Free A Woman of Seville by Sallie Muirden Page B

intended. It’s the city that wakes me. The city is singing as church bells resound the fifth hour of the day. Yellow shields clash in the windows of belfries. Bells swing like clusters of golden pears. Babies wake: the dying revive. In Triana, my ginger cat Maio is scratching at the balcony hatch, wanting to come inside.
    I listen to him scratch. ‘Shut the bells up,’ I mutter.
    Maio is unfaithful; I’ve seen him accept purred invitations from other cats, and curd from strangers. I get up to open the hatch and he comes down the stairs wonkily, as though crippled. Must have fallen asleep in a Triana belfry to lose his balance like this. He slouches into the darkness and softness of my closet. I salvage my red velvet pelt from beneath his paws and throw the robe over my shoulder. I must dress to go to the convento. But I sit down on my bed for a moment, my hands kneading the crushed velvet. It’s some kind of primitive ritual, this kneading, the dark oil flowing out of me. I won’t have to think about Bishop Rizi for several days, and I’m not going to think about him until I absolutely have to.
    When I have the Magdalen dress laced and fresh powder on, I stand at the window. A partial view of Seville is available to me from this height. For a full view, I would have to go up on my balcony, but for now I merely want to collect my thoughts and ponder the prevailing weather. Are clouds heading Seville’s way? Nothing in sight, but it usually pours some time in the afternoon.
    I picture myself in the near future, making my way across Triana Bridge. I’m in control of the afternoon ahead, and everything will happen of my own volition. I notice, to my dismay, the glass I’m looking through needs cleaning.Dead insects are crushed on the outside of the pane. I don’t have a clear view of the world after all.
    I bought this pane of glass a year ago at great expense. A carpenter removed the oiled parchment and inserted the square into the existing wooden frame. It’s made a huge difference, having daylight flooding into my bedchamber, being able to look out and see a mosaic of sky whenever I want. I particularly love waking when it’s fully light; the sun buzzing around me. When I wipe the particles of sleep from the corners of my eyes I find not grit, but pollen on my fingertips.
    Turning from the window I wonder what Enrique and Harmen would do if I didn’t turn up this afternoon. What if I fell ill and had to stop working for them? How would they react? The thought of letting them down or of missing out on my own pleasure makes me nauseous. It’s within my control to bring a halt to the painting of The Penitent Woman and to end the relationships that are forming around me. What if it did happen, if fate intervened, or if I lost my confidence and didn’t go in search of auspicious company this afternoon?
    But I’m just imagining my absence in the convento. I’m going to arrive on time as I always do. And if by some unlucky chance I do fall sick with a tertian ague, Harmen and Rastro could make do without me. The painting is nearing completion anyway; it will soon be finished.
    Skipping downstairs, I slow to saunter through the indoor patio, listening to the agile water spilling from the fountain. At the coat stand near the door I unhook my tulle manta, slip it on and tie a bow beneath my chin. The umbrella is standing upright below the other coats, but I don’t reach in and pull it out. I decide to take a risk.

CHAPTER SIX
Stealth and More Stealth
In which Diego Velázquez relates another adventure at the top of the Giralda
    On Sundays I sleep over with my family in San Pedro. We meet up after Mass, and from that moment on, I have no peace. My little brothers are jumping on me, my mother pampering me with so much food you’d think my master starves me, and my sisters teasing me about Juana Pacheco. I love all the attention I get, I don’t mind lying on the floor and the boys pouncing on me and I enjoy being able