Jason Weiser

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Sometimes you have to comb the city and listen to five different card games at once for a scrap of information.

Sometimes you sit down by an open window after riding for hours straight, and the plans of the assassins waft up to you like perfume.

Or more accurately,

the smell of two men who had been sitting in the sun all day, chatting.

Doña could hardly believe it was the latter when, exhausted, she sat by the window waiting for the innkeeper to bring her dinner.

There were two men outside, talking about the banquet Don Juan Mancilla was putting on for two men from Valencia, who were on the run for a duel gone wrong or something.

Sitting back, Doña could hardly believe her luck.

That was a freebie, seriously.

Don Juan Mencia's mansion stood overlooking the city, so it was not difficult to find.

Entry was impossible, but it didn't matter.

Getting into the party was not the objective.

She was only interested in what was coming out of it.

Before she left her home, Doña went to Pedro's body, wrapped downstairs.

Her love didn't even have someone standing watch.

Having no time, she sliced a bit of hair from his head, and it remained with her.

Now, here in a poplar grove that stretched up to the manor, Doña sat with it, almost in prayer, as if it was a holy relic.

In many ways, it was.