Francisco reached the inn with fury still burning in his eyes. The moment he stepped inside, he snapped; his fist struck the wooden wall with a dull crack. The ambassador's threat had cut far deeper than that man could ever imagine. For Francisco, family was everything. Anyone who dared threaten them stepped directly across his line.

Catalina moved to him at once. Her presence alone helped steady his breath. She coaxed him into sitting, and little by little his anger softened. They spent the night together—talking quietly, unwinding the tension, letting the storm inside him fade.

At dawn, before most guests had even risen, an elegantly dressed woman arrived at the inn.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," she said, surveying the common room. "I am looking for Francisco Gómez, grandson of the Duke of Lerma."

Only Ramiro's crew were downstairs at that hour. They all knew Francisco, of course, but exchanged cautious looks instead of answering. One of the sailors lifted a brow and asked, "May we know why you're looking for him?"

The woman frowned at his tone but forced herself to ignore it; this was not the place for a scene. "I was sent by Ambassador Bernardo del Campo y Pérez de la Serna, Marqués del Campo. Under his orders, I am to serve as the young master's attendant." She delivered the words with a hint of arrogance, clearly expecting admiration.

Instead, the men simply shrugged.

"Sorry, miss," the sailor said. "That doesn't tell us much. The ambassador in Great Britain has nothing to do with us."

The woman blinked, momentarily speechless. Unfortunately for her, they weren't wrong—Ramiro's crew were merchants, and Britain wasn't exactly their usual ground. This trip was a special exception; normally they dealt only between the colonies and Spain, not with Britain.

With a tight, almost defensive murmur, she added,"I am also a member of the Duke of Lerma's household."

That finally earned more respectful attention.

"All right, miss," the sailor replied. "If you'll excuse me, I'll ask him personally."

She made a small motion as if to stop him, but he ignored it and went upstairs.

After a moment, Francisco descended the stairs. He regarded the woman with a calm, measured expression. She looked to be in her early thirties—pretty, yes, but above all composed and unmistakably mature. Her face was powdered and rouged in the noble fashion of the era, and her gaze was sharp and appraising, as though she were trying to understand what sort of young man could possibly require her to abandon her duties in Britain just to watch over him.

The silence stretched uncomfortably in the quiet morning space.

At last, Francisco offered a polite, steady greeting. "My name is Francisco Gómez. May I have the honor of knowing who you are?"

She nodded, visibly relieved to see he had proper manners. Extending her hand, she said with poise,

"My name is Inés Gómez de Zúñiga y Valencia, of the collateral branch of the Duke of Lerma's household."

Francisco took her hand, brushed it with a polite kiss, and lifted an eyebrow. He murmured, barely audible, "So the collateral branches still use the Gómez surname… that's a surprise."

Inés heard him clearly. A hint of pride—and a touch of arrogance—rose in her expression."Of course we do. We take pride in the Gómez name. Even if the main line no longer carries it, that name is what built our house."

Francisco fell silent. Matters of noble genealogy had never been his strong point, but he nodded politely."Fine. Thank you—that's new to me. Anyway, I assume the ambassador sent you to… monitor me."

She shifted awkwardly."More or less, but I would prefer you didn't use that word. It sounds better to say I'm here to guard you, or protect you."

Francisco gave a short, dismissive sneer."Call it whatever you want. You should prepare yourself. My friend Ramiro already rented a boat—we were supposed to sail today. But after what the ambassador told me about you, we've delayed departure until tomorrow. So I recommend you don't unpack anything."

Inés nodded."Don't worry, sir. I was ordered to remain at your side at all times, so I didn't bring many clothes."

Then her gaze slid to Catalina. Mistaking her for a common maid, she added casually,"This girl can wash my clothes. That way I'll have more time to attend to you."

Silence fell across the inn—thick, sudden, and uncomfortable. Even the crackling hearth and the faint scent of burning oak seemed to pause. Catalina froze where she stood. She had spent enough time living as "the young miss" to forget how easily she could be treated like a servant. With a worried glance, she sought Francisco's face and saw anger already tightening his jaw.

She stepped forward quickly."I'm sorry, Miss Inés—you must be mistaken. I'm Señor Francisco's direct servant. I answer to no one but him, and my duty is to look after him."She gave Francisco a discreet pinch, trying to steady him.

But Francisco's expression only darkened. Without addressing Inés again, he turned toward the crew and raised his voice:

"Tomorrow we part ways—and who knows for how long. So tonight, the drinks are on me! Be ready, because after today, I'm not treating anyone again."

