Free The Fencing Master by Arturo Pérez-Reverte Page A

surprise and then slowly nodded, like an obedient student. The tiny scar in the right-hand corner of her mouth retained the enigmatic smile that Don Jaime found so troubling.

    When they reached the gallery, the maestro drew back one of the curtains so that the light streamed in, multiplied by the large mirrors. The sun's rays fell directly on the young woman, framing her in a golden halo. She looked about her, clearly pleased with the atmosphere in the room: A violet gemstone glittered on her muslin dress. It occurred to the fencing master that Adela de Otero always wore something that matched her eyes, which she certainly knew how to show off to the best advantage.
    "It's fascinating," she said, with genuine admiration. Don Jaime in turn looked at the mirrors, the old swords, the wooden floor, and shrugged. "It's just a fencing gallery," he protested, secretly flattered.
    She shook her head and regarded her own image in the mirrors. "No, it's more than that. In this light and with the old weapons on the walls, with the curtains and everything..." Her eyes lingered too long on those of the fencing master, who, rather embarrassed, looked away. "It must be a pleasure to work here, Don Jaime. It's all so..."
    "Prehistoric?"
    She pursed her lips, missing the joke.
    "No, it's not that," she said in her slightly husky voice, fumbling for the right word. "It's so ... decadent." She repeated the word as if it gave her a special pleasure. "Yes, decadent in the most beautiful sense of the word, like a flower fading in a vase or a fine antique engraving. When I first met you, I imagined that your house would be something like this."
    Don Jaime shuffled his feet uneasily. The nearness of the young woman, her utter self-assurance that bordered almost on impudence, the vitality she seemed to exude, produced in him a strange confusion. He decided not to allow himself to fall under her spell and tried to get back to the reason that had brought them there. To this end, he expressed the hope that she had appropriate clothing with her. She reassured him by showing him her small traveling bag.

    "Where I change?"
    Don Jaime sensed a provocative note in her voice, but, annoyed with himself, he dismissed the idea. Perhaps he was beginning to get too drawn into the game, he thought, mentally preparing himself to reject with the utmost rigor the first sign of any old man's folly. He gravely showed the young woman the door of a small room set aside for such things, and suddenly developed an intense interest in testing out the firmness of one of the floorboards. When she walked past him toward the changing room, she looked at him out of the corner of her eye, and he thought he caught a faint smile. She pulled the door to but left it open about two inches. Don Jaime swallowed hard, trying to keep his mind a blank. The small crack drew his gaze like a magnet. He kept his eyes fixed on the toes of his shoes, struggling against that murky magnetism. He heard the rustle of petticoats, and, for a second, an image crossed his mind of dark skin in the warm shadows. He immediately banished the vision, feeling utterly despicable.
    "For the love of God—" The thought burst out in the form of a plea, although he wasn't quite sure to whom the plea was addressed. "She is, after all, a lady."
    Then he walked over to one of the windows, raised his face to the light, and tried to fill his mind with sun.

    S EÑORA DE O TERO had changed her muslin dress for a simple, light riding skirt in brown, short enough not to get in the way of her feet, and long enough for only a few inches of white-stockinged ankle to remain uncovered. She had put on flat fencing shoes that gave her movements a grace normally found only in ballerinas. To complete the outfit she wore a plain, round-necked, white linen blouse that buttoned at the back. It was close-fitting enough to emphasize her bust, which Don Jaime fancied was tantalizingly soft. When she walked, her low shoes gave her gait a