Chapter 3: A Feast Of Unspoken Things

The silence after Santiago’s departure was a different quality this time. It wasn't just the absence of sound; it was a presence, charged with the echoes of his words. You must feel for them. Elara’s skin still tingled where his thumb had stroked her knuckles.

She looked at the wine glass in her hand, now half-empty. She took another sip, closing her eyes. She tried to taste what he had described—the sun, the specific soil of this mountain, the shadow of a leaf. It was just wine, yet… something shifted in her perception. It was richer, deeper. Or perhaps she was just imagining it, willing herself to see the world through his intense, sensual lens.

Shaken, she finished her work for the afternoon, cataloging a shelf of 19th-century botanical guides. Her focus, however, was fractured. Every whisper of the house, every creak of a floorboard, made her heart jump. She was constantly aware of the silk-bound diary, a silent accusation of her own voyeurism, and a promise of the passion that seemed to seep from the very stones of this place.

At a quarter to nine, she retreated to her room to change. She had packed for practicality: linen trousers, sensible blouses. But tonight, she chose the one thing that felt less like armor: a simple, emerald-green dress of light cotton that skimmed her curves and made her feel, for a fleeting moment, less like an archivist and more like a woman.

The dining hall was cavernous, dominated by a long, dark table that could have seated twenty but was set for three. Ancient portraits of stern-looking men and pale, elegant women stared down from the walls. Don Alejandro sat at the head of the table.

He was older than she’d imagined, his face a roadmap of lines and regrets, but his posture was ramrod straight. He had Santiago’s same dark, intelligent eyes, but where the son’s burned with a banked fire, the father’s were cool, distant, like deep, still water.

“Señorita Vance,” he said, his voice thin and precise. He did not stand. “I trust Santiago has seen to your needs.” It was a statement, not a question, and it felt laden with unspoken meaning.

“He has, thank you, Don Alejandro. The library is extraordinary.”

“It is a burden,” he corrected her softly, gesturing for her to sit to his right. “A lifetime of collecting the dreams of others. One can drown in them.”

Before she could respond, Santiago entered. He had also changed into a dark jacket over a black shirt, the formality making his ruggedness even more pronounced. His eyes found hers immediately, then flickered down to her dress, a slow, appreciative glance that felt like a physical touch. He took the seat directly opposite her.

A silent, elderly woman served them a first course of gazpacho, the cold soup sharp with garlic and vinegar.

“My son tells me you have already begun your work,” Don Alejandro began, spooning his soup with meticulous movements. “I trust you are… discreet. The history of this family is not for public consumption.”

“Of course,” Elara said. “My work is purely archival. Authentication, preservation, cataloging.”

Santiago gave a soft, almost inaudible snort. He swirled his wine, watching the legs slide down the glass. “Elara has already discovered Isabelle’s diary, Father. She was quite taken with her… vivid descriptions.”

Don Alejandro’s spoon stilled. A faint muscle twitched in his jaw. “Isabelle was a romantic. She saw drama in every sunset. Her writings are of no historical significance.”

“I found them fascinating,” Elara ventured, emboldened by the wine and Santiago’s challenging presence. “She described this house, this land, with such palpable feeling. It’s a valuable social history.”

“Feeling,” the old man repeated, as if the word were distasteful. “Feeling is a distraction. It clouds judgment. The only thing of value in that library is fact. Provenance. Data.” His eyes, cold and sharp, locked onto hers. “You are here to find a specific manuscript, Señorita Vance. A text of genuine historical importance. Not to gawk at the hysterical scribblings of a homesick woman.”

The dismissal was brutal, and it hung in the air between them. Elara felt a flush of anger on Isabelle’s behalf, and on her own.

Santiago leaned forward, the candlelight carving shadows into his face. “And what is fact, Father? Is it fact that Princess Zahra existed? Yes. Is it fact that she wrote poetry? Yes. But to dismiss the content of that poetry as ‘hysterical scribblings’ is to miss its point entirely. Its power is in its feeling. Its lack of fact. It is a map of desire, not of geography.”

“It is a fairy tale!” Don Alejandro’s voice rose slightly, the first crack in his icy composure. “A story foolish men tell to romanticize their own base urges!”

“And what is your search, then?” Santiago shot back, his voice dangerously calm. “If it is a fairy tale, why have you devoted your life, and a significant portion of this family’s fortune, to finding it? What is it you hope to prove? That it doesn’t exist? Or that it does?”

The air crackled with a lifetime of unresolved conflict. Elara sat perfectly still, a spectator to a battle she didn't understand.

Don Alejandro placed his napkin neatly on the table. “I hope to bring order to chaos. To separate truth from fantasy. Something you have never had any interest in doing.” He turned his chilly gaze back to Elara. “You will focus on the Moorish texts in the east wing, Señorita Vance. Start tomorrow. Leave the more… sentimental volumes alone.”

He stood, his meal barely touched. “I retire. Do not work too late, Miss Vance. The Sierra nights play tricks on the mind of those who are not from here.”

He left the room, his footsteps echoing into silence.

The elderly servant came to clear the main course—a fragrant lamb stew neither of them had touched—and brought out a plate of sliced oranges dusted with cinnamon.

Santiago finally looked at her, the anger in his eyes softening into something else: wry amusement, and a shared complicity.

“I apologize for my father,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “He is a man who has spent so long looking for a ghost that he has become one himself.”

“He doesn’t seem to want the journal to be found,” Elara said, her voice barely a whisper.

“Oh, he wants it found,” Santiago corrected, picking up a slice of orange. He held it up, the candlelight glowing through the juicy flesh. “He wants to find it so he can lock it away. To prove that something so passionate, so undisciplined, cannot truly exist. To control it.” He offered the orange slice to her across the table. “To own a thing is to kill its mystery, no?”

Hesitantly, she leaned forward and took the orange slice from his fingers with her teeth. The burst of sweet, cold citrus and spicy cinnamon was explosive on her tongue. It was an intensely intimate act.

He watched her, his eyes darkening. “I, on the other hand,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky murmur, “believe some mysteries are meant to be tasted. Savored. But never truly solved.”

He rose from the table. “The east wing is cold and damp. I will light a fire for you in the library tomorrow before you start. Some secrets need the light of a flame to be teased out.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He simply left her there, in the vast, silent dining hall, with the taste of cinnamon and citrus on her lips and the thrilling, terrifying sense that she was no longer just an archivist.

She was the spark that had been thrown into a room full of gunpowder.