The men cheered loudly. They set aside the stronger spirits and ordered simple food and ale instead, though in London even that still carried the sharp bite of cheap barley mash and river water.

Francisco gave them a satisfied nod and headed upstairs, not sparing Inés another glance.

Inés saw Francisco's reaction and immediately knew she had made a mistake—perhaps a serious one. She had been sent to monitor him, so she had never expected to be on friendly terms with him, but after this… she might very well become his enemy. And she wasn't even entirely sure why.

Catalina, seeing Francisco head upstairs gave a small apologetic glance at Inés, before following after him.

Left alone, Inés hesitated. Unsure what to do, she approached one of the crewmen and whispered,"Forgive the disturbance, gentlemen… may I ask what happened? Why did the young master's expression change so suddenly?"

The crewmen exchanged looks, pity clear in their eyes."Sorry, miss," one of them said. "It's not our place to tell you what upset him. You'd better ask someone else."

Inés noticed the look they gave her and sighed. She reached into her handbag and placed a few pesos on the table. The men's eyes brightened. After a quick glance around the inn to make sure no one important was watching, they discreetly gathered the coins and gestured for her to sit.

One of them leaned forward."Truth be told, miss, most of us work for Ramiro, not for young master Francisco. And we don't know much about Catalina either. Until a couple weeks ago, she was dressed as a man. To tell you the truth, ever since New Granada we noticed she spent at least half her nights in Francisco's cabin. Some of the boys even thought he had… certain preferences. With men. Which made some of us keep our distance."

Another crewman chuckled."That's right! I remember Pedro nearly falling overboard trying to avoid him."

The others burst into laughter. Pedro, sitting among them, flushed red.

The first crewman continued,"Of course, now that we know Catalina is a woman, we understand that's not the case. But you can imagine what sort of relationship and place she holds in the young master's heart."

Inés nodded, though her frown deepened."And… is that considered normal? Or even allowed?"

The men shrugged."Who knows? But plenty of Iberians and criollos have lovers of mestizo blood. Happens all the time."

Inés muttered under her breath,"It seems that place is far more corrupt than I thought."

She thanked the men and stepped outside. The cold London air bit lightly at her cheeks, and the distant clatter of carriage wheels echoed along the damp street. She took out a small sheet of paper and a quill from her handbag and began to write:

"The reports appear to be correct. Young Francisco seems to maintain a very close relationship with the mestiza Catalina. He reacts sharply if anyone insults her, which leads me to believe their bond is deeper than we assumed. This is a double-edged weapon: with proper strategy, she could be used to control him—yet she may also become the reason he would betray the Spanish Empire. It is necessary to investigate their relationship further. I suspect his decisions may be influenced by her more than anything else."

Finishing the note, she retrieved a small pigeon cage from her luggage. She tied the message to the bird's leg and released it into the gray morning sky, sending it toward the embassy.

On the other side Francisco, clearly upset, reached his room. He stepped inside and shut the door a bit harder than necessary. Catalina followed him in, crossed her arms, and said quietly:

"You shouldn't have acted like that."

Francisco frowned, rubbing his forehead."I know. It's just… the fury from the ambassador's threat hasn't even faded yet, and then suddenly someone appears treating you like a servant. It was too much."

Catalina sighed and wrapped her arms around him, resting her cheek against his chest."I understand. But by reacting like that, you're showing your enemies exactly how important I am to you. That can end badly."

Francisco shrugged, though his jaw tightened."Do you really think Spain hasn't already figured out your position? We married, Catalina. Even if Spain is slow, they can still follow simple facts. I'm sure that's part of why they're so wary of me now—besides whatever letters Viceroy Ezpeleta sent is the marriage."

Catalina fell silent. She knew he wasn't wrong. The sudden shift in how the Spanish representatives treated Francisco had been far too abrupt. Even if Ezpeleta wrote something negative, it made little sense for the Empire to take it so seriously. It was strange—suspicious, even.

But she didn't argue. She simply hugged him tighter.

Outside, the sun was climbing toward its highest point. The street below was busy—horses clopping over cobblestones, vendors shouting, wagon wheels rattling—but for some reason Francisco barely heard any of it. All he heard was the quiet confirmation of a truth he had tried to avoid:

Spain might already consider him a traitor.

And worse—they were probably just waiting for proof. Waiting for the moment the Duke of Lerma could no longer protect him, waiting for their chance to strike without consequence.

The "umbrella" over his head was no longer enough to shield him. And Francisco felt, for the first time, the cold weight of that realization settle deep in his chest.

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