Jason Weiser

So it had been easy enough to get back without anyone seeing.

There was a knock on her door about an hour later.

Doña said that she wanted to be alone.

Her father understood.

He was sorry.

He knew she loved that boy, and this was terrible.

The father said he hadn't hidden his disdain for the young man's lack of position, but no one would ever want something like this.

Giving a short and solemn, okay, Donya listened as her father stood there for a few moments longer before walking away.

The day passed, and the bells eventually called the servants to prepare for dinner.

It was thanks to that call that they missed doing his hair, fluttering down and finding the bushes below.

Standing in front of her mirror, in her father's cloak, cap, trousers, and shirt, she didn't even recognize herself.

The dark, and their shrouds, had shrouded the murderers.

But if they were careful, and the fact that they had watched Don Pedro, knowing that he came to this house in the night, told her that they were, the murderers would not try the port.

A boat was a prison if they were recognized, no.

The mountain pass was the only way out.

They would wait in the town until dark, and then they would leave, with Doña close behind.

When Dunya stole out the back door that night, after her parents had retired early, on account of having almost been up 24 hours, she didn't look back at her room, or even her home, but to the grass that was still flecked with Don Pedro's blood.

The grass was a dot on a line of infinite numbers.

It drank the blood of countless young men who had come before and who would follow after.

To the world, Don Pedro was nothing special.