ask for – demand – a room? A bedroom? For himself and a woman?

And then suddenly the incongruity of this situation, combined with the peculiar way Diego was holding this woman – carrying her, in fact – finally struck Victoria, and she realised she was not witnessing the kind of scene she had first thought this display of cosy familiarity was, but that it was something more alarming. Obviously the woman was unconscious and Diego, not waiting for Victoria's reply, had already started climbing the stairs leading to the second floor where the inn's bedrooms were located.

Something was wrong. With this woman. Whoever she was, if Diego de la Vega carried her openly in his arms in as public a place as the pueblo's plaza in broad daylight, and urgently came to the tavern to rent a room for her, this woman was unwell. As Diego was climbing the last step and reached the landing, Victoria finally came out of her momentary stupor and extricated herself from behind her counter to follow in his footsteps.

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The stranger was drench with sweat and burning with fever, he could feel it through her clothes, his large hand against the sleeve of her blouse. She shivered from time to time, slightly shaking with tremors for one second or two.

Victoria had caught up with Diego and took out her keys to open the door of the quietest and most comfortable room in her establishment. To Victoria's flurry of questions he could only answer with short sentences while he laid the young woman on the bed: yes she was ill, yes she was wounded, no idea of her name nor of who she was, but it was essential that she recovers. For Felipe.

With these few answers Victoria was hardly further along than before and Diego's last sentence finished to completely puzzle her. If he had talked to her in riddles she wouldn't have understood much less of it all. Meanwhile, the Corporal had caught up with them and entered the bedroom too.

Diego, as for him, was inspecting the stranger, looking for clues as to her identity: there was certainly someone somewhere to notify! And if she was indeed a traveler far away from home, why had she chosen to ride alone on the Camino Real?

Her clothes were simple and practical, suitable for a long horse ride; they didn't seem brand new, yet they were not worn out nor patched either, and were neither too large nor too small, appearing to have actually been tailored for her. She therefore was either middle class, or upper class with a practical enough mind to dress sensibly and without ostentation in order to travel comfortably.

Diego examined her hands: these were not a peón's or campesina's hands with marked skin, hardened by farm work, nor a servant's hands used to hard housework or laundry. These hands were almost soft, but even so a little bit marked by the handling of horse bridles and some minor daily chores. Rather middle class, then. A priori.

Her nails were rather long and well kept, with the exception of the middle and ring finger ones on the right hand, perhaps broken in her fall. During his examination, Diego marked a short pause, surprised as he recognised something he knew very well: there, on the last phalanx of her right middle finger, opposite the index, her finger was somewhat deformed by a small bump, a callus he found on none other of her fingers, and he immediately identified its origin: this was what happened after many years spent holding a pen, writing several hours a day. So, middle class or upper class?

Her left hand was similar to her right one, except for the absence of the writer's bump, and above all, above all, it brought a significant piece of information about the stranger: there was no ring on her fourth finger. The sergeant had then probably been correct in calling her a 'señorita'.

Incidentally, she wasn't wearing any jewelry – wise precaution when setting out on a long journey alone – except for a golden chain around her neck with a finely engraved golden cross - beautiful craftsmanship of a skilled goldsmith, Diego assessed admiring it – and a holy medal, made of gold too.

A baptism medal, probably. Ah! Diego thought, with a bit of luck we will finally be able to find out about her first name, at least. He gently turned the medal over. On its reverse side were inscribed in Latin a date – December 13th, 1763 – and a name: 'Adrianus'.

Well, so much for finding out about her name, because according to the señorita's apparent age, it was absolutely impossible that this baptism medal was hers. Moreover, 'Adrianus' was a masculine form. So who was this Adrián? Her father? Probably. And probably dead too, if she now had his medal...

Anyway, there was still no clue as to her identity, either first or last name. Nor as to the place where she came from. North... that was quite a vague clue! Maybe her clothes were labeled?

"Victoria, please," he asked, "can you give a look at her clothes while the corporal and myself turn our backs? Perhaps they will tell us of her name?"

And matching words with deeds he turned his back to the bed and looked out through the window, which gave onto the back of the tavern. A facade he knew well for having climbed it more than once, and had the huge advantage of not giving onto the plaza: an advantage for him because it guaranteed him greater discretion, and now an advantage for the stranger too, because it promised her the calm and quietness Dr. Hernandez heavily insisted on to give her a chance to recover.

The corporal joined him, allowing Victoria to somewhat undress the stranger with all due propriety.

"Anyway she needs other clothes," Sepulveda said, "she can't keep those on forever: they are dusty, stained with blood and drench with sweat."

"I can lend her a nightgown," Victoria offered. "Even if it's not exactly the right size for her, that will do. I'll ask another woman to help me get her changed."

Hearing these words, Diego suddenly remembered something and turned around:

"Victoria, I forgot to tell you: be careful with her shoulder, she got it dislocated a few hours ago!"

He then approached the bed, untying the silk sash he was wearing as a belt. Seeing that, Victoria hastily pulled the stranger's skirts back down on her legs; but Diego seemed not to care about decorum anymore and folded the patient's right arm over her stomach, after what, raising slightly her upper body with one of his arms, he slipped his sash under her back and then tied its fringed ends over her forearm, fastening the sash so as to pin her arm in this position.

"No name on her clothes," Victoria concluded after her close examination, "but I found this."

And she then handed him a very lovely cambric handkerchief, finely embroidered and hemstitched at the edged, a woman's handkerchief, adorned at its corner with a blue monogram made of two letters: L.A.