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altar cloths adornedthe most famous cathedrals in the realm. Many an hour I’d spent in their company, learning the art of embroidery while listening to the murmur of their voices.
    Doña Elvira fretted that it would be too much exertion for my mother, but Doña Clara pronounced it an excellent idea and helped us pack for the journey.
    “It’s exactly what your mother needs,” my
aya
said. “The sisters will make her feel better and getting away from this old place will prove a far more efficacious remedy than those foul potions of Elvira’s.”
    We set out before dawn with Don Bobadilla and four retainers. Alfonso was left behind at the last minute, sulking, under the supervision of Doña Clara and Don Chacón, with strict instructions to dedicate himself to his studies, as he’d grown quite indolent. I rode Canela, who was overjoyed to see me, whickering and greedily devouring the bits of sour apple I had brought. My mother sat upon an older, more docile mare. Her veil framed her face, its creamy gossamer adding luster to her complexion and highlighting the blue in her eyes. Doña Elvira grumbled beside her on a mule, having refused to even consider riding in a litter, and Beatriz looked equally morose on her steed, scowling generally at the landscape.
    “I thought you wanted adventure,” I said to her, hiding a smile when she retorted, “Adventure! I hardly see what kind of adventure we’ll find at Santa Ana. I rather think there’ll be more poor linens and lentil soup.”
    Despite the fact that she was probably right, the thought of going to Ávila pleased me. While Beatriz had no doubt expected momentous change as a result of the letter, with every day that went by I felt nothing but relief that change seemed less and less likely. I knew, however, that the monotony was intolerable for my friend. As she outgrew her adolescence, transforming entirely against her will into a beautiful young woman, Beatriz became more restless than ever, though none of us dared to mention it. I’d heard Doña Clara mutter to Doña Elvira that girls like Beatriz needed early marriage to cool their overheated blood, but Beatriz seemed oblivious to any male attention, ignoring the whistling retainers who gawked at her as we passed them during our chores. At night in our rooms, she regarded the growth of her breasts and wideningof her hips with visible dismay; they were manifestations of the fact that soon she’d no longer be able to pretend she was not susceptible to all that full-blown womanhood entailed.
    “You could ask Don Bobadilla to take you into town,” I suggested, reaching into my side-basket for the bundle of cloth containing the bread and cheese Doña Clara had packed for us. “I think Doña Elvira has some things she wants to buy. She mentioned cloth for new dresses and cloaks yesterday.”
    “Yes, and then Papa can take us on an insufferably slow ride around Ávila’s walls,” she said. “As if I haven’t seen it all a hundred times already.”
    I handed her a piece of the soft bread, freshly baked in our ovens. “Come, don’t be so disagreeable. Your face will pucker up like a sour apple.” At the mention of the word, Canela pricked his ears. I patted his neck. Alfonso was right: Although mules were considered the best mounts for unwed virgins, my days of riding one were definitely over.
    Beatriz grimaced as she ate her bread and cheese. Then she leaned to me and said, “You can pretend all you like, but I know you’re as curious as I am about what that letter from court means. I’ve seen you open the coffer and look at it at night when you think I’m asleep. You must have read it about as many times as I’ve seen the walls of Ávila.”
    I lowered my gaze, wondering what Beatriz might say if I told her just how curious, and anxious, I had truly been.
    “Of course I’m interested,” I said, keeping my voice low so that my mother, who rode ahead with Don Bobadilla, would not overhear. “But perhaps