Free Master of the Opera, Act 4: Dark Interlude by Jeffe Kennedy Page B

deep history. They opened up to reveal a massive hacienda, with multiple wings, romantic balconies, and red-tiled roofs.
    “It’s beautiful,” she breathed.
    “Yes.” Roman beamed with pride, and she took his hand. “The Sanclaros trace their history back to the conquistadors. This land has belonged to us, always.”
    “After it belonged to whatever tribe they kicked off of it,” she joked.
    He gave her a sidelong glance. “I wouldn’t trot out any of that liberal claptrap around my family. Not unless you want a real history lesson.”
    She frowned but decided not to argue.
    Roman’s parents waited on the vast portico of the house, reminding her of the priest standing vigil at the church, side by side, with polite, formal smiles. Domingo Sanclaro was a more silvered, more distinguished version of his son, with a paternal smile and dark eyes. He was also more severe than she remembered.
    Reina Sanclaro had the cheerful full-fleshed rosiness of a well-fed matriarch. She took Christy’s measure in one sharp glance, a pleasant hostess expression fixed on her face while she brushed imaginary dust from her black skirt.
    “Christy!” Domingo held out his arms so she had no choice but to accept the embrace. “I haven’t seen you since you were a gawky preteen. You’ve certainly grown up since then.”
    “Yes, she has.” Roman sounded proud.
    “Remember how we used to tease you two about how you should get married so we could join the Sanclaro and Davis dynasties ?”
    “Of course.” She forced a smile. She hadn’t been that gawky—and the way he was looking her over made her feel itchy. Had he always been this creepy?
    “And look at you two now—this is a happy day for us! I’m so proud.” He looked between them fondly.
    Uncertain how to reply to that, Christy, feeling much like Reina Sanclaro, who stared fixedly into the distance, kept a pleasant expression on her face.
    “Will your father be visiting you in Santa Fe?” Domingo asked.
    “I don’t know, Mr. Sanclaro.” I hope not. “He hasn’t said so.”
    “He should, shouldn’t he, Reina? He’s hosted us in New York so many times. He’d be welcome to stay here at the Compound.”
    The Compound. The capital letter stood out in her head and she wanted to make a joke about multiple wives and where the captive cult children were kept. Roman’s hand settled on the small of her back, as if he could sense her irreverent thoughts. She suddenly looked forward to telling Matt about this. He’d appreciate the HBO-miniseries quality of this scenario.
    Hally would say I told you so .
    “What was that all about?” She muttered the question to Roman as he guided her to the ongoing party in the back garden.
    He grinned at her, full of some simmering secret. “He’s just happy to see you again. To see us together.”
    Together . The way he emphasized the word niggled at her. It all felt so unreal. How could it be that this sunlit world of happy people seemed like the false one? Her head swam as Roman introduced her to innumerable relatives and family friends, including his very pretty younger sister, named Angelia, after her great-grandmother, Roman said, with an odd note in his voice.
    They all looked her over, seeming to know something she didn’t, the women giving Roman nods of approval and the men whispering jokes that made him respond with snickers and shoulder punches. Roman gave her a glass of fruit punch to drink, and she wanted to say something about a culture that drinks wine in church but not at the party afterward. She was losing count of the number of things she had restrained herself from saying, but surely those should pile up into some nibble of absolution at some point.
    Despite it all—the guilt, the uncertainty, the sinking fear that her grip on her life and sanity seemed to be slipping away—she wanted most of all to go to see the Master. To touch his skin, breathe his scent, drink in his kisses and, like some sort of polygraph,