“Out, both of you, out.” Ricardo crowded the doorway and herded them into the hall. “Imelda, I did not ask for a priest.”
“Yes, but under the circumstances . . .”
“Señor, I am Father Diego, and you are?” He was slender, his hair shaved into a thin tonsure. The crow’s-feet at his eyes were faint. He seemed very earnest.
“Not overly fond of priests.”
“I am sorry to hear that. Perhaps we could speak together. You could come to the chapel for confession—”
Ricardo laughed. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be harsh. But you’re not welcome here.”
“Ricardo!” Imelda said, aghast. “Your friend should see a priest!” Diego nodded, head bobbing like a bird’s.
Ricardo managed not to yell. Took a breath so he’d have enough air to speak with. “Can you wait here a moment?”
The sick room no longer smelled as sour as it had. Sage, herbs, steam—a comfortable warmth instead of a sticky heat. Lucinda sat quietly, wholly involved in her knitting. Giving Ricardo and Juanito space, and peace. He knelt by the bed.
“Juanito,” he said softly. When his friend’s eyes opened, Ricardo didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. He wanted his friend’s pain to end. And he didn’t want his friend to leave. “A priest is here. If you want to see him, I’ll show him in. If you don’t, I’ll send him away.”
Juanito nodded, and his voice scratched. “Maybe . . . maybe I should see the priest. Ricardo . . . when I confess my sins, I will not tell him about you.”
“You consider me one of your sins?” Ricardo said, smiling, and Juanito chuckled.
“No, no, not like that. But I do not think a priest will understand you.”
Ricardo touched his arm. “You should tell him whatever you need to be at peace. Don’t worry about me.”
The priest was waiting in the hall with Imelda, who was wringing her hands.
“Juanito will see you, Father.” Ricardo stepped aside.
It was likely Ricardo’s imagination that the priest nodded smugly at him. Imelda turned her gaze skyward and whispered a prayer. Ricardo left them both and went to the courtyard. The house had become rather crowded.
Midnight was coming on; the streets had emptied, the lanterns put out. In the dark, the stars blazed in the desert sky. The same stars he’d always seen, so at least that was a comfort. He could stay in one place and the world would move on around him, but the stars didn’t care.
Lucinda came into the courtyard then, stepping softly, wrapping her shawl tight over her shoulders. He glanced at her, then back to the sky.
“Got tired of Father Diego giving you that look?” he asked her.
“Diego and I have known each other for years, he can’t get rid of me so easily. I just needed fresh air, like you.” He didn’t need air at all, really, but he nodded. “I have only known him an hour, but I think your friend Juan is a good man.”
“One of the best,” Ricardo said. “And I have known many good men.”
“Do you have him under a spell or did he choose this path?”
“Did he choose to follow a demon like me, is what you mean?” He shook his head. “I’m not sure. I’m never sure. I tell myself that they choose to stay with me. Then I decide they’re just being nice and I should send them away. But it turns out I like having friends.”
“You’re very strange.”
“I hear that a lot.”
“How old are you, demon?”
He chuckled. “I was once told never to say my age. But that was a long time ago—”
Just then a man came to the courtyard gate and paused, hand on the adobe wall, looking in. He pursed his lips, seemed to make a decision, and stepped in, nodding politely at both Ricardo and Lucinda. He appeared to be in his thirties, weathered and strong. Skin like burnished sandstone. One of the indigenous peoples, but not local. He wore a cotton shirt, a wool jacket over it, wool trousers and worn boots, a couple of cords of beads around his neck, a band of cloth around his head, pressing back his black hair.
He approached Ricardo and spoke a rapid staccato of a language Ricardo didn’t know.